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

time the warriors made their first serious charge past the defenders clustered at the crest of the hill. For the better part of an hour the Cheyenne kept at it, racing back and forth, sweeping the hillside in a giant arc before they would rein about to sweep in the opposite direction.
    While bullets for the most part sang harmlessly overhead, it was the iron-tipped arrows falling among the defenders that created the greatest danger. A bowman could fire uphill without showing his position with a puff of rifle smoke. And, perhaps even more telling, a warrior using a rifle had to expose himself to his enemy, rising from the grass long enough to fire his bullet in a straight line.
    The Cheyenne archers, on the other hand, had only to fire their arrows into the air, where they would gently arc, falling from the autumn sky onto the hilltop.
    From time to time the whistling shafts fell among the white men, but for the most part did little damage. One scout’s leg was pinned to the ground. Another had his coat sleeve pierced. Even Curry shrieked in panic when a shaft punctured the wide brim of his slouch hat. Yet the greatest number of arrows fell among the frost-dried leaves of the trees where the horses stood hobbled and tied. Each time the shafts came down in waves, clattering like dry beans falling through the limbs and branches, the animals pranced nervously, snorting and pulling at their halters.
    Three warriors lay dead down the slope, close enough to the white men that none of the rest dared rescue the bodies. Back and forth the Cheyenne milled for a few minutes, as if debating among themselves.
    â€œWhat you make of it, Cody?”
    â€œThey’re trying to figure why their medicine went bad, I suppose.”
    â€œOne of them bucks is brave enough to try,” said Ziegler.
    â€œYep, here he comes,” Donegan said.
    A single warrior had removed his war-shirt, handing it to a companion before he kicked heels against his pony’s ribs. He carried only a military carbine as he charged up the hillside, from the muzzle of which dangled a single war-eagle feather.
    â€œYou want him, Irishman?”
    â€œTell you what, Cody—I don’t get him, he’s yours.”
    â€œI like the cut of your cloth, Donegan,” Cody said, smiling as he pushed another cartridge into the Blakeslee loading tube for his Spencer. “Let’s see how good you are.”
    â€œLike running buffalo?”
    â€œYou might say that.”
    Over the front blade of his Henry, Seamus worked at keeping the warrior down the blued barrel, between the notches of his rear sight. Swaying side to side, then dropping off the far side of his pony, the Cheyenne was not about to give the Irishman a good target.
    â€œBleeming bastird,” he muttered, at last moving the front blade to the pony’s head as it strained up-slope. Donegan squeezed the trigger.
    The war-pony pitched forward, spilling its rider into the tall grass, both bodies kicking up thin clouds of dust as they settled.
    â€œYou still want the rider?” Cody shouted as a few of the scouts hurrawed behind Donegan.
    â€œDamn bloody right I do!”
    â€œThen knock ’im down, by God!”
    The hot brass spat from the chamber as he levered another round into the breech, the smell of hot oil and burnt powder like nothing else on the dry, autumn wind with a bite of winter to it.
    Standing to face the knot of white men above him, the warrior brought up his rifle, firing it without fear when Donegan squeezed off his own shot.
    The blast knocked the Cheyenne backward two steps. He stopped, staring down at his chest, which began to seep red.
    Donegan chambered another round and let out his breath, held high again, then squeezed.
    Disbelieving, the warrior stumbled three more steps downhill, clawing at his chest still, then fell backward, still-legged. And moved no more.
    Down the slope arose cries of frustration as the warriors milled about for a moment