The others crouched lower in the grass, painted faces grim, eyes fixed on him. He felt their trust as a heavy mantle. They would follow him where he led. Into fire. Into death.
He turned his gaze toward the river. Beyond the bend, the women and children were moving, ponies loaded, faces set. He caught a glimpse of Violet there, her pale dress like a single flame against the shadows. She was looking back, her hand raised as if she could bridge the distance between them.
His jaw set. He had given her his word. He would not let it break.
He lifted his lance. “We ride.”
?
The warriors swept ahead, a storm of hooves and cries. Violet felt the ground shudder beneath her as they surged down the ridge, Grey Horse at their head, his lance raised high. She could not hear his words, but the sound of them carried, fierce and unbroken, like the voice of thunder.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. The women were pulling ahead, urging ponies into the shallows of the river, water splashing high around their legs. Children clung tight, eyes wide, silent in their fear.
But Violet could not look away from the ridge. She saw the soldiers falter as the Kiowa came down on them, the sudden eruption of speed and sound breaking their order. Rifles rose. Shots cracked through the morning air. Smoke coiled up, sharp and acrid, drifting across the plain.
One pony stumbled, a warrior tumbling hard to the ground. Another charged straight into the soldiers’ line, his lance piercing the blue wall before a shot rang out and he fell back.
And then she saw Grey Horse.
He moved through them like the storm itself, his pony weaving between rifles, his lance striking, his rifle firing, the sound of his voice carrying above the chaos. Each time she lost sight of him, terror seized her, until he rose again, unbroken, driving them back.
Still, the soldiers pressed.
The wagon gun fired. The ground shook as the shot exploded against the ridge. Dust rained down, and men and ponies screamed.
The women cried out too, urging their ponies faster, shoving the children into the current. Violet stumbled into the water, her skirt heavy, dragging, the cold biting at her legs. She clung to the pony’s mane, but her eyes stayed fixed on the battle.
?
The cannon’s roar split the air around Grey Horse, deafening him. The blast struck close, throwing dirt and stone into the sky. His pony reared, but he held fast, his teeth clenched against the shock.
Grey Horse watched the soldiers press their advantage, moving to flank the braves. But he had seen this before, had felt the rhythm of battle in his bones. He swung his rifle forward, firing once, twice, each shot tearing through the blue line. The warriors rallied to him, their cries fierce, blood streaking their paint.
Black Wolf cut down a soldier with his hatchet, then wheeled his pony back toward Grey Horse. “Too many!” he shouted.
Grey Horse’s eyes burned. “Hold them. The women must cross.”
Another shot cracked. Pain seared Grey Horse’s shoulder, hot and blinding. He swayed but did not fall. Rage steadied him. He hurled his lance, striking a soldier square in the chest, sending him crumpling to the dust.
The line of soldiers weakened. For a heartbeat, victory seemed near.
But then he saw the wagon gun turning again, its mouth yawning toward the river. Toward Violet.
?
The women were nearly across, ponies scrambling up the far bank, water streaming from their hides. Violet fought against the current, nearly swept from her pony, gripping tight to his mane as he plunged forward through the rushing water until his hooves found purchase on the bank. Once on dry land, she turned to look for Grey Horse, just in time to see the cannon swing toward her and the other women and children.
A scream caught in her throat.
And then—Grey Horse.
She saw him spur his pony hard, charging straight at the wagon. Shots cracked all around him, smoke rising, but he did not slow. He rose in the saddle, his knife flashing in the pale light, and jumped.
The cannon fired wide, the shot bursting harmlessly into the trees. Soldiers shouted, scattering as Grey Horse landed among them, his knife striking, his rifle butt swinging. Chaos tore through their line.
Violet’s breath locked. She could not move, could not breathe, only watch as he fought alone, a whirlwind of motion, driving them back from the gun.
The warriors rallied again, sweeping in at his side, and together they shattered the soldiers’ formation. The blue line broke. Men fled, stumbling into the grass, leaving the dead behind.
