Savage Tempest

“We have no choice but to stop them,” High Hawk said tightly. “And now, not later.”

“Are we close enough to fire down on them?” Joylynn asked.

She felt nothing in common with the men below, even though they were people of her own skin color. But that was the only thing they shared. Inside, they were completely different. The hearts of these men were filled with darkness; they took joy from killing innocent Indians—men, women and children alike.

In her heart was kindness toward all people except those who lived to murder and maim anyone who got in their way.

She knew that this time she could not freeze when it came time to shoot. Each shot was important.

This time, they could not allow anyone down below to survive.

High Hawk could not risk any more soldiers getting close to his mountain, not until his people were safely hidden away in their new stronghold.

“This is where we must make our stand,” High Hawk said, drawing rein and stopping his horse. Everyone halted behind him.

In silence they dismounted and picketed their horses.

In silence they drew their weapons from their gunboots.

No arrows would be used this time.

Only guns.

Joylynn grabbed her own breech-loading rifle from her gunboot. She opened the rifle breech and placed cartridges in it, cocked the firearm, then eased the hammer into place.

She followed alongside High Hawk to the place where they could get the best aim and a clean shot.

They all stretched out on their bellies on the hard rock. They took aim.

Joylynn felt strange as she began firing at her own kind, but this time she did not freeze as she had the other time. She kept reminding herself that these soldiers were collaborating with outlaws.

She was fighting not only for her own survival, but for all of High Hawk’s people. They were innocent of any wrongdoing, yet they were being hunted down like mad dogs.

She loved these Pawnee people.

She would do everything she could to defend them.

Her pulse racing, she took a more steady aim this time. She saw Mole firing steadily at her and the others. Thus far none of the Pawnee warriors had been hit, but many soldiers down below were dropping from the gunfire.

“You can’t have nine lives,” Joylynn whispered to herself as she held her aim steady on Mole.

She fired.

She saw his body lurch.

She had hit him.

She smiled victoriously when he fell from his horse. She saw him hit the ground, and watched carefully for any movement.

Seeing none, she was certain this time that he was dead!

She continued firing until no one was left alive down below.

Joylynn lowered her rifle and stood up.

As she continued to stare at the bodies lying so quietly on the ground, she was once again swept by a feeling of disbelief at her role in this attack, but then she recalled how so many soldiers said, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

Those soldiers had not known the sort of people the Pawnee were. They were devoted to their families, loved their children, were doing what they had to do to survive.