throw dust over himself and his pony. His faith in the medicine of the Oglala extended to a lucky stone he wore beneath one ear with another, a gift from his friend Chips, under the left arm.
And that was all.
From everything that Crow knew about the Sioux leader he would not have permitted his men to charge in such a wild manner, even facing such small odds. But there was enough time in the seconds before the two sides clashed to see that the make-up of the Indian party was typical of those that had been giving the settlers, miners and soldiers such a bad time in the Dakotas and over into Montana and Wyoming.
He recognized Oglala, Cheyenne, Arapahoes, Sans, Arcs, Brules and Miniconjous. A mixed band of tribes that had been attracted towards the leadership of Crazy Horse, Red Cloud and Young Man Whose Enemies Are Even Afraid Of His Horses. Building up toward the greatest concentration of Indians ever known in the history of America. It was to be a great ending before the decline into darkness.
'Bastards,' said Crow quietly, keeping an iron hand on his own fighting madness.
Squeezing both triggers of the shotgun.
From then on it was all fragments of the mirror, whirling in a wild impression of fire and screaming and blood and death.
'Aim high and you hit the head or you miss. Aim low and you hit the chest or the guts. Safe shot's the best.'
That's what the lean man who carried the razor in the pouch at the back of his neck had once told Crow.
Good advice.
Crow fired low. The shot boomed out from both barrels simultaneously, hiding the approaching Indians in the great cloud of powder smoke, the double recoil jarring Crow's wrist. But the gun remained steady.
The wind of the gallop blew away the smoke and Crow was quickly able to see the horrendous effects of his shot.
The lead charge had ripped out among the Sioux and their allies with devastating success.
Three men blasted clean off the backs of their ponies, one with his jaw ripped away from his skull, hanging loose and flapping as he fell, tethered to the rest of his head only by threads of gristle and sinew.
One man holding the stump of his right hand, rolling to the dirt, screaming and trying to stop the fountain of blood that jetted from the raw flesh of the wrist.
The third one with his buckskin shirt speckled with blood as if it had been splashed, the speckles growing larger as he toppled backwards, blown off the pinto to fall directly under the hooves of the riders behind him.
It was good enough to take out three of the leaders of the attack, but the greatest value of deliberately firing the scatter-gun low was in the effect it had on the small ponies of the Indians. The buckshot splattered out at close range directly into their faces, blinding several of them, inflicting great bloody wounds in their heads.
Out of the leading bunch of eight or nine warriors, that single shot from Crow brought down all but one. The horses at the very front fell, and the rest toppled over them, stung by the shot, kicking and flailing, squealing like whipped girls, sending their riders down into the trampled grass and dust.
The remainder of the Indians fanned out sideways at the sight of the devastation, and Crow was able to ride clean through them, waving the smoking gun at them.
One aimed a blow with his spear but Crow ducked under the cut. There was time to holster the empty scatter-gun, tugging the Colt Peacemaker from the back of his belt.
Crow didn't like using an ordinary pistol, reckoning it to be a weapon where luck played too large a role. But this was a place and the time to use it.
He tugged up on the reins of the stallion, wheeling it on a dime, looking back on the carnage. More fragmentary impressions filling his eyes.
Trooper Clynes following him on through the shattered ranks of the demoralized Indians, with an arrow sticking out through the side of his face, angled upwards through the cheekbone, the feathered end wobbling as he spurred his horse on,
And that was all.
From everything that Crow knew about the Sioux leader he would not have permitted his men to charge in such a wild manner, even facing such small odds. But there was enough time in the seconds before the two sides clashed to see that the make-up of the Indian party was typical of those that had been giving the settlers, miners and soldiers such a bad time in the Dakotas and over into Montana and Wyoming.
He recognized Oglala, Cheyenne, Arapahoes, Sans, Arcs, Brules and Miniconjous. A mixed band of tribes that had been attracted towards the leadership of Crazy Horse, Red Cloud and Young Man Whose Enemies Are Even Afraid Of His Horses. Building up toward the greatest concentration of Indians ever known in the history of America. It was to be a great ending before the decline into darkness.
'Bastards,' said Crow quietly, keeping an iron hand on his own fighting madness.
Squeezing both triggers of the shotgun.
From then on it was all fragments of the mirror, whirling in a wild impression of fire and screaming and blood and death.
'Aim high and you hit the head or you miss. Aim low and you hit the chest or the guts. Safe shot's the best.'
That's what the lean man who carried the razor in the pouch at the back of his neck had once told Crow.
Good advice.
Crow fired low. The shot boomed out from both barrels simultaneously, hiding the approaching Indians in the great cloud of powder smoke, the double recoil jarring Crow's wrist. But the gun remained steady.
The wind of the gallop blew away the smoke and Crow was quickly able to see the horrendous effects of his shot.
The lead charge had ripped out among the Sioux and their allies with devastating success.
Three men blasted clean off the backs of their ponies, one with his jaw ripped away from his skull, hanging loose and flapping as he fell, tethered to the rest of his head only by threads of gristle and sinew.
One man holding the stump of his right hand, rolling to the dirt, screaming and trying to stop the fountain of blood that jetted from the raw flesh of the wrist.
The third one with his buckskin shirt speckled with blood as if it had been splashed, the speckles growing larger as he toppled backwards, blown off the pinto to fall directly under the hooves of the riders behind him.
It was good enough to take out three of the leaders of the attack, but the greatest value of deliberately firing the scatter-gun low was in the effect it had on the small ponies of the Indians. The buckshot splattered out at close range directly into their faces, blinding several of them, inflicting great bloody wounds in their heads.
Out of the leading bunch of eight or nine warriors, that single shot from Crow brought down all but one. The horses at the very front fell, and the rest toppled over them, stung by the shot, kicking and flailing, squealing like whipped girls, sending their riders down into the trampled grass and dust.
The remainder of the Indians fanned out sideways at the sight of the devastation, and Crow was able to ride clean through them, waving the smoking gun at them.
One aimed a blow with his spear but Crow ducked under the cut. There was time to holster the empty scatter-gun, tugging the Colt Peacemaker from the back of his belt.
Crow didn't like using an ordinary pistol, reckoning it to be a weapon where luck played too large a role. But this was a place and the time to use it.
He tugged up on the reins of the stallion, wheeling it on a dime, looking back on the carnage. More fragmentary impressions filling his eyes.
Trooper Clynes following him on through the shattered ranks of the demoralized Indians, with an arrow sticking out through the side of his face, angled upwards through the cheekbone, the feathered end wobbling as he spurred his horse on,
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