A bugle call echoed plaintively out of the fort and Crazy Horse calmed his nervous horse. The white men were very slow. A warrior could be ready for battle in less than a minute. More than fifteen minutes had already passed since Red Cloud’s warriors had attacked the woodcutting party.ear the stream, and still the fort’s gate was closed and the soldiers ran about like ants after their nest had been poked With a stick.
Crazy Horse could see a few men inside the fort dressed in buckskin, most likely trappers and hunters among the blue coats. One caught his eye, a tall man with long black hair tied with a leather braid and wearing a distinctive calfskin vest. Even though he couldn’t see his face clearly, a shiver ran up Crazy Horse’s spine-not from the weather, but from recognition. He’d felt the presence for weeks now, ever since arriving near the fort, and now he knew whose presence he had felt.
He didn’t want to admit it. This could not be it. The whites were too few. Too stupid. Too scared. This would not be a great victory, and he wasn’t even leading, having almost had to beg Red Cloud to allow him to lead this part of the plan.
The bottom line though, was that Crazy Horse did not want to believe in the prophecy. For if any part of it was true, then his people were doomed.
Mitch Bouyer edged closer to the two arguing officers. Colonel Carrington was the post commander of Fort Phil Kearny and someone Bouyer had little use for. The man was a deskbound bureaucrat who rarely strayed outside the fort’s gate. Even during the recent war in the east between the States, Carrington had never seen action. The younger officer, Lieutenant Fettennan, had graduated West Point too late to be bloodied in the Civil War and was also pretty much Worthless in Bouyer’s opinion.
Just the previous week, Fetterman had loudly boasted after the Indians had run another woodcutting party back to the fort, that with one company of soldiers he could ride through the entire Sioux nation. Bouyer had known the stupidity of such a statement. He also knew the.re were more an just Sioux in the hills to the north of the fort. While hunting in the past week he had spotted Cheyenne and Arapahoe signs, which he had reported to Carrington, who had stared at Bouyer as if he had informed him that snow was white. All Indians were the same to most white men, but Bouyer knew there was great significance in finding sign of those three tribes in the ‘same area. They were traditional enemies, yet here they were gathered in one place.
Carrington — indeed all the blue coats-were new to the west. Fort Kearny had only been established five months ago in July. Along with the other two new forts in the territory, it was placed here to protect civilians traveling along the Bozeman Trail into the gold fields of Montana. The Bozeman frail also ran straight through some of the best hunting land the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe had-a fact, which, Bouyer knew, was unacceptable not only to the Lakota, but all the tribes in the area.
The blue-coat officers were arguing about what to do to rescue the woodcutting party, how many men to send, and what route to take. Bouyer looked over the palisade at the Ridge to the north. He could clearly see five mounted braves on top of the ridge, one of them practically naked despite the cold weather. That warrior was staring directly at him. Bouyer took an unconscious step backward as if he had been hit in the chest. He, too, had felt the presence of the other, but this was the first time he could see the source of the presence. Was it time? He had not had a vision that it was, and this place didn’t feel right. Still, there was his half-brother on the ridge. There must be a purpose to this meeting.
Bouyer looked at the arguing officers once more. He found it hard to believe such incompetents could be part of the prophecy. Still—
‘’Colonel,’’ Bouyer called out.
Carrington and Fetterman both turned to him in surprise.
“The wood party ain’t got much longer,” Bouyer said.
He could see anger cloud Carrington’s face. “I did not ask your opinion.”
As a contract hunter for the garrison, Bouyer knew he held no stature in the colonel’s eyes. “Sir.” Bouyer tried to think of the best way to ‘say it. “Sir,” he repeated, “they’re-”
He was cut off as Fetterman gave the spurs to his horse, yelling orders to the company of men that had finally formed Some semblance of a formation.
“Under no circumstances must you cross Lodge Trail Ridge,” Carrington ordered Fetterman.
Bouyer looked once more at the ridge. The Indians were gone. Cursing, Bouyer went to his small lean-to against the inside of the palisade and gathered his Henry repeating rifle and a box of ammunition along with an embroidered leather satchel that had been hidden underneath some straw. He walked to the stables as the gates opened and Fetterman led his column of Infantry out. He was in no rush, as the vast majority of Fetterman’s eighty-man force had not yet mounted.
By the time Bouyer exited Fort Kearny, Fetterman’s column was a half-mile from the fort, heading toward the valley to the west of Lodge Trail Ridge where the woodcutting party had gone. When the column was in the valley and out of sight of the fort, Bouyer had reached the trail elements. The column was spread out, with Fetterman in the lead mounted. A few civilian scouts with him also on horses. Then a platoon of infantry. A gap. Then another platoon. The trail platoon was spread out, a sign that some of the men were obviously reluctant in the mission.
Bouyer turned to his right as several war crimes echoed down from the ridge. Five warriors-the same five as before — were once more visible. Taunting Fettennan and his troops, tiding parallel to the soldiers’ column. Bouyer dug his heels into his horse’s side, picking up the gait. He cursed as he saw the head of the column already angling toward the Ridge, Fetterman in the lead. A shot rang out as one of the civilian scouts fired at the small war party.
As he rode, Bouyer checked the satchel, feeling the hard shape of the crystal skull inside. Surprisingly, it felt warm to his touch, something he had not experienced before. Perhaps hi~ was the time?
More shots echoed across the valley. Fettennan, pistol out, was trying to spur his horse up the ridge. One of the civilian scouts was yelling at the lieutenant, trying to make him wait for his command. The column had stretched out along the side of the ridge, extending over a half-mile.
Bouyer pulled back on the reins, halting as Fetterman and the lead men went over Lodge Trail Ridge. Bouyer knew the terrain. Beyond the ridge was a jumble of more ridges, valleys, boulders and trees. He knew what was coming. Hell, Fettennan had had the same thing happen only two weeks previously and barely escaped. Bouyer spurred his horse and raced up the ridge, passing foot soldiers.
Reaching the top, Bouyer paused to get an idea of the situation. Fetterman had slowed down, a platoon of Infantry now right behind him. Only one warrior was still visible, just inside rifle range, screaming taunts. The one who had lightning bolts painted on his face and hail on his body — Crazy Horse. Bouyer ignored the sweating, cursing soldiers who ran by him, trying to catch up to their leader. He stared at the warrior and was rewarded with Crazy Horse pausing in his tirade to return the glare. Bouyer raised his rifle, parallel to the ground, and nodded. The warrior ignored the gesture even as several shots kicked up dirt around his horse’s hooves.
Bouyer slowly lowered the rifle. He dismounted, standing astride lodge Trail Ridge. Over his shoulder he could see smoke from the cooking fires at Fort Kearny. The last of Fetterman and Captain Brown move forward, a platoon around them, descending into the next valley, still chasing the taunting braves.
As the last blue coat disappeared into the valley, a vast volley of shots and war crimes issuing from almost a thousand voices rose out of the low ground. Bouyer remained still. He heard screams, a bugle blowing for several long seconds then ceasing abruptly. Shots continued, not volley fire from a unit n a coordinated defense but scattered. And screams. Bloodcurdling yells from the depth of a man’s essence elicited by pain and imminent death. It was a sound Bouyer knew could ever be imitated and would stay with him to the end of his days.