"So it wasn't the earthquake that made him return to his village"!

"No.
Now dammit, I don't want to go into any more explanations.
Here comes Jason.
Keep this to yourself".

Reverend Jason, looking worried, hurried toward us.
"Anything wrong, cap'n?
The men seem to think so".

"Dirion found a large war party south of us.
They'll probably attack at dawn", Montero said.
He brushed past the clergyman and walked into the center of the camp.
Using his hands as a trumpet he shouted, "Fort up!
Fort up!
There's a large war party on their way"!

For a second, engages, cooks, voyageurs appeared struck dumb.
Then Little Billy began shouting orders to round up the ponies and fill the water buckets and for the cooks to hurry up with the meal.
They all flew into action.

"That was a terrible thing to do", I said to Oso.
The Aricaras treated us like friends.
And here all the time you knew the Sioux would be using our rifles on them!
God, what a world you people live in".

Oso gave me an unruffled look.
"Old Knife's got the largest war party ever seen on the river", he said calmly.
"What would you have done in Montero's moccasins?
Let Old Knife come up and kill you and your people, or would you steer him on someone else"?
He shook his head.
"Mr. Manuel did that in the war.
That's why the British never got the tribes to fight for the King.
Mr. Manuel whispered in the ears of the Sioux that the Cheyennes were comin' to raid 'em for their horses.
Then he went on to the Cheyennes and told them that the Sioux was goin' to move up.
He did that with all the Nations.
Hell, they were fightin' each other so hard they had no time for anyone else.
The War Department wrote Mr. Manuel a letter and said he was a hero.
I saw that letter.
He carried it in a little wallet made of fish skin".

"But that was war", I said.
"There's no war on now".

"You're wrong, Matt.
In this country there's a war on every time the grass turns green.
First it was the Nations against themselves, then it was them against the whites.
And it's goin' to go on like this year after year until the white people take over this land".

I remember being told it would happen so fast people would think it took place overnight.

"That's why this company's important.
Once we get over the mountains others will come along.
That's why the Trust don't want us to make it.
That bastard Chambers!
-- Old Knife's not the only chief he'll get to do his dirty work!
Before we get through he'll have the Blackfeet hankerin' for our hair and our goods.
Well, talkin' ain't goin' to help -- let's fort up"!

As I dug in behind one of the bales we were using as protection, I grudgingly found myself agreeing with Oso's logic, especially when I imagined what would have happened to Missy if Old Knife's large party of screeching warriors had overrun our company.

For, unlike the Sioux and the Crows, the Aricaras are not great horsemen, nor are they aggressive like the savage Blackfeet.
More of an agricultural nation, they have relied on their warriors only for defense and for survival in the endless wars of the plains.
Still, I was disgusted with myself for agreeing with Montero's methods.

Surprisingly, he had told the others what he had done.
In the brief moment I had to talk to them before I took my post on the ring of defenses, I indicated I was sickened by the methods men employed to live and trade on the river.

"I think Montero did right", Amy said firmly.
"Let the savages kill each other.
What do we care"?

Reverend Jason was understandably bitter.
"It was a terrible thing to do.
Those little children."

But Oso replied calmly, "Trouble ain't easy to dodge out in this country, rev'rend".

28.

Attack

Gray Eyes attacked our camp just as the first pink threads stitched together the hills and the sky.
Our camp was in the center of a wide valley.
Montero had set up a strong position, using every bale and box we had in addition to barricades of logs and brush.
He had ordered the ponies brought inside the fortified circle and had assigned Pierre and a band of picked engages the job of trying to keep them steady under fire.

The pony herd was the one flaw in our defense;
the Rees undoubtedly would try to cut down as many of the animals as possible.
Wildly bucking horses would make the position difficult to defend against charging warriors.

The cooks had prepared one of the best meals we'd had in a long time, and on Montero's orders had baked enough bread to last the day.
Buckets were filled, the herd fed and watered.
The worst part had been the waiting;
although we didn't expect the attack before dawn, the long cloudy night, filled with the sounds of the industrious insects, seemed endless.
Coyotes and hunting wolves sounded like signaling Indian scouts, the whinny of a restless pony made one's skin crawl.
Oso slept unconcernedly, his rifle cradled in his arms;
I didn't catch a wink.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Gray Eyes rushing at me with a knife.

It was a relief when they finally came.

They poured through the opening in the valley, then spread out in a long line to come at us, brandishing their lances and filling the morning with their spine-chilling scalp cry.

"Oso", Montero called "I'll get Gray Eyes".

"That'll be a pleasure to see", the big black murmured as he stared down the barrel of his rifle.

"Hold your fire", Montero was shouting.
"Wait until my shot.
I'll shoot the first man who doesn't".

I could see them in my sights.
They were about a mile off;
under me the ground quivered slightly.
At first they were only feathers and dark indistinguishable faces and bodies, hunched over their horses' heads.
Gradually they emerged as men.
Gray Eyes was in the lead.
His face was split by a vermilion streak, his eyes were pools of white;
jagged red and black medicine symbols covered his chest.
He was naked except for a clout.
Next to him was a young boy I was sure had sat near me at one of the trading sessions.
His mouth was open, his neck corded with the strain of his screams.
I found his chest in my sights.
It had a red circle.
The circle came nearer and nearer.

My God, how long is he going to wait, I thought.

Montero's rifle cracked.
At first I thought he had missed.
Gray Eyes remained erect.
The feathered lance was still above his head.
As he started to slump over, another warrior swung him onto his horse.

I squeezed the trigger.
At the last second I dropped my sights from the bare chest and bright red circle to the chest of his pony.
I saw the pony fall like a stone and the young warrior flew over its head, bouncing like a rubber ball.
He started to run but Oso's shot caught him on the wing.
He jerked once in the grass and lay still.

"If you're goin' to kill 'em --!
Kill 'em"!
Oso growled.

What else he said was lost in the rattle of gunfire on all sides.
The Aricaras broke under the devastating fire, wheeled and retreated.

"Lead up!
Lead up!
They'll be back"!
Montero was shouting.

Far up the valley I could see the Rees circling and reorganizing.
Out in front of our walls the grass was covered with dead and dying men, war shields, lances, blankets and wounded and dead horses.
The morning air was filled with the sweetish odor of new-spilled blood, the acrid stench of frightened horses, and the bitterness of burned powder.
A horse screamed as it twisted from side to side in a frenzy.
A rifle cracked;
the square head fell over.
One of the warriors suddenly leaped to his feet and began running across the valley to the trees that lined the small creek.
His legs pumped furiously, his long black hair streamed out behind him.
There was a ragged volley.
He was dead before he hit the ground.

"For Christ's sake, don't waste your powder on one of 'em"!
Montero shouted furiously.
"Wait for the charge!
The charge, I tell you"!

The sharp cries at the end of the valley were faint.
They grew louder as the Indians charged again.
I could see their faces glistening with sweat and bear grease, their mouths open, shouting their spine-chilling cries.

"Gray Eyes is back,, Montero said.

The war captain had been badly wounded and was fighting to hold his seat.
I could see the blood running down his chest.
He was riding between two warriors, who held him erect when he started to slump.

I forgot to aim.
In my sights I watched him looming bigger and bigger.
Montero's shot had caught him high in the chest;
there was no doubt he was dying.
Again we waited for Montero.
This time he delayed so long that some of the engages shouted frantically, but they held their fire.
The horses were only several lengths away when he fired.
The bullet flung Gray Eyes from his horse.
Our rolling volley swept most of the other riders from their mounts.
But a few reached our wall.
I heard the whir of an ax and a Canadian's face burst apart in a bloody spray.
I saw Little Billy rise and fire almost point blank and an Indian's face became shattered flesh and bone.
A second leaped from his horse to the top of the bale, firing four arrows in such rapid succession it didn't seem possible they were in flight.
Men screamed.
Oso reached up, jerked the buck from the bale and snapped his neck.
Other Indians were running at the ponies, shrilling and waving blankets.
Reverend Jason got one, the Canadians the others.
I saw the clergyman kneel for a moment by the twitching body of the man he had shot, then run back to his position.

The ponies were almost uncontrollable.
The pall of dust they raised made it difficult to see when the Aricaras charged again.
This time more of them hurdled the barrier.
A small Indian dived at Montero, who caught him with a swift upward stroke of his rifle butt.
It sounded like a man kicking a melon.
Above me a dark rider was whipping his pony with a quirt in an attempt to hurdle the bales.

Although my shot killed his horse, he rolled off the bale on top of me.
I could smell woodsmoke, grease, and oil.
His eyes were dark, fluid, fearful, and he gave a sigh as my knife went in.
Coming over the wall he had seemed like a hideous devil.
Now under me I could see him for what he really was, a boy dressed up in streaks of paint.

The Aricaras made one last desperate charge.
It was pitiful to see the thin ranks of warriors, old and young, wheeling and twisting their ponies frantically from side to side only to be tumbled bleeding from their saddles by the relentless slam, slam of the cruelly efficient Hawkinses.
Others, badly wounded, gripped hands in manes, knees in bellies, held on as long as possible and then, weak from ghastly wounds, slipped sideways, slowly, almost thoughtfully, to be broken under the slashing hoofs.
Some gracefully soared from the backs of their wounded, screaming mounts to make one last defiant charge before the lead split their hearts or tore their guts.

None of them reached our walls again.
The few survivors grudgingly turned away.
In the distance we could hear the drums and the wail of the death song.