Captain Savage felt the Cheyenne arrow pierce his lower back, just above the hipbone. A surge of blinding pain coursed through his body as he struggled to stay in his saddle. Reaching back, he snapped off the shaft, leaving the arrowhead embedded deep in his flesh. All around him, members of "G" Troop were fighting desperately. With every passing minute, unit strength diminished as valiant troopers fell to the onslaught of enemy arrows and rifle shots. Then, just when the battle seemed lost, the Cheyenne warriors, led by the one-armed chief known as Stone Face, broke off the fight and withdrew to a small ridge a half-mile to the south. There, they gathered their forces for what Captain Savage believed would be one last assault—but that assault never came.

"Capt'n, let me help you down. You've been hurt, sir," offered Private Lewis, who was bleeding from wounds to his upper right arm and forehead.

"Don't worry about me, Private," replied the Captain. "It's too far from my heart to kill me."

"I don't know, sir. It looks pretty bad. Come on now, let me have your horse. You need to get down before you fall off."

"I'll be alright," insisted the Captain as he slid down from his horse. "See if you can find Sergeant O'Malley. I need to speak to him."

"I'm sorry, Capt'n, but O'Malley is dead, sir. I saw him go down myself. Shot in the head. He never made a move after he hit the ground."

"Oh, I see," replied Captain Savage.

Private Lewis helped the wounded officer to the shade of a large rock. There, up against a large outcrop of standing stones, the remaining troopers also gathered.

"Where'd they go?" asked the Captain.

"Well, now, I'm not sure, sir, but it looks like they're up there on that dry ridge yonder. It looks to me like they've had enough for now."

"Don't you bet your life on it, Private. I guess they're just regrouping for the final assault," replied the Captain. "Now listen close. I want you to go now and see if you can find Lieutenant Miller and ask him to report to me as soon as possible. Also, make a quick assessment of who we have left, anyone who can still fight. And one last thing, Private: see if you can find Billy Bluefeather. Tell him that I want to see him—now!"

"Sure will, Capt'n. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Private Lewis scampered off through the rocks while Captain Savage repositioned himself for a better view of the battleground. Everywhere lay dead Indians and troopers. Horses, from both sides, grazed among the dead and dying. Occasionally, a single shot rang out as a trooper finished off a wounded Indian. "My God," thought Captain Savage to himself, "how did this ever happen?"

Within a few minutes, Lieutenant Miller arrived, limping and bleeding from a gaping wound on in his thigh, which he had wrapped with a scarf, now blood-soaked.

"Sir, you're wounded!" he said as he observed the Captain lying on his side. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I'll be alright. What's our condition?"

"It'll do for now, but from what I can tell, sir, we're in bad shape overall. We've lost upwards of fifteen, dead or seriously wounded. I can only account for eight men who can fight—not including the two of us. Sergeant O'Malley was killed early on, as was Sergeant Jacoby and Corporal Lane. There are six wounded—some worse than others, but most can still fight to some extent, if necessary. The men seem to have adequate cover, but no one has any water or food. Ammunition is low, and all of the mounts are scattered."

"Did Collins get away to Fort Hayes?" asked the Captain in a strained voice. The initial shock of his back wound was now starting to wear off, and the pain was making him nauseous.

"No sir, he didn't get a hundred yards."

"What about Bluefeather—have you seen him?"

"No sir, not since the fight began. I suspect he's dead like the others. Last time I saw him, he was pulling a Cheyenne down off his horse. He had that big 'ole knife he carries clenched in his teeth. I was busy myself and didn't get a chance to look back." Lieutenant Miller paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "He's a tough one, though; if he is dead, you can bet he took a lot of 'em with him."

"Yes, Lieutenant, you can be certain of that," replied the Captain.

An exhausted Private Lewis returned to confirm what Lieutenant Miller had already reported. The few men that were left were scattered around the rocks. Although they had adequate cover, their location was indefensible. Any sane person could easily see that the ten or so remaining troopers were in a hopeless situation against such a superior force.

"Captain, why haven't they attacked? What are they waiting for?" asked Private Lewis. The blood streaming down his face from a forehead wound gave him a ghastly, corpse-like appearance. "I mean—there's just a few of us. Why don't they get it over with?"

"They're in no hurry, Private—no hurry at all. They know how many of us remain and our condition. They'll come when they're good and ready. Right now, they're tending to their wounded and counting their dead. I doubt that we'll see them again today. They have us just where they want us—pinned down behind these rocks. They'll probably send a few warriors to finish us off in the morning, with us low on ammunition and without water. Why risk the deaths of any more of their own if they don't have to?"

"You think we have a chance, sir?" asked Lieutenant Miller. "I mean—realistically?"

"No, Lieutenant, to be completely honest with you, I don't. We'll have to do the best that we can. All we can hope for is to take a few of them with us when they attack. Now, get back to the men and see if there is anything that you can do for them. Try to spread out the remaining ammunition and make sure everyone has adequate cover. Any questions?"

"No, I mean, I will, sir," said the Lieutenant as he turned to go.

"And one more thing, Lieutenant, let's keep this conversation to ourselves. There is no need to upset the men. That goes for you too, Private."

"Yes, sir, I'll keep it to myself." replied the Lieutenant." The Lieutenant turned and hobbled back toward his men in the rocks. Overhead, the late afternoon sun beat down without mercy on the stranded men. All needed water and food, but they kept their positions, hoping the Indians had given up and gone home. Given the severity of their losses, it was a reasonable thought.

"Private, you're a sorry sight. Find something to wipe your face with."

"I'm sorry, sir. It just keeps pumping out."

"Well, Private, I hate to ask this of you, but I still need to know for certain the fate of Billy Bluefeather. Could you check around to see if anybody knows anything about him? I'd like to know it, but I want to see him immediately if he's alive! That's an order."

"I'll do what I can, Captain," replied the private, still wiping blood as he hurried away to search for the missing scout.

As predicted, the Cheyenne did not attack or leave for home again that day. At sunset, they built three large bonfires on the ridge in full view of the trapped troopers. Around them, they danced, sang, and fired their rifles into the air. They were celebrating their victory and not hurrying to kill the remaining enemy.

Time passed slowly for the exhausted and wounded men. Coyotes could be heard fighting over the corpses left behind from the running fight in the darkness. The moon rose and set, slowing time to a crawl.

Sometime just after midnight, Captain Savage heard a movement off to his left. Raising himself onto one arm, he listened.

"Hello, Captain," came a soft voice. "I have come to talk to you."

"Billy—is that you? Where have you been? I was afraid that you were killed."

"I have been to the enemy camp. They are celebrating a great victory tonight."

"Yes, I can hear them. Tell me, Billy, who is this chief that takes such delight in killing us?"

"It is Stone Face, my father."

"Stone Face? Why is he here? And what does he want with us?

"He wants revenge. It was the white soldier who cut off his arm. It was the white soldier that killed his woman, and it was the white soldier that stole his son."

"But, you're Sioux, Billy. How can this man be your father?"

"Stone Face captured me during a raid on our village when I was still a small child. He is the only father that I have ever known. Even though I hate him, he's still my father."

"You spoke to him?"

"No. I only listened to their plans."

"What plans?"

"Tomorrow, at sunrise, Stone Face will send out a party of warriors..."

"To kill us?" interrupted the Captain.

"No, that would not satisfy the wrath of Stone Face. He intends to capture you and your men and torture you to death. He'll kill the men but save the last punishment for you and your officers. Even now, warriors collect wood for the fires that will consume your body. For two days, they will tear your skin and break your bones. They will cut off your hands and feet, careful not to inflict too much injury lest you die before the fire can do its work. Then, well before you are dead, he will feed you into the fire, feet first, until you die. It is a terrible, slow death. One that I do not wish for you."

In the dark, Billy Bluefeather could not see the tears streaming down the cheeks of the injured Captain. They had known each other for many years, returning to the Great War. Twice, Billy had saved his life—once at the Battle of Chancellorsville and again at Gettysburg. Both times, Billy's advice had averted disaster and sure death. When the war was over, the Captain convinced Billy to follow him to the West to serve as a scout under his command. Now, here in the dark, the Captain realized that he had finally gotten his men and himself into a situation where even Billy could not help.

"Billy, I am afraid that this is the end for us," said Captain Savage, his voice choked with emotion. It was hard for him to express how he felt, knowing that his men would die a terrible death at the hands of the vengeful chief. "I am truly sorry that I got you into all of this. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Do not worry, Captain. I can assure you that your men will not suffer the torture at the hands of my father. Tonight, your men will walk among their ancestors.

"I don't know what you mean, Billy."

Billy moved closer. Captain Savage could see the dim features of his face. From his soft leather boot, Billy withdrew the long, sharp knife Captain Savage had once given him as a birthday present. Bringing it forward, he swiftly and expertly cut the captain's throat.

"Goodbye, my friend. The Great Spirit awaits you."

Billy Blue Feather crept back through the camp, stopping briefly at each man. With a quick and silent motion, he killed each one in turn. A few yards away, he stopped and exchanged his clothing with that of a dead Cheyenne warrior. "Now Stone Face will meet his ancestors," Billy thought as he turned toward the Indian camp.

The following morning, the Indian camp was gone. All that remained was the huge, smoldering remains of a bonfire that held the half-burned body of Billy Bluefeather. Stone Face was also dead, but the war party had taken its revenge, if not on the men of "G" Troop, then on the traitorous son of Stone Face.