Heads Off awoke at the first cry of alarm from one of the sentries. He sprang from the sleeping robes and grabbed his lance as he dashed outside, ready to defend the lodges.
But there was no attack. A flicker of light from the direction of the brush barrier made him turn that way. There was a warm spring breeze from the southwest, and as it struck his face, it carried also the unmistakable smell of fire. He trotted upwind, zigzagging among the lodges, and came into the open of the meadow just as someone gave a long shout.
“Aiee! They are burning the brush!”
Flames were licking hungrily through the tinder-dry barricade in at least three places. No enemy were to be seen. They had planned well. Under cover of darkness they had chosen the proper moment to creep to the barrier and ignite it. Fanned by the brisk breezes, the fire was already burning well out of control. Several people were silhouetted against the glare.
“Stay back! Let it burn!”
There was no hope of extinguishing the flames anyway, and to approach the light of the fire was to invite an unseen arrow from the darkness.
The People gathered in groups to watch the destruction, staying well back to avoid a chance bowshot. A few warriors, at the suggestion of Heads Off, trotted to the woods in case of an attack from that direction. Coyote thought that event highly unlikely. The Head Splitters were known to avoid combat at night. According
to their beliefs, it was said, the spirit of a warrior dying in the night was doomed to wander forever, lost in the darkness.
Whatever the reason, no major attack by the enemy had ever occurred during night time. They might strike at a lone sentry, or steal elk-dogs, but not engage in battle.
So it was with some sense of temporary security that the People watched their major defense burn. Heads Off, however, was thinking rapidly ahead. This event would require a complete reevaluation of their defensive position. Obviously, the enemy would now have easier access to a charge by horsemen.
By first light, the chief was on the hillside with a few warriors, to assess the new situation. He doubted that the attack would be immediate. The enemy, too, would need to evaluate the changed condition.
As he had feared, the destruction had been complete. The wind had died, but where the defensive barrier had been was now only a strip of smoldering gray ash. An occasional wisp of smoke still rose from an incompletely burned log. Even the remaining sharp stakes had been burned off at the ground. There was nothing at all now to stop or even slow a charge by the milling horde of horsemen beyond.
“Can we rebuild it?” Standing Bird spoke.
Heads Off shook his head.
“No, there is not time. They will come as soon as the embers are cool enough to ride over.”
In addition, the supply of available brush was becoming scarce. Much had been used for fuel during the winter, and more for the barricades in the woods.
As if to add to their worries, a soft rain began to fall, obscuring their view of the enemy camp beyond. The men started back toward the lodges. No one spoke, but the thought was present. The light spring rain would cool the embers more rapidly
and facilitate an enemy attack. Already a curtain of steam was rising from the hot ashes, giving the illusion of an ethereal defensive barrier, the ghost of that now destroyed.
The downpour was becoming heavier, and they scattered to their respective lodges.
Heads Off had seen all he needed. The main attack would now come, he believed, sweeping in from the prairie through the meadow, now unobstructed, for a massive crushing charge. There might be a diversionary attack through the woods, but it would be the force of the enemy horsemen that would need to be reckoned with.
He struggled to devise a solution to the defensive problem. Some of the positions in the woods could be filled by those women skilled with weapons, but there would still not be enough warriors. They were still outnumbered by at least four or five to one.
“Uncle,” a small girl, Coyote’s youngest daughter, spoke hesitantly, “could we stop the Head Splitters with ropes where the barrier was?”
For a moment, the idea looked valid. By knotting together all the rawhide lariats in the village, it might be possible to string a line or two across the narrow isthmus.
Then reality returned. The first charging elk-dog might be slowed, perhaps even trip and fall, but that impact would also break the rope. It was simply impractical. He patted the child on the head.
“We might try it, Snowbird,” he smiled. Inwardly, he wondered if this handsome girl would grow up to grace the lodge of some enemy warrior as his slave-wife.
The rain continued through the day, but shortly after dark the stars began to appear. There was all the promise of a bright warm day to come. Almost without thought, the People seemed
to know that tomorrow would come the Battle, the last for the Elk-dog band.
No one had any inclination to sleep. They wandered uneasily about the camp, greeting friends, preparing weapons, making final plans and preparations. In grim anticipation, there were jokes about how many Head Splitters each warrior must account for in the battle.
Their defense plan was pitifully simple. The women and a few of the warriors would station themselves in the woods with those children old enough to use weapons. They would hope to stop whatever attack came on foot from that direction. There were enough who had skill with the bow to handle this assignment, Heads Off felt.
He would personally lead the mounted warriors. On horseback they would form a living barrier across the now undefended meadow. When the charge came, they would attempt to slow the oncoming rush so that the Bowstrings, stationed on each side, could make themselves felt.
“We must strike as many as we can very quickly,” he cautioned. “If their numbers are smaller, we have a chance to fight. Try to kill those who appear to be the leaders first.”
He could convince himself, almost, that it was possible. If they could, very early in the conflict, even the odds somewhat …