Free Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 by Terry C. Johnston Page A

groups riding hell-bent up and down over the gentle swales of the tableland.
    A war-cry broke the cold air below that hilltop, announcing the arrival of more of the war-party as it burst from the trees down along the dry creekbed below.
    â€œAppears we’re not the only ones in trouble!” Donegan shouted, whirling to his mount, tightening the cinch with a frantic yank before he swung into the saddle.
    â€œThere’s more’n twenty of ’em!” Alderdice yelled.
    â€œTwice that now.” Cody reined up, snagging the mule’s lead from the brush where it had been tied.
    â€œBest we join up with the others—and now.”
    â€œLet’s go, Irishman!”
    The four hammered their heels into the army mounts, clattering downhill toward the two other groups racing back across the rolling land with the same intention of rejoining for strength. Behind Donegan’s group more than a dozen warriors topped the hill just abandoned by the four white men and their mule.
    Over his shoulder Seamus watched one of the Cheyenne send half a dozen Dog Soldiers in one direction down the slope, waving the rest on with him in another.
    The war whoops crackled on the air behind them, and in front as well, as the first group of hunters reined in among Cody’s band, spraying dust that lit up like fine gold.
    â€œWhere, goddammit?” one of the scouts shouted.
    â€œJezuz—we gotta find a place to make a stand of it!” cried Beecher Island survivor Thomas Ranahan.
    â€œEveryone shut up and we’ll make it out with all our hide!” Cody growled.
    â€œDown there!” James Curry said, pointing. “In them trees.”
    He and Ranahan were turning their mounts, ready to lead some of the others as the second group of hunters reined in.
    â€œYou boys go down there—ain’t none of you coming out!” Seamus said. “It’ll be your grave.”
    â€œThem trees is enough for me!” shouted Ziegler.
    â€œThose Cheyenne can pick you off from the hillsides, easy as you please,” Cody said. “You care to make a ride of it, we’ve gotta take some high ground. Right, Irishman?”
    Seamus liked the way that cocky smile blossomed on the young scout’s face whenever trouble drew near.
    â€œTime for this cavalry to make a stand—up there.”
    Seamus pointed, then heeled his horse around savagely, yanking on the lead to one of the mules.
    Curry shouted in protest. “You’re heading back through them bastards—”
    â€œBack to the hilltop—all twelve of us!” Donegan ordered, leading the rest into a ragged hand gallop.
    â€œDon’t shoot at the red bastards,” Cody suggested. “Just worry about riding through ’em for now.”
    â€œWe can’t just ride—”
    â€œShuddup, Curry!”
    Cody spurred the rest into a hard gallop as they neared the half-dozen Cheyenne. For a moment the odds were in their favor. Behind them, more than forty painted, feathered warriors came on at a full gallop. Another half-dozen Cheyenne burst ’round the brow of the hill in a splash of color and sound.
    A few of the warriors drew back bows, others brandished rifles overhead, threatening. As arrows sailed in among the white men, Seamus freed his pistol and fired.
    The smell of burnt powder raked his nostrils. He fired a second time. And missed again.
    A third shot sent a warrior tumbling from the back of his pony. The rest broke off as the dozen white men clattered to the top of the hill.
    â€œGet the stock tied off in them trees!” Cody ordered. “Donegan—you, over there.”
    â€œThere’s more’n fifty of ’em, Cody,” Ranahan hollered.
    â€œDon’t matter. They can’t get close enough to do us damage—we don’t let ’em. Now get down and put your carbine to work!”
    The twelve sprawled in the tall grass, fanning out in a crude half circle about the