“Ah, it is like the fire.” Otio stood on a slight rise of ground with Moro. The man and the dog were looking at the sun rising at the edge of the far horizon. The earth was silent now. Even the birds had stopped singing, as though in acknowledgement of the moment.
“Truly the sun is on fire,” Ciriaco said, coming up. “It is not red, but scarlet.”
The silence deepened as the shimmering disc rose swiftly above the horizon and entered the great sky, while before it a golden path of light stretched across the prairie. At that very moment, all the birds began to sing.
Otio turned his head away. The light was so dazzling that it blinded his eyes, and he could barely make out the nearest sheep.
It was just at this moment that Quick Thunder and his warriors struck the camp. They came sweeping out of a hidden draw in a racing avalanche of horseflesh, brown skin, and feathers. The warriors were leaning low on their ponies, shooting their rifles from under the animals’ necks, with some firing arrows.
Otio dropped to the ground and began firing his Spencer. Behind him, Ciriaco and the others were shooting at will. But the surprise had been deadly. There was no time to count the damage, but sheep had been hit, and a cry of rage told everyone that one of their number was a casualty.
The Indians broke their charge and a second wave of horsemen pounded in, while the first group swung out and disappeared into the hidden draw. It was as though they had vanished from the prairie.
The second wave were crisscrossing in front of the herders, making difficult targets. It was Xerxes who had received a bullet in the arm, and now Michel was hit along the side of his thigh.
Otio, on his belly, was pumping shots at the wave of