Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 by Terry C. Johnston

firing into the confused soldiers.
    â€œThey’re gonna get chewed up down there!” Grover shouted from the hilltop where the civilians had watched the soldiers charge into the fray.
    Stillwell nodded. “We’ve got to help.”
    â€œLook there, boys,” Cody said, pointing west. “The village is getting away.”
    â€œThat’s what this is all about,” Grover replied. “Them bastards are covering the escape.”
    â€œI’m for going after the village!” Alderdice shouted. Several others hollered their agreement. “Those soldiers can take care of themselves.”
    â€œDon’t think so,” Donegan said. “Those men will be butter if we don’t get down there now.”
    â€œThe Irishman’s right,” Cody shouted. “Time enough to chase squaws and travois!”
    â€œLet’s ride!” Grover bawled.
    It was a mad dash made by the whooping civilians as they tore down on Schenofsky’s command, splitting at the last minute to race past the pinned-down soldiers, racing among the ring of warriors. The Cheyenne scattered, regrouped and tore off for the west, where once more they would cover the retreat of their village.
    It took some time to regroup the commands. Schenofsky had to get his soldiers back into the saddle, and Grover had to regroup Pepoon’s civilians before they were off again, trailing after the disappearing village. North by west, the fleeing Cheyenne hurried toward Shuter Creek, and crossed late that afternoon. Rarely did the warriors turn to fight the rest of the day, more often choosing to snipe at the outriders as the white men came on like troublesome gnats.
    Only once, when the women and old ones were forced to slow their escape due to a narrowing of a canyon, did the warriors wheel and stand their ground, before breaking into a gallop with wild screeches climbing into the afternoon sky.
    Shaking their rifles and bows, lances and war-clubs, the hundred charged back on their pursuers, like swallows turning about and swooping down on the nighthawk.
    â€œHalt!” the order thundered up and down the line.
    Horses were reined up in a swirl of dust.
    â€œDismount! Horse holders to the rear!”
    â€œBy God, this is it!” Cody shouted.
    â€œLet’s hope it’s nothing more than a good scrap!”
    â€œAye, Irishman! Nothing like a good scrap!”
    At a hundred yards the order was given. “Fire!”
    The warriors reined in, confusion electrifying their ranks. A few ponies cried out as the white man’s bullets slapped among them. Only two went down, their riders swept up behind other warriors as the Cheyenne turned, parted, and two waves dashed up the parting slopes of two hills.
    â€œDon’t wait, Lieutenant!” Grover advised, dashing up to Schenofsky.
    â€œBy the devil, we won’t!” Schenofsky whirled, arm waving. “Mount up! Hurry, boys—mount up!”
    â€œGot ’em on the run now,” Tom Alderdice cheered.
    The soldiers and civilians both hollered as they sorted through the horse holders for their mounts and swung into the saddle.
    â€œBy fours!” Schenofsky ordered his men as they quickly formed. “Civilians—take the east trail. I’ll follow the west. Cody, you and Donegan come with me!”
    The two groups kept within sight of one another through the rest of the afternoon, chasing the dust cloud that always managed to stay just out of reach, over the next hill, in the next valley, until the light began to fail and Grover advised giving up the chase until sunrise.
    â€œWe’ll wait here for Carr to come up,” Schenofsky said.
    â€œGood a place as any for a camp,” Cody agreed.
    Darkness descended on the command as the men gathered greasewood and started their fires. Royall led an advance into camp, dispatched by Carr at a gallop to bolster Schenofsky’s skimpy command. Instead of a fight, Major Royall