The fact that Captain Bradley's troops had repelled them so effectively forced Wind In His Hair and his inner circle to suspend plans for further attacks on the invaders. The fast-shooting guns of the whites were too powerful. Sixteen warriors had been lost in a fight that yielded no scalps and caused but a momentary halt in the enemy's advance.
Bad Hand had taken the field with hundreds of blue-coated men. They were driving down from the northeast while Captain Bradley's smaller force moved steadily up from the south. A third army of soldiers was coming from the northwest, but, fortunately, they were being held up by large groups of Cheyenne and Arapaho.
The situation was growing more dire by the day for Wind In His Hair's community. They knew they could not evade the white soldiers forever, nor could they fight them effectively. Groups of decoys, sent to draw the hair-mouths off the scent, had succeeded only in causing slight delays in the enemy advance. The warriors agreed that the best they could hope for was to stay out of range until the soldiers ran out of ambition, or food, or both. Sooner or later they would have to leave the country.
But even that strategy disintegrated on a rare, rainless night when Dances With Wolves, Smiles A Lot, and Blue Turtle returned from a long scout to report that a train of perhaps twenty soldier wagons, undoubtedly intended to resupply those already in the field, was driving toward them from the east. Dances With Wolves said he had not seen any of the fast-shooting guns and only a small force of soldiers was escorting the train.
That same night, after a council remarkable for its brevity, Wind In His Hair gave the order for camp to be struck. The whites had opened the only avenue of action available to the warriors. They had to move east and engage the wagon train. It was their best and, as each warrior knew in his heart, only chance.
Chapter LVI
Early in his life as a warrior, Wind In His Hair had nearly been killed several times on a single raid into Mexico and on his return home had sought the counsel of an old woman reputed to have the power to turn bad luck to good.
When the old woman learned that Wind In His Hair had recently begun to eat with metal implements, she advised him to cease the practice. Wind In His Hair had followed the advice unerringly, and not once in the intervening years had his lips touched food tainted by the metal of a white man's spoon or ladle.
Even in the chaos of the wrinkled-hand chase, he had scrupulously monitored the preparation of his food, but in a temporary camp sequestered in a stand of cottonwoods several miles from the wagon train, the taboo was violated.
That morning had been particularly confusing. Camp was erected as men prepared for battle, and while trying to organize the warriors, he had too hastily accepted and devoured a bowl of broth and meat. A few minutes later One Braid Trailing had brought him a second breakfast. Tracking the first breakfast back to its source, Wind In His Hair discovered a large metal ladle submerged in the pot that had produced his meal. If he led his warriors that morning he was certain to die, so he watched sourly as two hundred warriors disappeared into the east to confront the wagon train.
Careful to avoid casualties, they swooped down from all sides and put the mule-driven wagons to flight, killing several soldiers and knocking down a few mules in the process.
The ungainly wagon train fled in the direction of a nearby stream, hoping to make its stand in reach of water, but the warriors quickly surrounded it, forcing the wagons to halt short of their objective.
The whites drew their vehicles into a tight circle and began to throw up breastworks of wet earth as the Comanches and Kiowa, following Wind In His Hair's strategy of weakening them through hunger, thirst, and attrition, settled in to snipe at long range.
But it was not long before the simple plan began to unravel.
In days past the discipline of a siege would have been carried out, but now the buffalo were dead, the army was coming after them, families had little to eat, and every warrior felt constant pressure to do something. No one was content to sit still, especially the young men, and when Smiles A Lot impulsively and suddenly rode his black horse toward the encircled wagons, roars of approval followed him.
He moved at a walk until close enough to draw the enemy's fire. Then his horse rose into the air, came back to ground, and, with a great leap that made a projectile of both horse and rider, charged into the fire coming from the wagons.
At fifty yards, Smiles A Lot veered to a parallel course and inaugurated a demonstration of horsemanship for which the Comanche was famous. At full speed he grabbed a hunk of mane, swung down along the racing animal's side, struck the earth with both feet, and vaulted into the air before coming to rest again on the animal's back. He repeated this astounding maneuver several times before pulling up, wheeling, and sprinting back the way he had come. To the amazement of all who could see, he rose and stood on the horse's back, dropped down, swung over the speeding horse's side, passed under the animal's neck, swung up the other side, and stood once again.
Though unrivaled in its mastery Smiles A Lot's daring exhibition was part of a long tradition practiced by bold warriors of preceding generations. It was always good to do such things: it swelled the courage of brothers-in-arms while disconcerting the enemy and making him waste ammunition. But as Smiles A Lot halted to give his heaving mount a chance to catch its breath, his heart and mind fused in an indescribable entity. The blood pumping through his veins resounded like the beat of a great drum. It filled the open prairie around him with an irresistibly primal call, and the circle of wagons ahead suddenly grew as transparent as the enemies he had seen in the vision at the great Medicine Bluff.
Smiles A Lot charged the wagons again but this time he did not veer, and as he swung down along the side of the running black horse, his fellow Comanches could not believe what was happening. Smiles A Lot was going through the enemy.
The black horse took flight over one of the wagons with smiles A Lot still hanging at his side. Scattering white men as they landed, horse and rider dug across the open ground, cleared a wagon on the other side, and streaked back onto the prairie.
When Smiles A Lot pulled up again the screams of his fellow fighters overwhelmed all sound. The voices did not abate. They rushed into his ears and spread through his body like fire. The black horse pivoted on his hind legs and charged again. This time Smiles A Lot did not conceal himself but rode into the oncoming fire from the wagons straight up. Again they leapt a wagon, tore over the ground occupied by the whites, flew over a second wagon, and sped back across the prairie until they reached the ranks from which they had come. The feathers on Smiles A Lot's head had been shot to pieces. The toe of one of his moccasins was missing. Both reins had been sliced in half. But the bodies of horse and rider were untouched by white man bullets.
The power and magic of Smiles A Lot electrified the Comanches and Kiowas surrounding the wagon train. The young men could no longer be held in check, and even veteran warriors knew that something must be done. Smiles A Lot's charge had brought their pride to a boil; such that when the warriors talked excitedly about what course to take, it quickly became apparent they could not act without the one who was the soul of resistance.