Far as the Eye Can See by Robert Bausch Page A

was turning it away from the marsh.
    We was probably a full day’s ride from Fort Hays, and maybe a third of the way to Fort Wallace. While General Cooney went around to each of the wagons and give my instructions, two of the braves broke off from the group and started toward me at a gallop. They carried lances with black and white feathers tied to the tips, and again I was amazed at how each of them looked on a horse, like horse and rider was one.
    General Cooney come back next to me. His horse let out this loud shudder and shook its head. The bridle clinked. We watched the Indians coming at a slow walk now, their horses nodding their heads like they was saying yes to the world.
    The Indians wore yellow leggings, and leather vests all draped with beads. They wasn’t painted. One was a little bigger than the other, but both of them was tall. The only Crow brave I ever seen was Big Tree, and with that name I thought he was unusual. But both of these fellows was almost as high as Big Tree. One was pretty old but held himself erect and proud. He raised his arm when he stopped his horse in front of us. General Cooney did the same. The older brave pointed at himself and said, “Chíischipaaliash.”
    I said, “Hello.”
    The younger one started speaking, “Hinnay cheesh eepaul eeash kook. Bineesh bach eetuah kook. Deelapaache beeluuk.” I didn’t understand a word he was saying and neither did Cooney. The older one smiled a bit, nodded his head as the other talked.
    “You speak English?” I said. “American?”
    The older one smiled broadly.
    “Baamniawaawalakuk?” the young one said.
    I shook my head to let him know I didn’t get it.
    “Hinnay baaniiummauak?”
    “No understand,” Cooney said.
    The older one started trying to communicate through sign. He gestured with his arms, made circles, and pointed to invisible things in the air. Then he made a sweeping motion with his hand and pointed at us. “Baaniiummauak.”
    Then the smaller one reached into a scabbard at his side and pulled out a great hunting knife. It gleamed in the bright sun. I looked at the knife, but I had no time to think about what it meant. Cooney jerked his pistol out of his belt and shot the fellow in the breastbone. He fell over backward off his horse. “Jesus!” I screamed. The other Indian held on while his horse rose up, then turned and careened the other way. Cooney and me turned our horses and run back to the wagons. I could hear the Indians shouting behind us. We galloped up to the lead wagon that was already beginning to turn to make the circle, and I hollered, “Keep going! No circle! Just head back fast!”
    The guy on the wagon slapped the reins hard on the backs of his horses and started yelling at them: “Heyaaa, heeyaaa!”
    “Go, go, go!” I screamed, turning Cricket to face the wagons as they teetered and leaned, the horses and mules struggling in the traces; finally the whole train straightened out and got to running. I waited until the last wagon was headed in the right direction, told Cooney to stay at the rear, then raced to get on the lead. I didn’t hear no other shots.
    We raced over that terrain a long time. Didn’t lose a wagon. Nobody got hurt. When it was dark, I halted the train and galloped back to Cooney. He was still on his horse, watching the trail behind us. Two boys in the last wagon was crouched down in the back of it, looking down the barrels of their muskets, at the ready.
    “See anything, General?” I said.
    “Nary a thing.”
    “Nothing at all?”
    He shook his head, still staring back down the way we’d come.
    “We could probably make it back to Fort Hays before dawn,” I said. “You think we should try?”
    He looked up at the sky. “Moon’s pretty low right now. Why don’t we give the horses a breather and then see if we can make it. I don’t want to just sit here and wait for them.”
    So we let the horses calm down and get to breathing naturally and then we started off again,