was at the top of the wall. It had seemed to take forever. Since Montgomery’s crouch hadn’t done much good for him, Sam decided to emulate what he imagined an Achaean would have done. Achilles, anyway, if not Odysseus.
He started to rise. Started to raise his sword, ready to wave it about now and shout
Follow me!
again. The painted faces of the Red Stick warriors staring up at him from the ground below were just a colorful blur in his mind.
He never even saw the arrow coming.
Fortunately, his foot slipped just as he started to stand, and what would have been a heroic posture turned into an ungainly sprawl.
Fortunately
, because had he kept his footing, that arrow would have plunged deep into his groin. As it was, the missile simply sliced a gash along the outside of his thigh before caroming off to the side.
It didn’t even hurt. Sam realized he’d been wounded only when he spotted the blood soaking his trouser leg.
But he just shrugged it off. He was a big man, there was a lot of meat and muscle there, and the wound wasn’t spouting the way it would if an artery had been severed. It was, quite literally, nothing but a flesh wound.
Besides, Sam had far more pressing concerns. Sprawled across the wall the way he was, his head was now within reach of the enemy—and, sure enough, a Red Stick was trying to brain him with an
atassa
.
Frantically, Sam brought up the sword. By sheer good luck more than any conscious intent, the blade intercepted the haft ofthe club. There wasn’t enough power in that awkward parry to do more than deflect the club, but deflected it was. Off balance, the Red Stick stumbled past.
Seeing nothing else to do, Sam threw himself off the wall and landed on his hands and knees on the enemy side of the barricade. Instantly, he came to his feet, feeling a rush of relief greater than anything he’d ever felt in his life. Whatever happened now, at least he’d be standing up to face it.
What
was
happening now was that the same Red Stick was trying to brain him again. For the first time since the battle began, Sam got angry.
That bastard was trying to kill him!
Stupid bastard, too. Most white men didn’t really know how to handle an Indian war club up close. Guns and knives were a white man’s weapons. But Sam had been trained in wrestling and hand-to-hand fighting by his Cherokee friends John and James Rogers. James, in particular, was a veritable wizard with a war club.
His reflexes took over. A sword wasn’t quite as handy as a war club, but close enough. Sam parried the strike and returned the favor.
Then…
He discovered that a sword had both an advantage and a disadvantage over a war club.
The advantage was that it had a blade.
The disadvantage was that it had a blade.
Sam was strong, even for his size. He’d brained the Red Stick, sure enough. And now he had a sword stuck in the man’s skull.
No time to work it loose, either. Two more Red Sticks were upon him, and still more were aiming their bows his way.
There was nothing he could do about the arrows that would be coming. He left the sword where it was, drew his pistol, and fired it at point-blank range into the chest of one of the two Red Sticks. Then, threw the pistol into the face of the other and grappled with him.
A good hip roll and the warrior was slammed into the ground with enough force to wind him and jar the war club out of his hand. Sam dove for it, eager to have a usable weapon. He didn’t even notice that the headlong plunge took him out of the path of three arrows that sank into the wooden barricade behind.
He came up with the
atassa
just in time to see dozens of Thirty-ninthInfantry soldiers pouring over the wall. With their blue coats, they looked like a wave crashing over a too-flimsy dike.
The Red Sticks at the wall reeled back from the assault. Sam charged forward to place himself once again at the lead.
“
Follow me!”
he bellowed again, waving the war club.
Even at the time, he thought it was
He started to rise. Started to raise his sword, ready to wave it about now and shout
Follow me!
again. The painted faces of the Red Stick warriors staring up at him from the ground below were just a colorful blur in his mind.
He never even saw the arrow coming.
Fortunately, his foot slipped just as he started to stand, and what would have been a heroic posture turned into an ungainly sprawl.
Fortunately
, because had he kept his footing, that arrow would have plunged deep into his groin. As it was, the missile simply sliced a gash along the outside of his thigh before caroming off to the side.
It didn’t even hurt. Sam realized he’d been wounded only when he spotted the blood soaking his trouser leg.
But he just shrugged it off. He was a big man, there was a lot of meat and muscle there, and the wound wasn’t spouting the way it would if an artery had been severed. It was, quite literally, nothing but a flesh wound.
Besides, Sam had far more pressing concerns. Sprawled across the wall the way he was, his head was now within reach of the enemy—and, sure enough, a Red Stick was trying to brain him with an
atassa
.
Frantically, Sam brought up the sword. By sheer good luck more than any conscious intent, the blade intercepted the haft ofthe club. There wasn’t enough power in that awkward parry to do more than deflect the club, but deflected it was. Off balance, the Red Stick stumbled past.
Seeing nothing else to do, Sam threw himself off the wall and landed on his hands and knees on the enemy side of the barricade. Instantly, he came to his feet, feeling a rush of relief greater than anything he’d ever felt in his life. Whatever happened now, at least he’d be standing up to face it.
What
was
happening now was that the same Red Stick was trying to brain him again. For the first time since the battle began, Sam got angry.
That bastard was trying to kill him!
Stupid bastard, too. Most white men didn’t really know how to handle an Indian war club up close. Guns and knives were a white man’s weapons. But Sam had been trained in wrestling and hand-to-hand fighting by his Cherokee friends John and James Rogers. James, in particular, was a veritable wizard with a war club.
His reflexes took over. A sword wasn’t quite as handy as a war club, but close enough. Sam parried the strike and returned the favor.
Then…
He discovered that a sword had both an advantage and a disadvantage over a war club.
The advantage was that it had a blade.
The disadvantage was that it had a blade.
Sam was strong, even for his size. He’d brained the Red Stick, sure enough. And now he had a sword stuck in the man’s skull.
No time to work it loose, either. Two more Red Sticks were upon him, and still more were aiming their bows his way.
There was nothing he could do about the arrows that would be coming. He left the sword where it was, drew his pistol, and fired it at point-blank range into the chest of one of the two Red Sticks. Then, threw the pistol into the face of the other and grappled with him.
A good hip roll and the warrior was slammed into the ground with enough force to wind him and jar the war club out of his hand. Sam dove for it, eager to have a usable weapon. He didn’t even notice that the headlong plunge took him out of the path of three arrows that sank into the wooden barricade behind.
He came up with the
atassa
just in time to see dozens of Thirty-ninthInfantry soldiers pouring over the wall. With their blue coats, they looked like a wave crashing over a too-flimsy dike.
The Red Sticks at the wall reeled back from the assault. Sam charged forward to place himself once again at the lead.
“
Follow me!”
he bellowed again, waving the war club.
Even at the time, he thought it was
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