Instantly they turned, the distant figures magnetizing their attention. On the far hillside a short string of horses and some twenty people started down at an angle, the figures stark across the brilliant snow shimmering with a golden hue as the sun continued its fall.
Wheeling to gaze at the west, Bass ripped off both blanket mittens, laid the edge of one hand along the horizon, then set the other on top of it. The sun was racing toward its rest.
They didn’t have long.
“If we are to fight these people,” Scratch said, yanking on the mittens in the severe cold as a gust of wind slashed over the bare brow of that hill, “we must do it soon.”
“Yes. For if any escape our slaughter,” Whistler agreed, “we might not find them in the dark.”
Real Bird asked, “How will you attack?”
The warrior considered that for some time, then pointed. “They have come from the north, looking for these buffalo. Their village must lie in that direction because we have not come upon it. So half of us will ride around to those hills and cut off their escape.”
“I will lead those men,” Pretty On Top volunteered.
“No. The white man will lead,” Whistler deferred. “But I want you to ride at the right hand of Pote Ani.”
The young warrior smiled, his eyes flashing at the white man. “This is good. After all these winters … we go into battle together.”
“And you will lead the rest?” Titus asked Whistler.
“Yes. We will wait until you have reached the far side of those hills across the valley.”
Bass nodded. “We must hurry to be in position.”
“Then I will bring the rest with me, riding through that saddle, and sweep down on the enemy.”
With a smile Scratch said, “Driving them right into our trap.”
“I see the fear in their eyes already!” Pretty On Top exulted.
“I can smell how they have soiled themselves in fear!” Whistler echoed.
“No more dried meat for us,” Windy Boy cheered youthfully. “Not only has the First Maker delivered this enemy into our hands to revenge the death of He-Who-Is-No-Longer, but tonight we can end our diet of cold meat.”
“Pretty On Top,” Bass said, tapping the young warrior on the shoulder, “it’s time to set our trap.”
Back among the others and the horses, Whistler and Turns Plenty divided the warriors, being sure there were proven veterans and newcomers to war in both groups.
“We will do our best to be in position before you ride down on the Blackfoot,” Bass assured Whistler as his warriors were mounting up behind him. “We don’t have much light left in the day.”
“Defend yourself, Pote Ani,” Whistler pleaded before he turned away to his group. “Both of us must return to our wives.”
Titus reached out and grabbed the warrior’s arm. “Know that in my heart, I am married to your daughter.”
“I don’t claim to know all what lies in a white man’s heart … but I believe that you truly love my daughter—”
“All you have to do is tell me what you want of me, how I am to marry her—I’ll do it.”
Whistler smiled. “I know. But for now, we have some Blackfoot to kill. We’ll talk again of this marriage upon our victorious homecoming.”
Backtracking to the south for about two miles, Bass was able to lead his band north again behind the range of low hills until he struck that trampled trail the enemy had taken through the snow to climb over the heights and drop into the valley where the Blackfoot had encountered the buffalo herd. From time to time the boom of distant guns echoed from beyond the heights. Minutes later as the sun was easing down upon the crowns of the western hills, they heard a massive volley of shots.
“That isn’t a buffalo shoot!” Bass roared, kicking his thick winter moccasins into the ribs of the pony with the spotted rump.
“Time to take scalps!” Bear Ground bellowed, leaping away with Pretty On Top.
Like water bursting through a beaver dam, some two dozen of them had their weary ponies lunging up that last slope, reaching the top to look below. On the western side of the valley Whistler and Turns Plenty were leading the others in a mad gallop that was just reaching the valley floor where the Blackfoot hunters had been engaged in shooting the snowbound buffalo while others, mostly women, were at work on the outskirts of the herd, skinning and butchering in tiny, trampled circles of crimson snow.
Enemy horsemen were mounting up, charging toward the onrushing Crow to throw a buffer between them and the women as those figures on foot hurtled themselves around and lunged away with their horses dragging half-laden travois of meat and heavy green hides. Calf-deep snow clawed at their legs, slowing their retreat as the Blackfoot horsemen closed ranks behind the women, then rushed the charging Crow in a full front.
As Scratch and his warriors swept over the brow of the hill, he watched the Blackfoot line collide against Whistler’s Crow with a great crash—men yelling and grunting, horses crying out, guns blaring and handheld weapons clattering.
Then the Blackfoot were behind the Crow lines, several of them yelling to the rest, ordering their comrades to halt and circle around on the rear of the Crow.
Just then the women fleeing from Whistler’s men spotted Bass’s Crow horsemen fanning out across the northern hillside, realizing they were being attacked from two directions. With a howl they dragged to a halt, screaming, turning round and round in fear and confusion.
Down, down the slope Bass’s line flowed as it raced toward the women who wailed and cursed the Crow warriors as those horsemen peeled past them in a blur, tearing on down to the valley floor where the buffalo were suddenly turning blindly, lumbering toward the southwest, making for the narrow saddle that allowed them their only escape from the snowy bowl.
Behind them the women shook their knives in their bloody hands, shouting their oaths at the Crow backs.
“Perhaps you’ll find a wife today!” Scratch hollered at Pretty On Top. “These Blackfoot love to copulate with brave Crow men!”
The young warrior laughed.
On the far side of him Windy Boy said, “I saw a pretty one! Maybe I will take her back to my lodge and we can make many Crow babies!”
Having raced halfway across the trampled snow on the valley floor, Titus realized several of the Crow and Blackfoot riders had been unhorsed in the brutal collision of their lines. In the midst of the butchered buffalo carcasses and the milling, riderless horses, the warriors were crawling out of the snow, whirling about in search of an enemy. Voices rang from the slopes, overwhelmed by the roar of smoothbore English fusils and American-made trade muskets. Once the weapons were empty, most of the combatants did not stop to reload. Instead, they pitched their empty firearms aside and pulled out a bow, a long-handled war club, a tomahawk, or a knife before they rushed on one of the enemy.
Even in the swirling maze of confusion, it was easy for Scratch to pick Crow from Blackfoot, even with both sides bundled in heavy blankets or capotes. The enemy was dressed for winter hunting, while the Crow were painted for war.
In shock, the Blackfoot warriors were realizing they were caught between the pincers of a trap rapidly sealing off their chance for escape. Those still on horseback were forming up, yelling boldly to one another, kicking into a gallop as they started across the snowy ground toward Bass’s mounted warriors.
If they collided with the Crow line and lunged on past it, they would rejoin the women and the chase would be on. The battle would then be a running fight instead of a decisive victory.
“Halt!” Scratch cried, his throat immediately sore in the superdry air. “Halt!”
He was waving as a handful of the warriors took up his cry, the Crow waving at the rest to return up the slope, to re-form in a ragged line somewhere between the fleeing women behind them and those oncoming horsemen sweeping across the valley floor.