As they cantered across the prairie, Devlin informed both Lieutenant Standish and Sergeant Dawson of the plan to allow the Pawnees to flush the Kiwotas before they had time to join up with any of their Sioux friends.

  Jeffries stayed close enough to keep in sight, yet far enough ahead of the patrol to be able to give ample warning if the situation turned nasty. They continued to travel, the anticipation of a potential fight keeping everyone keyed up and alert.

  “Sir!” Standish shouted. “Jeffries has just signaled.”

  Devlin glanced up to see the scout making a rapid return. Jeffries came to a dust-billowing halt. “It’s the Kiwotas, Major!” he shouted. “Just over the rise. The Pawnees have got ’em heading south.”

  “Form as skirmishers left and right, at a trot, yo!” Devlin commanded.

  The patrol quickly and efficiently performed the maneuver, aligning themselves for the coming fight as they continued forward in the battle formation.

  “Draw pistols!” the major ordered.

  With revolvers held in their right hands, the dragoons moved toward the rise. When they topped the high ground, they could see the Kiwota war party a couple hundred yards ahead.

  Wishing he had a bugler, Devlin took a deep breath and bellowed, “Charge!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After the war party’s glorious start, Running Wolf’s luck had turned completely bad.

  The initial successes of hitting the small wagon train, killing the white men and pillaging their belongings, and then scoring in blood and coups on the traditional enemy, the Pawnees, made the young Kiwota war leader begin to think he was invincible and fated to attain the greatness of War Heart.

  During the victories, his medicine seemed to grow within him, making his blood course faster through his veins. With each triumph the young warrior could feel the strength of his muscles and spirit grow beneath his copper-colored skin.

  After the killing and rape of the Pawnees, Running Wolf’s plan was to take the stolen horses north until he made contact with one of the Sioux villages that summered on the Platte River. Surely, with such booty, he would be able to recruit some young Sioux warriors into his band for future forays against both white and Indian enemies for even more additional glory.

  Such accomplishments would add greatly not only to the strength of his war making, but would even further increase the strength of his personal medicine. With such supernatural power, he might even drive the whites off the People’s ancestral land, and eastward across the river they called the Des Lacs. His strength and prowess would be so great that even Looks Ahead would fear him.

  But the sudden appearance of numerous Pawnees put an end to all that. Running Wolf had made a valiant attempt to attack the traditional enemies, but they were far too many. He was forced to head farther toward the northwest to close in on the Sioux villages where the men of those clans would be more than happy to ruthlessly deal with any intruders. But the strong band of Pawnees had forced the Kiwotas to the east, finally making it impossible to reach the safety of the Sioux nation.

  The final disgrace was when several of the enemy warriors managed to separate the stolen horse herd from the Kiwotas and regain possession. Then, under hot pursuit, Running Wolf and his young warriors galloped madly for their lives, forced to leave their booty behind.

  Finally, the Pawnees inexplicably broke off the chase, leaving the Kiwotas alone in the vast country. Running Wolf knew it would be impossible to head west to join the Sioux. The Pawnees would undoubtedly be waiting to renew the fight. Since he and his friends were low on ammunition and arrows, and their horses were close to being worn out, they decided to return to the Buffalo Steppes and sneak back on the reservation. Perhaps the remainder of the beef issue had arrived or the men in the village had managed to find some buffalo. After a good rest and feed to replenish their strength, they could try their luck again on the warpath. If Running Wolf talked and cajoled enough, perhaps he would be able to gather even more warriors for another foray.

  But even with potential glory in the future, Running Wolf’s mood was black. His dream of glory to be won on this warpath was dashed, and the ignoble route and loss of the horse herd forced on him by the Pawnees would take away whatever other honors he had earned in the previous attacks. He had even heard some grumbling among the warriors about how much better they would have done had War Heart been the band’s leader.

  “Soldiers!” someone shouted.

  Running Wolf looked toward the rear and could see a sight he dreaded. A line of dragoons, with pistols drawn, charged straight at the war party. He recognized Looks Ahead in the center of the soldiers and realized that the army officer’s medicine was as strong as ever.

  Normally the warriors would have sent some arrows flying at the troopers, but they were too short of the missiles to waste any. At that point, whatever cohesiveness and leadership Running Wolf had enjoyed with his friends in the past dissolved like snow in sunlight.

  The Kiwotas, like other Indians under similar circumstances, acted independently with no thought to any coordinated effort at defense.

  Waits-All-Day and Snake split off from the group, turning due north. They had no plan. Snake had noted his friend’s movement and decided to follow him. There was no cover available in the open grassland as they fled. Their only hope was to outlast any pursuers.

  But Lieutenant Emil Standish and the two dragoons with him had horses that were relatively fresh and well-nourished from frequent feedings of oats brought along on the patrol. After receiving a signal from Major Devlin to pursue the pair of absconding Kiwotas, the three army men, still holding on to their pistols, gave determined chase to the fugitives.

  The run went on for another ten minutes before Waits-All-Day turned in his saddle and aimed an arrow at Standish. The young lieutenant, one of the best pistol shots in the regiment, aimed as best he could on the bounding horse and squeezed the trigger.

  Waits-All-Day’s jaw flew off; then a second bullet went through his shoulder, hit a bone and ricocheted through flesh and muscle deep into his body. As the warrior cartwheeled from the saddle, Snake made a ninety-degree turn that brought him within a few scant yards of the dragoon on the right. The soldier had only to shoot once at such a close range to blast the warrior off his horse.

  Standish and his men immediately turned back toward the main chase that still ranged crazily across the prairie. The lieutenant kept the pace hot, but watched for any more opportunities should any of the warriors try another break for freedom on their own.

  The dragoons, all veterans, kept their firing to the minimum. All knew the difficulty of hitting moving targets while bouncing in the saddle, so none fired unless there was a good chance of sending a bullet into one of the Kiwotas. The Indians, on the other hand, found it impossible to turn and shoot or loose arrows over their shoulders. Angry and frustrated, they continued riding. All they could do was hope for the best and wait to see what would eventually happen.

  Suddenly, on the left of the skirmish line, several troopers closed in enough to do damage. A series of detonating pistols sent several bullets streaking into the close-packed Kiwotas. Three more slipped from their horses to bounce and roll in the dusty prairie grass.

  The warrior Charging Bull kept glancing around him. He noted Waits-All-Day and Snake when they cut loose, but decided not to follow them. He also saw the three soldiers gallop after his friends. He didn’t know their fate, but the three warriors so recently cut down were near enough for him to see them die. He fully realized that the number of men in the war band seemed to be dwindling fast.

  Charging Bull decided to tempt fate by making his own break for safety. He made a quick turn and headed south. Five more of the young Kiwotas, indecisive and undisciplined, followed after him.

  Major Devlin gestured to Sergeant Dawson to follow. The noncommissioned officer, quickly summing up the situation, motioned to Corporal Dientz and his squad to ride with him. They left the formation and chased after the half-dozen escaping warriors.

  The chase did not go far before the Indians reached a small copse of trees. They went straight into it and dismounted. One of the number was the boy Red Cub. He knew his duties and quickly gathered up the horses, keeping them under control while the other five Kiwotas prepared to carry on the fight.

  The dragoons dismounted and had their own animals taken care of by quickly hobbling them and leaving them under the care of a private. Dawson and Dientz led the rest of the troops toward the trees. They moved in short rushes, taking advantage of the concealment offered by the tall prairie grass.

  “Corp’ral Dientz,” Dawson hollered. “Send two men around to each side o’ that grove. Have ’em cover the rear. I don’t want them sons of bitches sneaking away in that direction.”

  Dientz, a German immigrant who had served as a conscript in the Prussian army, quickly obeyed.

  “Right, lads!” Dawson yelled at the other dragoons. “As skirmishers, move for’d and fire at will!”

  The horse troopers, now fighting as infantry, advanced with their carbines at the ready. For the first few paces, they caught no sight of the elusive Indians.

  Then some arrows flew from the trees, landing a few yards behind the soldiers.

  “Ha!” Dawson crowed. “The bastards ain’t got our range, lads. Move out on the double and let’s finish ’em off.”

  The dragoons cheered and charged forward.

  While the detached unit moved toward the trees, the chase of the remainder of the Kiwotas thundered on across the wide Dakota prairie.

  Devlin, for his part, kept the pressure on the main body of Kiwotas, who now numbered a dozen. With the determined soldiers riding hard after them, it would be only a matter of time before the battle was settled.

  Devlin now closed in on a warrior. The Indian slashed out at him with his war club, forcing the army officer to pull back a bit. Once more, by kicking his horse’s flanks, Devlin moved in to make contact. He raised his pistol and pulled the trigger, but the weapon misfired.

  Bear Claw, the band’s scout, had no intention of giving up the fight. Once more he made a wild swing with the club. He hissed in anger when he missed again, then decided to count coup by slapping Looks Ahead.

  But Devlin was in no mood to play at war.

  The officer took his useless pistol and struck at the Indian. When Bear Claw made another attempt to touch the army officer, he received a hard knock on the head. Blood spurted from the gash in his forehead. The second blow smacked him on the temple so hard that he was knocked unconscious. The warrior tumbled over the back of his horse and landed on top of his head. His neck broke and he died instantaneously.

  Devlin kicked his horse into a faster pace to regain his position in the dragoon formation. He was pleased to note that Lieutenant Standish and the two dragoons had now also caught up with the detachment. The major wanted to keep the pressure on the Indians to avoid any nasty situations where they might be able to make a last stand behind cover.

  Running Wolf had not paid much attention to what had been going on. The young war leader had scarcely glanced back at the pursuers, but his mind had been occupied with more than a blind desire for escape.

  War Heart had been a warrior the young Running Wolf had admired since boyhood. Countless forays against whites, Pawness, Cheyenne, and other enemies as well as many hunting expeditions to feed the People had been successfully led by the old master. It had been the deep respect of the tribe that led them to follow War Heart along the path of peace by agreeing to the treaty. Even if the buffalo were killed or run off by the white hunters, and the promised beef issue never materialized, the Kiwotas felt that War Heart could solve whatever problem came up.

  Now, deep in Running Wolf’s heart, he knew he had made a bad mistake. His leadership had not produced great victories. The killing of the people in the wagons had been no difficult fight, filling the bodies of drunken white men with arrows had produced no glory, and the sudden raid on a small Pawnee camp had not resulted in any deeds that would be talked about around tribal council fires. And now the final stages of his war expedition were reaching a humiliating end, being chased first by Pawnees, then by soldiers as his warriors were killed off one by one.

  Running Wolf decided the time and circumstances had arrived for him to become a real war chief.

  The first thing he did was raise his arm and wave it to attract the attention of the ten warriors who still galloped in the main pack. Although he didn’t exactly know what he was going to do, he turned toward the north and began riding in a wide circle.

  The other Kiwotas, for lack of anything better, followed after him. Their formation spread out a bit, making them more difficult targets. As a result, the soldiers lost some of the tightness in their skirmish line in spite of all their fighting and drill experience on horseback.

  Running Wolf turned back in the opposite direction, then quickly reversed himself again, this time going into a tighter turn. He took the revolver he’d gotten in the first raid and held it in his right hand. Once more he forced his horse toward the inside, slowing down a bit, maneuvering the soldiers into a position where they were not situated to the exact rear of the war party.

  Some more turning maneuvers followed until Running Wolf was able to get clear views of the soldiers who tried to match the direction in which he led his warriors. At one point, several dragoons were forced close together as they wheeled violently to keep up.

  Running Wolf aimed into the mass of bluecoats and squeezed the trigger several times.

  One soldier slumped in the saddle and pulled out of the chase. Two more unceremoniously fell from the backs of their horses and slammed into the ground.

  Back in the formation of dragoons, Major Matt Devlin was doing his own planning. When he saw the three casualties, he knew it was time to act. Shouting and signaling, he turned the troopers into the opposite direction, keeping the turn as tight as Running Wolf had done.

  The result of the action was the two groups exchanged positions, which brought the Indians within the gunsights of the soldiers. Skills in fire-and-maneuver were something in which the army clearly outmatched the Indians.

  The dragoons, working under orders to fire at will, wasted no time in blasting into the now exposed Kiwotas.

  The effect was catastrophic for the warriors. A half dozen were blasted from their horses almost simultaneously. The second volley took another four, leaving a lone survivor—Running Wolf.

  The young war chief’s position in front had saved him from injury, but he took no pleasure or comfort in the fact. He straightened out his run and galloped down into a gentle dip in the ground, coming out onto a rise in the terrain. After crossing that, he dropped down into another low spot. He suddenly brought his horse to a stop and leaped off. A slap on its flank sent the animal running on.

  Running Wolf turned to face the oncoming soldiers. Like all Kiwota warriors, he had composed his own death song many years previously, before he was old enough to be a warrior. He had sung it many times for practice, but now knew this would be the actual and final time to recite the words. Standing alone on that prairie, he faced his enemies. Somehow, he also felt it was the end of the Kiwotas as he knew them, and that the tribe’s way of life would die with him. Running Wolf, unafraid, took a deep breath and sang in a firm, clear voice:

  “It is better to die a young warrior than an old man.

  My spirit will fly away happy knowing this.”

  The Kiwota warrior repeated the chant as the dragoons came over the rise, heading straight for him. He slipped one of his three remaining arrows onto the bow string and let it fly. It flew between Jeffries and Standish, causing them to swerve and slow down.

  Running Wolf continued to sing:

  “It is better to die a young warrior than an old man.

  Even my enemies will honor me as they kill me this day.”

  The dragoons swept past him, a bullet striking Running Wolf in the shoulder. He staggered, but kept to his feet. In spite of the pain, he fired another arrow. This one dug into the back of a soldier, who yelled in painful anger before leaning forward and slipping to the ground.

  “It is better to die a young warrior than an old man.

  Only the earth is supposed to last forever.”

  Another bullet hit him, this time striking with such force that it knocked the young warrior to the ground. It was a fatal shot, and he knew that blood flowed freely inside of him. But he did not want to be in the dirt because an enemy had knocked him there. Running Wolf forced himself back to his feet.

  “It is better to die a young warrior than an old man.

  I will see other dead warriors who went before me.”

  Running Wolf purposely fell to the ground of his own accord rather than being knocked there by an enemy. He lay on his stomach, knowing he was dying.

  The warrior tried to sing another verse; but the blood came up in his mouth, and all he could do was vomit. So he chanted the words in his mind, closed his eyes, and went to his god.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Major Matt Devlin’s patrol returned to Fort Buffalo, they had only one prisoner out of the more than twenty warriors they had fought in the bloody battle on the prairie. This was a particularly galling defeat for the Kiwota warriors. Of all the future war stories that would be told in the tribe, the one about those who had followed Running Wolf on the ill-fated adventure would be the most melancholy and have the least glory.

  It would be but a short time before the mourning songs began for those unfortunate Kiwotas who had been left by the dragoons sprawled dead across the prairie on the west side of Greasy Flats. Devlin had already seen to it that War Heart was notified of the location of the corpses.

  The one Kiwota survivor was the adolescent boy Red Cub. As they rode into the confines of the garrison, he sat defiant and unrepentant aboard a horse with his hands tied behind his back. He had a broken nose and black eye along with the abrasions from the beating that Sergeant Dawson had administered during his capture. He wore the injuries as proudly as he would a war bonnet.

 

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