“Remember,” Grey Feather said, “if they don’t agree to peace, we attack. Stay strong. Our numbers today are great, and theirs are small. We can easily vanquish them should it come to that.”
My horse shifted side to side, its head pivoting back and forth.
“Easy. We’re all right,” I said.
But I didn’t believe that for a second. Perhaps I should have listened to Olivia—something felt terribly wrong.
We continued our journey across the drenched plains, following the scout who had discovered the whereabouts of the Kiowa. Only when we cantered over the rise, expecting to see their teepees on the other side, we saw nothing but grassland. No Kiowa, no dwellings, no horse herd, nothing. Only a trampled patch of grass remained.
“What do we do now?” I said to Marcellious.
“Let’s confer with the chief.”
We turned our steeds and trotted to the front of the group, where Grey Feather rode with Earth Bear.
“A-ho, Chief,” Marcellious said. “It seems the Kiowa have outfoxed us. Perhaps they were expecting us.”
The chief’s face sagged with worry. “Or perhaps they simply moved. They can’t be traveling that fast. I’ve sent our best scout, Tashunka, ahead to investigate. Don’t worry. We’ll find them,” he said, but it sounded as if he sought to reassure himself.
Marcellious and I both nodded, but my stomach became a hard stone.
Every head, both human and equine, turned at the sound of thundering hooves. My eyes met the sight of hundreds of Native Americans on horseback, galloping over the hill, backlit by an enormous full moon sliding over the horizon.
“They’ve allied with another tribe!” Marcellious yelled. “Everyone prepare for attack!”
I kicked my horse into action and took off at a mad gallop.
Several of our warriors raised their bows and sent the arrows flying, their deadly carved arrowheads meeting their marks in the chests of the enemy. Others hurled spears.
Marcellious and I raised the rifles we’d been given, took aim, and shot.
But we were severely outnumbered.
The war cries of the Kiowa rippled through my spine, spurring me to action. I galloped toward a spear-wielding warrior and shot him through the chest.
He fell like a giant stone, trampled by the hooves of hysterical horses.
Several Sioux warriors had been struck down, hanging from their steeds or already on the ground, dead or dying.
We could not survive this—not when surrounded by so many Native Americans intent on slaughter.
I reined my horse to the right and took off toward a group of Kiowa on the ground, bludgeoning my fellow tribesmen with tomahawks. Given the jostling terrain under the horse’s hooves, I took aim as best as possible and shot twice quickly, injuring or killing two of them.
Behind me came a blood-curdling scream.
I wheeled the horse in a circle, coming face to face with a Kiowa racing toward me.
I didn’t have time to shoot him as he leaned over and grabbed me. We both fell to the ground.
I landed hard, the air exploding from my lungs and the rifle falling from my hands.
Before I could catch my breath, he was on top of me, knife raised, ready to plunge its deadly blade into my heart. His face was streaked with white and black, giving him the same unearthly appearance as all of us. The look on his face was hideous, a mask of hatred and violence.
I grabbed him and struggled to get purchase on his sweaty forearms. My muscles shook and quivered as I held his knife-wielding hand inches from my chest. Finally, I managed to flip him until I was on top. I struck him in the face with my fisted hand, knocking him unconscious. Then, I took his blade and buried it in his heart.
Jack-knifing to my feet, I looked around for my horse.
He stood, anxious and panicked, amid all this chaos.
