Cry of the Hawk

July 26, 1865

On the far hills, hundreds of warriors were leaping atop their ponies, kicking them furiously downhill toward the river. They had spotted the tops of the wagons not long after the fort had seen the incoming train, inching along the road on the Indians’ side of the North Platte.

“How many’s with Sergeant Custard?” Shad Sweete inquired.

“I remember him having ten soldiers and fourteen teamsters,” Hook answered.

“Say!” shouted a picket above them. “The Injuns just cut off five of our boys from the rest of the wagon.”

“How many warriors following those five?” Shad slung his voice up the wall.

“More’n a hundred, mister.”

Hook felt helpless, knowing some of those men out there by face, if not by name. Knowing they had families back home, waiting for a husband or father or brother to come marching home. “Ain’t nothing we can do to help ’em?”

“Ain’t a damned thing now, Jonah,” Shad whispered. “Not a damned thing.”