Free Black Horse by Veronica Blake

shirt waved like a flag from his sleeve as he signaled for his men to follow him into the Indian encampment.
    Brandon’s horse fell in line as they began their march into the village to meet with Sitting Bull and other important leaders of the Sioux tribes. The nausea in his stomach expanded. Now he felt a hard knot forming in his chest, too. What was it he had heard that the Indians always said before going into a battle? “It’s a good day to die,” he whispered as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. The sun continued to beat down on his fevered face, yet he shivered. It did not seem like such a good day to die, Brandon thought as he clenched his horse’s reins tighter in his sweaty hands.
    As the troop neared the village, the sound of drums could be heard echoing through the dense forest. Expecting to be surrounded by warriors who had murder ruling their thoughts, Brandon was surprised when they continued to approach the village without being stopped or killed. The pounding of the drums seemed to rival the pounding of his heartbeat, but Brandon wasn’t sure which one was louder. The horrid stories of the recent battle at the Little Bighorn on the American side of the border kept flashing through his mind. General Custer and his troops had not fared well against Sitting Bull and his warriors. What madethis little troop of Mounties think they would do any better?
    The thick, towering pines began to grow sparse, and the noises coming from the village grew closer. Columns of smoke could be seen rising up through the treetops. Brandon was beginning to think they were going to be able to ride right into the center of the camp, when a loud shout halted their progress. Within seconds, Indians surrounded the Mounties. The sea of dark faces blurred before Brandon’s eyes. He blinked nervously and tried to focus on the Indian standing nearest to him. Blinding panic gripped Brandon when his gaze met with the piercing dark eyes of the Indian who had suddenly appeared at his horse’s side.
    As his vision cleared, Brandon realized he was now staring down the barrel of a .44 Winchester. He had never seen an Indian carrying a gun until now, and the sight of the Sioux warrior holding one was unnerving. He remembered hearing that most American Indians were usually well armed with guns they had either stolen from soldiers or obtained from unscrupulous traders.
    From the corner of his eye Brandon noticed his comrades were all being ordered to dismount. Using the gun he held, the Indian beside Brandon motioned for him to do the same. With slow, cautious movements, he dropped to the ground. His gaze remained on the gun, but his thoughts were going in a dozen directions at once. Mostly, he was thinking about how the Indians tortured their captives. When the Indian shoved his gun in his side, Brandon prayed he would just shoot him now.
    All activity ceased when the Mounties were led into the center of the camp. Superintendent Walsh made several attempts to speak to the Indians but was ignored. Now, they were surrounded by a large group of women, children and barking dogs. Walsh fell silent as he watched the crowd grow in number, although the Indians made no attempt to harass the soldiers. The Sioux spoke to one another in whispers that were not audible to the soldiers. Shortly, the group of Indians began to part, making a path for several others.
    Brandon watched the men approach in fascination and fear. It was obvious by their elaborate costumes and headdresses they were important men in this tribe, but it was their dignified manner that impressed him the most. There was no doubt the man who walked in front was Sitting Bull. Brandon had heard that the powerful medicine man and chief walked with a limp as a result of a bullet wound from a Crow’s gun during a horse raid when Sitting Bull was just a young man. When the feared leader stopped before the Mounties, Walsh stepped forward.
    Sitting Bull nodded a curt greeting to Walsh, which