The Coming Storm Read Online Free Page B

overcome him and cause him to do something he’d regret.
    There were over two hundred dead. Two hundred innocent souls whose only crime was the fact they were Blackfoot. The sight of all those dead and dying was difficult to comprehend. Zane tried to put it into perspective, but he couldn’t. How could there possibly be a perspective that could offer reason and justification for this massacre?
    Zane looked around the camp, wondering if he’d find Koko’s brother. He knew the man sometimes lived among Heavy Runner’s people, but there was no sign of Takes Many Horses. Something akin to relief washed over him. At least he wouldn’t have to tell Aunt Koko that he’d been party to the killing of her brother.
    Of course, Zane was the only one who knew the truth of the matter when it came to the killing that day—at least concerning his own involvement. He’d not killed anyone. He’d refused to, but it was small comfort. He’d still managed to be a part of it. He still had blood on his hands.
    Two hours later Major Baker led all but Company F downstream to where scouts assured him they would find the hostile village of Mountain Chief. He wanted nothing to do with the remaining people and their sickness. Lieutenant Doane and his men were left to finish destroying the village, burning to the ground anything that might prove useful to the remaining Pikuni.
    They burned the bodies of the dead as well, something that didn’t settle well with the living tribal members. They wanted to prepare their own dead—to hold their ceremonies, even in this bitter cold. The women howled and cried out in their misery, while the few old men who remained stared at soldiers with looks that still registered disbelief.
    Many of the soldiers began looting, stripping the dead of anything valuable. Zane ordered his men to cease and desist, and while some did, he caught others continuing.
    “Sergeant, take your men and go round up the Indian ponies,” Doane said as he caught up with Zane.
    “Yes, sir.” His lack of enthusiasm was well noted.
    “Sergeant, wait.” Doane pulled Zane aside. “I’m no happier than you are about this. It wasn’t my desire that these Indians be butchered. This is by far and away the greatest slaughter of Indians ever made by U.S. troops, but it’s over now.”
    “Is it?”
    The man eyed Zane momentarily, then dropped his hold. “Round up those ponies.”
    For a moment Zane had actually thought Doane might break away from his role as commander and bare his soul. But instead, the man quickly recovered from his moment of weakness and moved away, shouting commands to some of the others.
    “It isn’t over,” Zane murmured, glancing from the huddled, crying survivors to the funeral fires of the dead. “It’s just begun.”

    That night, after trying without luck to fall asleep, Zane wrestled with his choices. He could stay and try against the odds to make a difference, or he could leave. Desertion seemed far more honorable than continuing with a man like Major Baker. After all, Baker had turned the remaining Pikuni people loose without food or proper clothing. Certainly, without shelter in forty-below temperatures, they would all be dead by morning. The man’s cruelty was more than Zane could comprehend, and it didn’t matter that some suggested Baker’s thinking had been clouded by liquor. If anything, that only made it worse. If Baker had to drink to forget who he was and what he’d done, then maybe he should reevaluate his choices.
    And that’s exactly what Zane was doing for himself. Reevaluating. He could still smell death everywhere, and it made him half crazy to leave. Pulling on his boots, Zane ignored the reality of the moment. Yes, he would probably be caught and courtmartialed for what he was about to do, but it didn’t matter.
    “Something wrong?” one of the men in the tent muttered, rising up on his elbow.
    Zane felt his heart skip a beat. He steadied his voice and tried to sound