The Dying Time (Book 2): After The Dying Time Read Free Page B

wave of riders and vehicles charging across the flats toward the Cheyenne village.
    “Run!” he screamed to those he passed. “Head for the gap!” He pointed to a dark gash in the mountains rising behind them. Little ones, old people and women with children hurriedly obeyed. The bullwhip that hung from his belt slapped against the outer thigh of his right leg and his crossbow thumped rhythmically into his back as he ran. He cocked his Beretta and stuck one hand into his ammo pouch, counting the pre-loaded clips by feel.
    A familiar shape appeared by his side as he dashed toward the heaviest fighting: Mitchell Stonehand leading two horses.
    “Here!” Mitchell shouted, tossing a pair of reins to Daniel.
    Daniel vaulted to the back of the horse and yelled, “Get the rest of the herd!”
    Mitchell shook his head. “Ray and Susan are going for them.”
    Daniel didn’t have to ask his friend to round up the warriors. They would already be heading for the fighting. He didn’t know what his people were up against yet, but whatever it was, he and the others had to hold long enough for the old ones and children to escape. Otherwise this could turn into another Sand Creek Massacre.
    Two warriors ran by, heading for the rear, carrying a wounded man. Flashes lit up the sky, silhouetting four enemy vehicles as they approached: armored cars with mortars mounted on them. Explosions rocked the village.
    Men in uniforms had overrun the sentries. Daniel was close enough now to see that the first wave of Cheyenne defenders had been overwhelmed. One glance told him there were too many enemy soldiers to hold. The most he could hope for was to slow them down.
    Bullets filled the air. He ducked instinctively as one buzzed past his head.
    Daniel spurred between two tipis, where a blonde-headed man in a brown uniform stood over the body of a Cheyenne woman, frantically trying to reload. With fire in his veins Daniel pulled the trigger. The gut-shot man fell to the ground writhing and pleading, but Daniel’s icy gray eyes were already seeking other targets. Two more brown uniforms darted around the tipi. Mitchell Stonehand rode one down as his tomahawk split the other’s head.
    An old man staggered from the tipi, holding a frightened teenaged girl and an infant. Daniel slid his horse to a stop and leaped to the ground, handing the reins to the elder. Mitchell stopped beside him.
    “Mount quickly, Grandfather. Get everyone headed for the gap.”
    Cheyenne warriors were falling back. Bodies littered the ground. The armored cars were almost on top of them.
    “Mitch! Pass the word! We fight at the gap!” Stonehand nodded and reined his horse away.
    Fires lit the night--tipis burning, explosions blasting. Dust filled the air. All was confusion and chaos, moving bodies and horses, screaming men and women.
    An enemy horseman charged at Daniel, firing. Daniel shot the man off his horse and grabbed at the reins, missing as the horse bolted by. He snatched three grenades from the dead man’s vest, slipping two into his ammo pouch, then reached for the man’s M16 and bandolier.
    An armored vehicle swung past and stopped. Its tailgate opened and men poured out. Daniel sailed a grenade into the opening, cutting the survivors down with the M16.
    Keeping to the shadows, Daniel ran back through the camp, killing enemy soldiers as he went. They were everywhere. At least half the village had been overrun. Rounding his home lodge he crashed into two of them, falling in a tangle of arms and legs. Daniel lost his grip on the rifle, but rolled to his feet with the Beretta in his left hand and the bullwhip in his right.
    His opponents, a Private and a Corporal, were recovering, weapons swinging his way. The Beretta spoke and the Private dropped. The whip slashed the face of the other man, spoiling his aim. The Beretta spoke again and the Corporal’s rifle splintered from his hands.
    The enemy soldier launched himself at Daniel, slamming into him, jarring the