The time it took to reach the Sioux village was considerably shortened with the help of a guide. Still it was a two-hour ride through the moonlit hills and draws before they sighted the rosy shroud over the camp created by the many campfires.
“Big camp,” Jordan commented.
“Big camp,” Iron Pony agreed.
They proceeded with caution from that point forward until reaching a low ridge that guarded the western flank of the camp. Jordan dismounted to look the situation over. There was a broad expanse of level grassland between the ridge where he now stood and the outer ring of tipis. The other side of the camp was protected by the river, with the pony herd in between it and the lodges on the east. Jordan and Iron Pony remained there on the ridge for a considerable period, searching for sentries, but finally decided that none had been posted. The Sioux, they concluded, had little reason to concern themselves with an attack by the badly outnumbered army patrol. There was a great deal of activity in the camp, with many people walking back and forth between the tipis. Their voices, light and cheerful, carried on the evening breeze.
“I reckon they’re feelin’ pretty good about whippin’ that patrol this afternoon,” Jordan commented quietly. “We need to get closer.” He climbed back in the saddle and guided his horse along the ridge paralleling the center of the camp.
When they had reached a point opposite the camp’s center, they left the horses below the ridge and moved in closer on foot, using the tall grass as cover. Before leaving the protection provided by the ridge, Jordan turned to look Iron Pony in the eye. The Crow scout understood the intense question behind the gaze and nodded his head solemnly. Firmly assured that Iron Pony was willing to risk his neck, Jordan moved into the waist-high grass.
If there had been dancing to celebrate the war party’s victory, it was evidently over at this point. Close enough now to hear voices in casual conversation, Jordan scanned the open area at the center of the tipis until he saw what he was looking for. A crowd of men, women, and children had gathered near one of the tipis, forming a circle. As the crowd shifted, moving back and forth, he was able to catch glimpses of the object of their interest. Lieutenant Thomas Jefferson Wallace was tethered to a stake in the ground, his hands bound behind his back and tied to his ankles. Trussed up like a hog for slaughter, he was helpless before his tormentors. Some of them, mostly the women, were amusing themselves by throwing sticks and small stones at his bloodied body. His bare chest and back bore evidence of the beatings he had suffered at the hands of his captors. If he had shown defiance, it had long since been beaten out of him, for he lay unmoving, dead for all Jordan could tell.
“Maybe too late,” Iron Pony whispered.
“You might be right,” Jordan replied, “but we might as well make sure.” He studied the situation carefully, knowing that whatever he decided to do, he’d better not waste much time in doing it. One thing was certain, there was no hope of getting anywhere close to Wallace with so many Sioux around him. There might be a chance if a sizable diversion was created, but it would have to be big enough to distract the entire village. His mind went immediately to the large pony herd peacefully grazing between the village and the river. Whispering to Iron Pony to follow, he withdrew from the edge of the village far enough to talk without fear of being overheard by any of the Indians milling about the clearing.
Iron Pony listened to Jordan’s plan, nodding his understanding when Jordan emphasized the danger and assured him that he would understand if the scout was unwilling to take such a chance. Unfortunately for the lieutenant, it would take some time to implement the plan. Iron Pony would have to skirt around the lower end of the camp, cross the river, and come up on the other side. He would then have to cross the river once more to get to the Sioux horses.
“Once you get ’em moving’,” Jordan warned, “you’re gonna have to ride like hell. Make plenty of noise, because I ain’t likely to get but one chance to get to Wallace. I’m hopin’ you attract everybody’s attention long enough for me to get to him. As soon as you clear the upper end of the camp, just cut out for the hills and worry about savin’ your own neck. Don’t wait around for me. If we’re lucky, I’ll see you somewhere along the way back.”
“If they catch you, it will be very bad for you,” Iron Pony said.
“It’ll cost ’em. I guarantee you that,” Jordan replied, already having second thoughts about risking his life to save a man he had no liking for. “I just hope I ain’t stickin’ my neck out for a man that’s already dead.”
Iron Pony placed his hand on Jordan’s arm and nodded his head solemnly. Then he was off, making his way through the tall grass, and soon gone from sight. Jordan returned his attention to the Sioux camp, moving back to the place where he had caught sight of Wallace. It would take a while for Iron Pony to circle the camp, and while Jordan waited, his mind was busy with worrisome thoughts. I’m a damn fool for trying to save the arrogant bastard, he thought, knowing he was betting on extremely long odds. Iron Pony might not be able to get to the Sioux horses. If he was successful in driving off some of the horses, there might still be a lot of people who just didn’t run to save them. And of course, Wallace might be dead. Damn fool, he condemned himself, but thoughts of a grieving Kathleen could not be repressed. What’s the use of fretting about it? You’re going to do it, damn fool or not. He determined to put any wavering thoughts out of his mind and concentrate on the job he was about to do.
It was probably no more than half an hour, but it seemed much longer to the lone white man crouching in the high grass so close to the hostile camp. Twice during that time, he feared that he was going to be forced to retreat from his spot when a couple of the Sioux walked in his direction. Once he lay flat, watching a small boy relieve himself no more than ten yards from him in the thick grass. Come on, Iron Pony, he pleaded impatiently.
As the night progressed, and the moon rode closer to the dark hills in the distance, the gathering started to thin out. The people began to lose interest in the captive soldier and sought the comfort of their beds. Jordan shifted his position, advancing even closer to the outer ring of tipis. There were now no more than a dozen people in the clearing near the fire and the tormented white soldier. Jordan estimated the distance between him and the lieutenant to be right at fifty yards. Turning to look back over his shoulder, he figured it to be another fifty yards to the spot below the ridge where he had left his horse. Suddenly the still night air was split with the sound of gunfire and a high piercing Crow war cry.
Jordan, after waiting anxiously for so long, was as startled as the people in the Sioux camp. Warriors poured from the lodges, and the people still milling around the fire joined them as they ran toward the river. “The horses!” someone shouted, and the call was taken up by several as the camp was caught in the panic of a possible Crow raid.
Iron Pony did his job well. Cutting into the pony herd, he drove a bunch of horses, numbering fifteen or twenty, toward the upper end of the camp. Shooting and yelling, he ran them along the western riverbank before veering into a gully that led down to the water. Behind him, the village was alive with excitement: warriors running after the stampeding ponies, others riding on the backs of favored war ponies that had been tethered by their lodges. Leaving the frightened horses to gallop toward the hills, Iron Pony plunged into the dark water, unnoticed by the angry Sioux, and crossed to the opposite bank. Once he was sure he was in the clear, he headed downriver, using his quirt to demand all the speed his horse could provide, effectively disappearing into the shadows. His part of the plan completed, he concentrated upon saving his scalp. There was no way he could know for sure if he had been able to give Jordan the time he needed.
Back at the edge of the camp, Jordan hesitated for a moment until everyone around the captive had run toward the stampeding ponies. Now or never! he thought and sprang to his feet. With his rifle in one hand, and his knife in the other, he sprinted by the first two lodges, straight for the man tethered to the stake.
Wallace, bloodied, confused, and convinced that the charging man was death’s messenger, pulled frantically at the rawhide rope binding him. Jordan quickly knelt beside the wounded officer and hacked away at his bonds. “Gray!” Wallace blurted, realizing that he was not about to be executed.
“Can you walk?” Jordan demanded, working away at the cords as quickly as he could manage, while anxiously watching the Indians running toward the river.
“Damn right,” Wallace gasped, his voice raspy from thirst. “I’ll damn sure walk out of here.”
“Well, let’s go then,” Jordan said as the last cord fell away. He reached down and grabbed Wallace’s arm to help him to his feet.
His limbs stiff and sore from lack of circulation, the lieutenant sagged and almost went down before he regained his balance.
“Can you make it?” Jordan demanded impatiently, still with his eye on the mob.
“I’ll make it,” Wallace insisted, though he was staggering on unsteady legs.
“You’d better, ’cause I can’t run that far carryin’ you.” Jordan took one last look behind him, then turned to follow Wallace, only to find the lieutenant had stopped. Jordan almost bumped into him. When he looked up to see what had caused Wallace to stop dead, it was to find a solitary Lakota warrior standing in their path. Jordan reacted quickly, bringing his rifle to bear, but the warrior already had his rifle aimed and ready to fire. Both men hesitated, recognizing each other at the same time.
“Jordan Gray,” the Lakota pronounced, still with the rifle aimed at Jordan’s chest.
“Red Feather,” Jordan acknowledged.
Both men stood facing each other for what seemed an eternity, Lakota and white man, neither wanting to make the first move. Frantic to save his neck, Wallace blurted, “Shoot him!”
“Shut up, Wallace,” Jordan spat, never taking his eyes from Red Feather’s. He knew the warrior hesitated because he felt he owed his life to Jordan. “I don’t want to kill you, Red Feather. You are my friend. But I have to take this man with me.”
“He is an enemy of my people. He led the soldiers against us. He is not worth your life, my friend.”
“I have to take him back,” Jordan stated calmly. Red Feather raised his rifle to point it directly at Jordan’s head. “You and I have no reason to fight,” Jordan said. He reached over and gave Wallace a shove. “Get going,” he said and lowered his rifle.
Red Feather started to step forward to block Wallace’s path, but paused, clearly battling with his feelings. “He will be my prisoner now,” Jordan said in an effort to appease Red Feather’s conscience. “He has committed a greater crime against me.” He then walked past the warrior, moving unhurriedly toward the tall grass at the edge of the camp. Striding tall and deliberate, he resisted the urge to run. It was a gamble, but he was counting on the Lakota warrior’s sense of honor toward a man who had saved his life. Almost out of the light of the dying fire now, he could feel the nerves tingling between his shoulder blades, but the shot did not come. The only sound he was aware of was the steady pounding of his own heartbeat drumming in his ears.
They reached the place in the grass where Jordan and Iron Pony had knelt to scout the village when the first cry of alarm rang out behind them. “Run!” Jordan ordered and lunged forward in the waist-high grass. Wallace tried to follow, but stumbled and fell, his legs still unsteady. Jordan stopped and came back to help the weakened soldier to his feet, realizing as he did that Wallace was in no shape to outrun a party of angry warriors. At best, they had only seconds before being overtaken. “Go!” Jordan commanded, pointing toward the ridge. “My horse is below the ridge. I’ll try to buy us some time.” Wallace did as he was told, staggering as best he could on unsteady legs. Jordan watched for a few seconds to make sure the lieutenant was heading in the right direction; then he turned back to face the pursuit.
Looking back at the clearing, he could see a number of warriors gathering near the fire, shouting excitedly, arms waving in frantic gesturing, and he braced for the coming assault. His only hope was to stop enough of them to discourage reckless pursuit, thereby gaining enough time to get back to his horse. But the pursuit did not come. Instead, the warriors charged out of the camp in a direction clearly ninety degrees from where he knelt, waiting. Puzzled at first, he suddenly realized that Red Feather must have sent them in the wrong direction, knowing that Jordan would not have time to escape otherwise. Now I’m in your debt, Jordan thought and, wasting no more time, followed after Wallace.
Sprinting over the backside of the low ridge, he arrived to find Wallace struggling to mount Sweet Pea. With one arm hanging useless, he was trying to pull himself up by one hand on the saddle horn. Sweet Pea, however, was not of a disposition to allow it. As a result, the two, man and horse, were engaged in a frantic ballet, as they went round and round in a circle, Sweet Pea sidestepping each time Wallace tried to put his foot in the stirrup. “Damn you!” Wallace spat at the belligerent horse in frustration as Jordan arrived to grasp the reins.
“Hold still,” Jordan ordered, and Sweet Pea immediately obeyed, standing still while Jordan climbed up in the saddle. “Put your foot in the stirrup and climb up behind me,” he said. Sweet Pea stood tranquil, with no protest, as she accepted the double load. “Red Feather’s givin’ us a fair head start, but we’re gonna have to make some time while we’ve got the chance. That war party will soon find out we didn’t head outta there that way. I’ve got an extra shirt in my saddle bag—maybe keep you from freezin’ to death.” As the moon set beyond the distant horizon, and the dusky light of predawn settled upon the prairie, Sweet Pea loped along the back side of the ridge, heading toward the rising sun.
* * *
The first rays of the sun found the two white men approaching a creek with high banks on either side. Jordan remembered crossing it on his way to the Sioux camp the night before. “We’ll stop and rest my horse for a while,” he said. “Looks like you could use a little rest yourself.” There had been no sign of pursuit as yet, but Jordan was not willing to assume the chase was ended. “We won’t be long,” he added.
Wallace was more than ready to rest, and as soon as Jordan helped him down, he sank to the ground, exhausted. Jordan led Sweet Pea to the water and dropped the reins, letting the mare take her time drinking. When he turned around, it was to find Wallace staring up at him. Jordan handed him his canteen. Wallace took a long pull from it, then handed it back without a word of thanks. He continued to stare at his rescuer for a long moment before speaking.
“Why did you risk your neck to save me?” Wallace asked bluntly.
Jordan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” He wasn’t about to confess that he did it because of his feelings for Kathleen. When Wallace continued to probe with his gaze, Jordan said, “I wasn’t busy at the time.” His curt answer didn’t satisfy the lieutenant’s curiosity.
“I would have expected Corporal Macy and some of the men to attempt to rescue me, but not you. I thought you would be the last person to want to help me.”
Jordan was quick to speak in Macy’s defense. “The corporal was plannin’ to try to come after you, but there was a better chance that one man alone would be able to get close enough to get in and out again. All your men—the ones that made it back—were too worn-out to go back for you. All I needed was for Iron Pony to attract the Indians’ attention for a few minutes.”
Wallace took note of Jordan’s comment: the ones that made it back. But he declined to defend his reckless attack upon the Sioux camp. “Well, I suppose I should thank you for risking your life to save me,” he finally said.
“Oh, not if it causes you grief,” Jordan replied with a half grin, a note of sarcasm in his tone.
“What were you planning to do if your diversion failed to work?”
The half grin spread into a wide smile as Jordan answered, “Why, I woulda shot you to put you out of your misery.”
The two adversaries looked at each other, neither speaking for a long moment. Then Wallace asked, “What did you mean back there when you said I was wanted for a crime against you?”
Jordan shrugged. “It was just somethin’ to make Red Feather think you weren’t goin’ to get away without some kind of punishment.” He had no intention of giving the lieutenant the satisfaction of knowing that the crime he committed against him was taking Kathleen. There was an awkward tension between the two men, a definite dislike with no middle ground for a truce between them. Jordan hated the fact that he felt compelled to rescue the arrogant officer. Wallace despised the thought of owing his life to a man he held in such contempt. “I’m gonna walk back up to the top of that rise to take a look around. Then we’d best get goin’.”
“We would have a better chance if you had brought an extra horse,” Wallace said.
Jordan took a long look at him before answering candidly, “You’re right, but to tell you the truth, I didn’t expect to find you alive.”
* * *
Macy was undecided as to what he should do. It was a little after sunup when Iron Pony showed up, his horse lathered and blowing. The scout related the events of the night just passed, but he could not say what had happened to Jordan and the lieutenant. He had done as Jordan had instructed: stampeded the pony herd, then made sure of his escape. The last he had seen of Jordan, he was kneeling in the grass at the edge of the Sioux camp. Whether to wait any longer or to start out for Fort Laramie right away—that was the decision Macy had to make. According to what Iron Pony had seen, Lieutenant Wallace was badly beaten and most likely needed help. He could even be dead. But Macy could not know for sure if Jordan had been successful in rescuing Wallace, and he felt he could not wait too long to find out. He had wounded of his own to consider. Also, he was in no condition to fight if the Sioux decided to come after them. In the end, he concluded that there was but one course of action, and that was his obligation to the men under his command, especially the wounded.
* * *
Jordan walked back down to the creekbank to find that Wallace had passed out from sheer exhaustion. Since he had seen no sign of a war party searching for them, he decided to let Wallace sleep for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to rest Sweet Pea a little longer as well. The sun was well up in the sky when he finally shook the lieutenant awake. “We’d best get goin’.”
Jordan held Sweet Pea to a slower pace in an effort not to tire the horse too quickly. Consequently, it was close to midday when they reached the bluffs where the cavalry patrol had waited. Surprised that they were allowed to approach without being challenged, Jordan reined his horse to a halt, thinking it wise to take precautions. Macy and the men were either gone or they were mighty careless about posting sentries. As soon as he nudged Sweet Pea forward, following a gully down the bluffs to the water’s edge, he discovered it was the former.
“Looks like your boys gave you up for dead,” Jordan commented as he pulled the horse up before the remains of his campfire. He dismounted, then helped Wallace down.
“They can’t have been gone long,” Wallace said, clearly irritated that his command had given up on him.
“Maybe not,” Jordan replied dryly. “I can’t say as how I blame them. They were in pretty bad shape and in no condition to fight if those Sioux decided to come after them.” After he got the lieutenant settled, he knelt to examine the ashes of the fire. “Still warm,” he said. “Three or four hours, I’d say.” That wasn’t much of a lead, but with Sweet Pea hauling double, it might as well be a day and a half. It wasn’t likely they would catch up before reaching Fort Laramie. He turned to look at the lieutenant, slumped on the bare ground, looking as if he were too weak to hold his head up. “Are you gonna make it?” Jordan asked.
“I’ll make it,” Wallace replied with a faint spark of defiance. There was a moment of silence. “I’m hungry.”
It occurred to Jordan then that he had been far too busy avoiding a war party to even think about food. Wallace could not have eaten in two days. Jordan had nothing to offer the officer. “I’ll see what I can find,” he said. “It wouldn’t hurt to rest up a little while, anyway.” He paused to bend over him. “That arm of yours don’t look too good, either. It’s swollen pretty bad behind your wrist. I think it’s broke. We may have to fix it.” Straightening up again, he said, “I’ll get this fire goin’ again, and then I’ll try to find you somethin’ to eat.”
The prospects for finding game were slim, since any wild beast would have already been frightened away from the vicinity of the camp, so Jordan made his way down along the riverbank, looking for any small varmint that could provide nourishment. There was plenty of sign that muskrats had been pretty busy all along the bank, but Jordan hoped for something better. He had never been partial to muskrat. What he was looking for was a deer or an antelope that might happen down to the water’s edge to drink. After a half hour with no luck, however, he was forced to resign himself to eating muskrat. I’m not going to eat much of it, anyway.
He had nothing with which to fashion a trap, so he was going to have to shoot one. Walking along the bank, he spotted many muskrat runs, easily distinguished by the lack of silt along their tiny trails, a result of repeated trips made back and forth by the rodent. It didn’t take long before he caught sight of one about to slip back into the water.
The force of the forty-five slug caused the animal to turn a complete flip in the air before it landed in the shallow water along the edge. The impact of his rifle slug made a sizable hole in the carcass, and ruined the shiny winter fur—which was of no concern to Jordan at the moment. As soon as he pulled the trigger, he wondered if he might have summoned a Sioux war party. The odds were in his favor that he had not because he was within a day’s ride of Fort Laramie. Still, he had to think about it.
He skinned the critter, taking care to avoid puncturing the musk glands near the long flat tail when he cleared the entrails. Wallace was starved to the point where he didn’t care a great deal what was roasting over the fire. When it was done, Jordan tore off a quarter of the small rodent, and Wallace accepted it, although he puzzled over it for a few seconds. “What is this?” he asked.
“Chicken,” Jordan replied. “It’s meat. Eat it.”
Wallace ate it without complaint.
When Wallace had finished his feast of roast varmint, Jordan broached the subject of the lieutenant’s injured arm. “From the look of it, I’d say that arm’s broken. You can’t even lift it without pain, can you?”
Wallace stared at his swollen wrist. “I think you’re right. It must be broken. It’s painful as hell. I think we’d better get back right away so Captain Beard can treat it.”
Captain Beard, Jordan thought. I guess he hasn’t been married long enough to call the post surgeon Pa. The thought served to irritate him, but he immediately discarded it. “We can’t go just yet,” he said. “My horse is lookin’ kinda spent.” He returned his attention to the broken arm. “That thing don’t look too good. It’s still swellin’. We probably oughta try to set it. If we don’t, it’s liable to be so infected your pappy-in-law might have to saw it off.”
They discussed the issue for a few moments more. Wallace was reluctant to attempt setting the bone. He felt his arm was more important than Jordan Gray’s homely horse, but he didn’t care for the prospect of having to walk the final miles to Fort Laramie if the horse foundered. As far as Jordan was concerned, the decision was not Wallace’s to make. Sweet Pea needed to rest, so they were not leaving for the post until his horse was ready to go.
Wallace’s concern for saving his arm finally convinced him to agree with Jordan’s diagnosis. As for Jordan, it was actually immaterial to him whether Wallace lost the arm or not. He was simply pointing out what seemed to him to be the obvious course of action. “Have you ever done anything like this before?” Wallace wanted to know.
“Oh, yeah, several times,” Jordan lied.
“Let’s get it over with, then,” Wallace said.
The procedure they decided upon was for Wallace to stand firm and pull back on his arm while Jordan took hold of his hand and yanked against him. Wallace flinched with pain, however, when Jordan simply laid a hand on his arm where the fracture had occurred. “I need to be able to feel when the bones are back in place,” Jordan explained. He could feel the jagged edge of the bone as it protruded into the flesh of Wallace’s arm. “The bones ain’t meetin’,” he reported. “We’re gonna have to pull ’em apart so they’ll go back together.” He looked into Wallace’s eyes. The lieutenant’s forehead was beaded with drops of sweat. “You ready?” Jordan asked. Wallace nodded in reply, biting his lower lip firmly.
With his gaze locked on Jordan’s eyes, Wallace steadied himself while Jordan took hold of his wrist. With a slight nod, Wallace signaled, and both men pulled. The lieutenant yelped in pain, but he was determined to stand the treatment. The muscles and ligaments of his arm proved to be firm in their resistance to yield, however. With his other hand, Jordan could feel no movement of the broken ends of the bone. The two men continued to pull against each other, Wallace’s eyes staring unblinking into Jordan’s.
Suddenly, Wallace’s eyes rolled upward until Jordan could see nothing but white. In the next instant, Wallace dropped to the ground, fainting dead away. Frustrated by the lack of success at first, Jordan quickly realized that now was the time to proceed. With Wallace flat on his back, Jordan placed his foot on the lieutenant’s arm just above the elbow. Then he took hold of the wrist again and pulled hard until he felt the bone move. Gripping the arm with his other hand, he continued to pull until he felt the two ends line up properly, and it was done. With nothing to use for a sling—the only extra shirt he owned was on Wallace’s back—Jordan searched for something to substitute. He had to settle for using a length of rope with which to fashion a sling. Cutting three strong willow branches, he formed a splint, wrapping the rope securely around them. Then he slipped a loop of it over Wallace’s neck while the stricken officer was still unconscious.
Wallace came to with a start, immediately aware of the throbbing pain in his arm. Confused to find himself on the ground, he tried to sit up, but was suddenly overcome by a wave of nausea. When Jordan asked him how he felt, he couldn’t answer, sinking back down to lie flat again. Jordan had no choice but to wait until his patient was recovered enough to ride.
By the time Wallace was stable enough to continue on to the fort, it was already getting dark. “Hell, we might as well wait till mornin’ now,” Jordan said when Wallace was on his feet again, still reeling while he adjusted his makeshift rope sling. The lieutenant was obviously embarrassed over the fainting incident, but he knew that any attempt to make excuses for it would only make matters worse. Still, he was certain Jordan perceived it as a sign of weakness, and the thought galled him to no end. Jordan, for his part, gave no thought to the matter. “I’m gonna find us somethin’ to eat besides muskrat,” he announced, for now he was feeling hunger pangs, having eaten very little of the rodent.
Once again, he left the lieutenant and strode off down the river, searching for suitable game. As before, he had no luck in his hunt for a deer or antelope, but he was fortunate to catch a raccoon scurrying back from the water’s edge. One shot from his rifle, and the raccoon was supper. The critter was not what he had hoped for, but it was a definite improvement from the previous meal.
Morning found both men anxious to get under way. They weren’t fond of each other’s company, so awkward silences between them lasted for long periods, broken only by words of necessity. Sweet Pea plodded along without protest, although Jordan figured she was getting damn tired of carrying double. Wallace was forced to revise his evaluation of the homely beast and even admit a begrudging admiration for her, but only to himself. After another night’s rest, and the nourishment of raccoon meat, Wallace was a great deal better, although there was still a good bit of discomfort with the injured arm. Some of the swelling was already beginning to show signs of going down, and most of the cuts and lacerations administered by the Sioux were scabbing over. It appeared that Jordan had been right in insisting the arm should be set right away, and this, too, irritated Wallace. So they rode, rocking gently in motion with the mare’s steady gait, each man deep in his own thoughts.
It was the middle of the afternoon when Jordan spotted the cavalry column riding in their direction. He estimated the distance to Fort Laramie to be about twenty miles at that point and figured the patrol had most likely started out from the fort that morning. “I expect they’re lookin’ for you,” he commented.
As the column drew closer, Jordan recognized Iron Pony and Otter out front. When they spotted him, they raced forward to meet him. Behind them, the column broke into a canter to catch up. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it,” Iron Pony called out, grinning broadly as he reined up beside them. “I thought maybe your scalp was tied to a Sioux lance by now.”
“Why, hell,” Jordan replied, reflecting the grin, “you did such a good job running off those ponies we just strolled out of that camp pretty as you please.”
Within minutes, they were joined by the thirty-man detail, led by Lieutenant Martin Scales, a stranger to Jordan. “Thank God you’re safe, Thomas,” Scales called out. “We had almost written you off as dead.” He yelled back over his shoulder, “Bring that extra horse forward.” Then he dismounted to help Wallace off Jordan’s horse. With Wallace safely on the ground, he glanced briefly at Jordan and said, “Good job, Gray.”
Jordan simply nodded in reply. He watched as Scales, with the help of an enlisted man, led Wallace to the waiting cavalry mount. He then turned to find Iron Pony grinning at him. “He didn’t waste no time thanking you for risking your life, did he?” Iron Pony said, laughing.
Jordan smiled. “At least he didn’t insult my horse,” he replied.