Grey Horse’s eyes followed them until the last soldier disappeared into the distance. “They will not leave,” he said at last. “They wait to see what we will do.”
?
For three days, the soldiers remained on the far ridge. They lit small fires at night, their tents pale dots in the darkness. Scouts watched them from the trees. Ezra went once under truce tospeak with Barlow and returned uneasy. “He’s writing a report,” he told Grey Horse. “He says he can’t withdraw without orders, but he doesn’t want another fight. He’s not sure which way his duty lies.”
Grey Horse nodded. “Then he is like all men who forget to listen to the ground.”
The days were uneasy. The Kiowa kept to the shadows of the trees, ready to move at any sign. Violet spent long hours near the river, helping Pale Moon gather herbs, listening to Red Willow’s chants carried on the breeze. She felt herself on a precarious crest between two worlds, one watching the other with suspicion, both poised to break. Even the sky seemed to sense it; the air stayed heavy, thunder hidden somewhere beyond the horizon.
One evening, as the sun sank red behind the cottonwoods, Grey Horse joined her. “They are restless,” he said quietly. “Barlow’s men. Some want to strike. Others to leave. The ones who fear losing face may force the others’ hand.”
“What will you do?” she asked.
“Nothing yet,” he said. “A river breaks its banks only once. Best to choose the place.”
Violet studied him: the calm mask, the muscle jumping in his jaw, the hand resting on his bow. She knew him now well enough to see the storm gathering behind his stillness. “You don’t want another fight,” she said softly.
“No. But I will not let them take what they do not own.”
?
The shot came at dawn.
A single crack, echoing off the ridge. Then shouting. One of the Kiowa scouts came galloping in, his pony lathered, his face wild.“They fired first!” he cried in his own tongue. “They’re crossing the river!”
Grey Horse was already moving. Men ran for their horses, women gathering children and bundles. Violet followed, her heart hammering. Ezra cursed and loaded his rifle.
When the soldiers came into view, they were a confusion of motion, horses floundering through water, blue coats flashing, gun barrels glinting. Barlow rode through the mass of them to the front, shouting orders that were half lost in the roar of hooves and water. A volley of shots cracked through the air, and the camp erupted.
Smoke, shouting, the sting of powder in her nose, it all came rushing back to Violet, a ghost of that first attack. But she did not freeze. She seized a child’s arm, dragging him behind a tipi wall, then turned to see Grey Horse riding straight into the fight, his war cry rising raw and fierce above the thunder of guns.
Ezra fired from cover, knocking a soldier from his mount. “Barlow!” he shouted. “Call them off!”
But the captain’s voice was lost in chaos. Bullets hissed through the air, slicing grass, tearing hide. Violet crouched low, heart in her throat. She saw Pale Moon helping an elder woman to safety, saw Red Willow standing tall with her medicine pouch raised, calling to the spirits of wind and rain.
Then … Silence. The gunfire ceased, replaced by the ragged breathing of horses and men.
Through the drifting smoke, Violet saw Barlow motioning frantically to his troops. “Hold!” he yelled. “Hold your fire!”
The soldiers hesitated, confused, their formation broken. Grey Horse reined in, chest heaving, blood streaking his lower arm where a bullet had grazed him. He rode forward slowly, unarmed now, his bow hanging useless at his side.
Barlow dismounted, stumbling toward him. “God Almighty, I didn’t order this!” he shouted. “A fool’s trigger, that’s all it was!”
Grey Horse’s face was carved in stone. “Your men fired,” he said quietly. “My people answered. The ground remembers both.”
Barlow dropped his gaze, chest heaving. “It was a mistake,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll see it made right.”
Grey Horse studied him a long time. “A mistake made possible while you kept your men here watching us.”
“I can see now that that was my mistake. I want to make up for it.”
“Then take your men back to the fort,” Grey Horse said. “Tell them you found only graves and innocent men.”
Barlow hesitated, then nodded. “I will.” His voice cracked on the words. “God help me, I will.”
?
By nightfall the soldiers were gone, leaving only churned mud and the acrid smell of spent powder. A few men had been wounded, both Kiowa and white, but none had died. It was, Violet thought, a mercy so rare it felt divine.
