Shadow Riders, The Southern Plains Uprising, 1873 Read Online Free Page B

loud notes.
    It was enough of a call on that dry, hot wind to bring about a pause in the raucous attack. Yellow Chief, then Big Tree, clattered to a halt at the chief’s side.
    â€œArrgghh!” cried Yellow Chief in frustration. “They will not shoot at us, White Bear!”
    â€œThe white man will not fire unless he is afraid,” Satanta explained. “You haven’t made him afraid yet. When I was a young man, I rode right into the jaws of my enemy’s might. I stared at his arrow point, the sharp end of his lance, the gaping mouth of my enemy’s rifle. If you want your young warriors to respect you—show them your courage … now. Only then will we be able to end this racing in circles and get down to lifting the white man’s scalps!”
    â€œAiyeee!” shouted Big Tree as he reined away in a tight circle.
    â€œWe will not fail you!” roared Yellow Chief as he hammered heels into his pony’s ribs.
    Big Tree had the lead now, his warriors following him in ever nearer to the wagons. No longer content to shoot from a safe distance, the young Kiowas raced closer and closer to the white men on their bellies in the shadows. Then Yellow Chief saw that he must do even better as he thundered in with his half-a-hundred. He would ride into the jaws of those guns and make the white man’s bowels run cold with fear.
    â€œClose enough that you see the fear in their eyes, Yellow Chief,” said Satanta softly as he witnessed the wild, noisy race.
    Then suddenly the ring of wagons erupted with explosions. The white men were shooting their guns at last.
    He nodded. “It is good! Now you ride close enough to make the white man’s heart turn to water.”
    Thirty guns roared, booming low there beside the Llano in that circle beneath the trees where the gray-white gun smoke clung just above the dirty canvas of the wagons. While some of the white men frantically reloaded their rifles, others continued to aim and shoot their pistols at the charging horsemen.
    In a spray of sand and grit and tufts of summer grass, a warrior spilled from his pony. Tumbling through the dried, yellow stalks—his shoulder and chest already slicked with crimson.
    Then another pony faltered, stumbled and spilled its rider. That animal … and another … then a third never rose from the grassy sand. In agony the riders crawled on their bellies away from the stinging smoke and spitting fire of the white man’s guns.
    Satanta could hear Yellow Chief exhorting his warriors now, goading them into wilder bravery. The attack was taking longer than he had expected—and still the white man remained safe inside his ring of wagons. Satanta had not seen one of the enemy fall, dead or wounded. He blew his bugle once more.
    When the two war leaders halted before him, Satanta said, “We must get inside that ring of wagons. The white man is like a field mouse burrowed under the shadows. The only way is the way of the badger—go in and get him out!”
    With resolve, the two looked at one another. Then without a word, they reined away to their warriors.
    Now the end would come, Satanta felt certain. All they needed to do was ride close enough, shoot many arrows then leap among the wagons. It would be over soon enough—this smashing the war clubs into the faces and driving the tomahawks into the backs of the heads until no white man remained alive.
    It must be done fast, as he had learned many, many winters before. A long battle only meant many Kiowa dead and wounded. In his youth Satanta had learned the fight must be quick and furious to be a victory.
    The white man’s rifles erupted with a deafening roar once again.
    As he watched, Satanta saw Yellow Chief sweep in from behind the ring, daring closer than any of the rest, his small rawhide shield held up to cover him as he waved the stone-headed club at the end of his arm.
    Then the warrior was spinning backward off