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“Dam’t well look ready to fight, they do—this bunch not looking for us, Mr. Sweete.”

“You’re right on that count, Lieutenant. This bunch does look all dressed up for a scrap, don’t they?”

With each side-to-side sweep of the double arc, the near-naked horsemen drew a few yards closer, and closer, then closer still. Yet, for all the lead fired and as hot as things were growing, two, and two only, of the Cheyenne lay motionless on the slope of the grassy hillside. Again and again the horsemen probed the Pawnee squads, jabbing here and there, feinting a full frontal charge of it before pulling back. Yet, as daring as the Cheyenne were becoming, there was little the frustrated Pawnee could do but watch the enemy horsemen ride in close, then drop to the far side of their ponies as they swept magnificently along the Pawnee flanks.

If Dog Soldiers were good at anything, they were good at taunting their enemy before they came in for the kill. And in this case, the Cheyenne were old, old enemies of the Pawnee.

“Mr. Sweete!” Becher hollered, his voice near cracking in volume as he hurled his shrill call over the tumult of gunfire, death songs from the horsemen sweeping past, and deafening war cries from the Pawnee trackers themselves.

Shad crabbed over and did his best to shrink his big frame down in the dry, stunted grass. “Lot of noise to it. And damn if they don’t put on a pretty show—their parade too.” He watched the look of incredulous confusion cross the soldier’s face.

“I vas getting ready to ask you v’at you t’ought the odds vere that ve vould be overv’helm’t,” Becher said sourly.

“They ain’t working up much steam, Lieutenant,” Shad said, tearing the grin off his face when he found the soldier in no mood to make light of their situation.

“Vat the hell that mean?”

“Means them horsemen likely break off soon.”

Becher eyed him severely. “You expect me to believe that? After they already lost two of their number? Vat makes you so sure they von’t do everyt’ing to run right over us?”

Shad chewed his tongue a moment to keep from snapping at the German. “Lookee here, Lieutenant. I wasn’t told to come along to help you with the Pawnee—you got things well in hand there. I thought I come along to help tell you about the enemy. If you don’t want my—”

“Just speak your piece, Mr. Sweete.”

He drew himself up a bit, then gazed back at Becher. “To them Dog Soldiers—these odds ain’t near good enough in their favor. Besides, Lieutenant—them warriors really are just as surprised as we are. Shit, I figure they already found out they can’t run us over, like you figure they’ll do to us. So my bet is them Cheyenne gonna pull on back, ride off to fight another day.”

Becher’s eyes quickly swept over his three squads, as if to assess some of the growing commotion among the trackers. “I just pray to Gott you’re right, Mr. Sweete. From vat I see—ve’re in trouble already as it stan’ts. These men don’t ha’f enough ammunition vit’ us to make a stan’ting fight of it.”

Shad only nodded and fell silent, thinking a prayer might not be so bad a thing, after all. Yanking up the flap to his sizable leather possibles pouch he had hanging over his shoulder, he was reassured to find the three extra Blakeslee loading tubes for his Spencer rifle inside. Through his many years trapping the high streams of the Rocky Mountain west, Sweete had carried greased patches and huge molded balls of Galena lead along with vent picks and flints and repair tools for the three flintlock rifles he had packed up one side of the Shining Mountains and down the other across two decades of chasing castoreum. But no more were there the two powder horns hung from that pouch’s wide strap.

None of that heavy truck did he carry these days, abandoning the bulky trappings of that bygone era—powder, ball, and patch. Still, he never quite shook the feeling of being naked without the pouch—its continued comfort beneath his right arm served to remind him of just how far man had advanced during the bloodletting of the Civil War in learning how better to kill his fellow man.

No more was it a matter of taking one shot—reloading—and shooting again, all within the space of a minute. Now a good marksman could efficiently empty a handful of saddles at a respectable range in the same time another man reloaded a muzzle loader for his second shot. Yet as Shad brought back the hammer on the Spencer and started to nestle the rifle into the crease of his shoulder, the old trapper stopped, squinted, then shielded the high light from his eyes with a hand.

He was studying the heaving, galloping ponies a little closer, the clay paint dabbed and smeared across their necks and flanks: crude hieroglyphics and potent symbols. Shad strained his old eyes across that shimmering distance to make out the face paint and hair fobs of the onrushing horsemen. For a moment he thought … then could not be sure with the glimmering cascade of sand and hoof.