Chapter Nine

 

Joe didn't have to understand their shrieks to know they were mad. Neither did he have to work hard to imagine what they would do to the white men if they captured them alive. Joe hated the feeling of being chased with no way to shoot back. He hadn't liked it at Shiloh, when musket balls rained on him from the nightmarish smoke, and he sure didn't like it now.

The horizon toward which they rode began to turn gray and Joe's black pony started to tire. At least their enemies were in the same predicament.

Willie rode to Joe's right. He suddenly disappeared.

Joe looked back to see his friend's disagreeable pony had been shot from under him.

Willie rolled to his feet, apparently unhurt. His hands were empty.

Joe remembered the man lost his gun at the Indian camp.

Willie took one quick glance behind him, saw the advancing Indians, and ran after his fleeing companions.

The other three soldiers reined in uncertainly.

The Indians no longer fired at them, preoccupied as they were by their helpless quarry.

"We have to do somethin'," Joe said, turning his pony.

"Don't do it, Cap," Augie pleaded. "Ain't no way we could reach the poor feller in time to do him any good."

"There's little time," Joe heard Adam say. "We mustn't let the savages get their hands on him."

The full meaning of Adam's words came to Joe slowly. When it did, he whirled around. Both his friends stared at him, their expressions grave. Everyone knew he was the finest rifle shot in the company.

He quickly dismounted and aimed over the pony's back. Willie ran toward them, his eyes pleading.

The Indians still did not shoot. They rode the man down, almost upon him, waving their war clubs and axes in the air.

Joe stared down the sights at his comrade. Nothing could have prepared him for such a duty. He hesitated a moment, his heart recoiling at the idea of what he was about to do. Then he fired.

Willie pitched backward.

Joe hopped back on his pony and spurred it on. He heard the outraged shouts of the Indians behind him. The three remaining Galvanized Yankees managed to gain a little ground when the Sioux closest to the body jumped to the ground to poke at it with sticks, and to carve away trophies. This forced their companions, who rode immediately behind, to slow down or stop. Those in the rear went around.

Joe slung the Springfield over his shoulder and squeezed back tears of rage. The image of Willie's surprised, betrayed face burned itself onto Joe's eyeballs. But, through the red mist, he now beheld something else.

They approached Fort Bryce. He wished they had thought far enough ahead to bring along a bugle, but they couldn't have guessed the race would be so close. At least they prevented the Indians from attacking at their own chosen time, and at their leisure. Surely someone would see their approach; no troops were that green.

Joe reached behind him and retrieved the company standard. Then he held his left arm out so the small banner unfurled in the wind. They would know Company D had returned.

Joe felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He looked down to see a bloody arrowhead protruding from his skin, just below the collarbone. He bent forward, spurring the pony harder.