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come join him,” the Horse continued. “Told them to come north because there would be good fighting, plenty of coups to be earned and guns to be taken from the soldiers we would defeat in battle. Plenty of big American horses. Come north, he told everyone. Come north for one last, big fight!”
    The lodge had rocked with cheering and celebration as they remembered the words of the great Hunkpapa medicine man who had issued his call for the many bands to gather about him for the coming season of fighting and warfare and blood.
    Then Crazy Horse had hushed them, and when the lodge had quieted once more, he continued.
    “I for one am glad that Three Stars did not wait until the Season of Fat Horses to make war on any of us. I am glad that he struck early. Glad I am, for now we have the chance to see who is for giving in to the white man, and who is for fighting the soldiers. No more can any of you walk a thin line—you must plant your feet on one side or the other. The decision seems as clear to me as the waters rushing down from the mountain snowfields come spring runoff. There are but two paths to choose. Each of you must select the path your feet will take.”
    “What path does Crazy Horse walk now?” He Dog had asked, his eyes misting with respect and courage as they gazed upon his Hunkpatila war chief.
    “The path I have always taken,” he had responded in that hushed assembly. “Since the white man wants war … we will give him a fight he will never forget.”
    * Fetterman Massacre, THE PLAINSMEN Series, vol. 1,
Sioux Dawn
    † Wagonbox Fight, THE PLAINSMEN Series, vol. 2,
Red Cloud’s Revenge

Mid-May 1876
    “I ’ll be wanting you to wash your pecker off with
something, dearie.”
    For a fleeting moment John Finerty studied the faded rose blushing the cheeks of the painted whore standing in what was left of the dim, late-afternoon light sneaking through a smoky windowpane into the narrow crib where the older woman plied her trade of earthly pleasures here on the high plains. He gazed longingly at those big, fleshy breasts spilling like pale, rounded melons from the top of her faded bustiere, their flattened nipples a deep, purplish hue in the growing shadows.
    “That what you expect of me, is it now? To wash myself off before you’ll jump in this bed to go a dance with me?” He looked down at the swelling flesh he held absently in his hand.
    She stepped over to him with a scrap of rag she had wrung out in the cracked china bowl splattered with faded tulips that sat sublimely upon a pine box where the woman stored her working clothes: bloomers and camisoles, stockings and an extra garter hung on a crooked nail.
    “You’ll want me to wash you off, you will,” she told him huskily. “Once I get started, you’ll wonder why noother whore ever washed your sweet pecker before they humped you.”
    Pushing Finerty’s hand aside, she took a firm hold of his penis, giggling when it jumped and swelled beneath her deft touch. Then she began to stroke it as gently as she could with the scrap of coarse cloth. Cool as the damp rag was, Finerty sensed heat rising in his cock, feeling it seep into his groin, creeping into his inner core—he groaned and lay back atop the musty comforter, his legs dangling off the side of her narrow rope-and-tick bed.
    “You do much more of that, my love,” he told the chippie, “I won’t last long enough to get it inside you.”
    Obediently she stopped her washing, bent over him, and kissed the swollen head of his penis. “No worry now, dearie. I know tricks that can make a man last a long night through if I’ve a mind to. Don’t you go fretting none—sweet Ellie here is going to make sure when you fire your cannon off that you’re firing it where it will do us both some good.”
    And with that she straightened and flung the rag back toward the china bowl, where it splashed the murky water onto the pine box and some of her underthings, dislodging the garter hung on the