Sioux Slave Read Free Page B

down!” Rand shouted again, then swore softly under his breath at that fool young colonel leading his patrol into this. Dimon was not yet twenty-five, and he lacked common sense. Rand was not much older himself; he wondered now if he would live to be a day older than that. “Don’t give them a target! Keep calm, men! Make every shot count!”
    He hit the ground, crawling through the damp dirt with his rifle to a vantage point behind a dead log. The trooper who had ridden next to him crawled up close. “What do we do, Rand?”
    He started to answer even as the man screamed out. The soldier looked at him with wide eyes, tobacco juice dripping from his mouth and blood pumping with each beat of his heart through the ragged hole in his blue uniform and into the new green grass of spring. Rand reached to help him, saw it was no use. The redneck rebel who had tried vainly to save his life by joining up with the Yankees had lost his gamble.
    Around Rand men reloaded and fired, the scent of blood and burnt powder so thick it gagged and choked him. The little patrol was outnumbered; Rand had been in battle enough to realize that. He aimed, pulled the trigger and missed. The corporal nearby brought down an older, war-painted brave wearing an eagle-feather warbonnet from his pinto pony. That Sioux looked big as a bear, Rand thought. Would he be next to spill his life blood upon the ground?
    Gunshots and shouts roared in his ears. The smell of acrid powder and warm blood hung on the late afternoon air. All around him men screamed as they fell. Rand flexed his shoulders and swore silently. Had he come all this way from Kentucky only to die in a faraway wilderness against red men who were only trying to defend their land against white invaders?
    All that mattered now was staying alive. Rand reloaded his rifle. A cavalry horse screamed and half reared as it was hit, and then went down. Somewhere over the noise and screams and shots, Rand heard the bugler blow retreat. He rose from the ground, looking for his horse.
    A pain like a red-hot saber burned through his thigh. He was hit! Rand fell, cursing, grabbing at his leg, shouting at the patrol not to leave him. In the smoke it was hard to see anything. Over the noise and shouts, the soldiers seemed intent only on saving their own lives, scrambling for the few horses that hadn’t bolted away or been killed.
    Rand shouted for help again, but already he saw the soldiers were mounting up in panicked disorder, the Sioux warriors shrieking triumphantly as they crossed through the willows in pursuit.
    The old timers always said it was better to kill yourself than be taken alive by the Indians to be tortured to death. He was out of ammunition and fast losing consciousness from pain and loss of blood. With sheer willpower, Rand struggled to hobble toward the retreating soldiers. He gripped his thigh, trying vainly to staunch the hot blood running between his fingers. Ironic somehow, he thought weakly. He’d been at Fort Rice since last autumn and had never killed or wounded a single Indian, yet he would die here, a victim of their revenge against white Yankees. He would have been better to have stayed in the Yankee prison with the other captured Confederates.
    The soldiers had mounted up, were galloping away as Rand tried to hobble after them, but the remaining horses had bolted. Out of ammunition, all he could do was hide. Rand burrowed down behind some low bushes, listening to the warriors moving through the brush.
    He took off his gun belt and used it to make an awkward tourniquet. It would be dark in a couple of hours. Maybe if he lay very still the braves wouldn’t find him. At night, he might have a chance, although it was a long way back to the fort. He wouldn’t think about that. He’d think about staying alive.
    In the past long winter, out of sheer boredom, he’d learned a little of the Lakota language from an old drunken Sioux who hung around