He had seen enough campaigns to understand the rhythm of an enemy force. Soldiers moved like a machine, gears turning without pause. And when they came, they would not stop to speak. They would not pause to listen. They would take, burn, and break until nothing of the Kiowa remained here.
The council fire burned low. Around it sat the elders, their faces grave. He spoke plainly, sparing no comfort.
“Soldiers are close,” he said in Kiowa. “Their trail cuts toward us. If we stay, we invite death.”
Whispers rippled through the circle. Some argued that the soldiers might pass by. Others spoke of defending the ground, of blood and honor.
Grey Horse’s voice cut through them. “I have seen their path. I have seen their smoke. They come.”
Silence followed.
At last the eldest, White Bear, his hair long and silver, nodded once. “Then we move.”
So it was decided. At dawn the camp would break. Women and children would ride south, toward thicker cover along the river. The warriors would remain at the edge, watching, ready to strike if the soldiers pressed too close.
Grey Horse stood, his decision made. But inside, something tightened. Not fear for himself, but for Violet.
He would keep his promise.
?
The first pale light of dawn crept across the plains. Violet stood outside the tepee, her few belongings bundled in a strip of cloth, watching the camp transform around her. Women packed tepees, loading ponies with poles and hides. Children clung sleepily to their mothers. Horses snorted, stamping against the morning chill.
She had never seen such swift order, every movement sure, practiced, born of too many flights before.
Grey Horse moved among them, his presence steady, commanding without raising his voice. Warriors checked their ponies, weapons slung over their backs, eyes scanning the horizon.
When he came to her, she felt her breath catch.
“You ride with me,” he said simply.
She nodded, unable to speak.
He lifted her onto the pony, the horse’s coat warm under her hands, then swung up behind her. She clung tightly to the pony’s mane, uncertain. In response, he wrapped his arms around her and whispered, “You’re safe. I’ll never let you fall.”
She felt the strength of his frame, the tension coiled within him like a drawn bow. His arm came lightly around her as he guided the horse into motion.
The camp began to flow southward, a river of hides and ponies and people, moving swift and silent across the grass.
By midmorning, the sun blazed hot, though the air still carried the crisp bite of dawn.
The river shimmered in the distance, its ribbon of water winding through the plains. If they could reach its shelter, they might vanish from the soldiers’ path. But Grey Horse knew the risk. A river was both safety and trap, its cover deep, but its banks a barrier if pressed too hard.
He guided the pony to a rise, Violet steady before him, and scanned the land.
There. Far off, a dark line against the pale grass. Movement. Soldiers.
He felt Violet stiffen as if she too sensed them. He lowered his mouth to her ear. “Do not fear,” he murmured. “We are not caught yet.”
But in his chest, the cold flame of resolve burned. If the soldiers reached them before they crossed, he would fight.
He had made his promise. And he would keep it.
?
The march wore on. Dust choked the air, clinging to her lips, her lashes. The sun hammered down.
At last they descended into the low valley to the spot where the river curved wide and grew shallowest, its banks lined with willow and cottonwood. The relief of shade and water washed over the people like a blessing.
