A forgotten evil, p.27
A Forgotten Evil, page 27
“It’s the trying that matters, Caleb,” she said.
“I just wanted to tell you that I love you and that life was mighty thin before you came along.”
She brushed the snow from his collar and turned into him, holding his hand against the warmth of her throat.
The sudden whinny and clamor of horses came from the valley, and Caleb lifted up to see over the crest. “The women are leading the horses out,” he said.
“Maybe they’re getting ready to leave,” Joan said.
As she spoke, a soldier took the rope of the lead horse from the woman. It was a bay with white blazed face and trembling flanks. Pulling his saber, he slit its throat with a quick downward draw. In disbelief, the bay bolted, its eyes white, its front feet pawing the air as blood pumped from its neck with each throb of its great heart. The horse’s scream was that of a child, a piteous and desolate cry, and chills raced down Caleb’s back.
The other soldiers joined in then as the horses were taken from the corrals, an extermination of hours and of hundreds as they were led to the slaughter. The cries of the horses, and of the women, and even of the soldiers, rose in sorrow and shame. The valley churned with the dying, and the snow was crimson with their blood.
Caleb and Joan covered their ears and wept in their hearts for humanity, and for themselves, and for the evil that befell the valley of the Washita on that godless day.
As dusk fell, a cavalry scout spotted the warriors on the ridge. The order came with a bugle call. Custer was at the lead, his saber drawn, and when the charge sounded, the Seventh rode in pursuit. Certain now that help was too late, the warriors turned, riding hard in retreat up the Washita.
The Seventh topped the hill, and as the warriors disappeared over the ridge, Custer pulled up, his hand held high to halt the charge. Turning, the column rode back against the fading light.
“They’ve called it off,” Caleb said. “They’re coming back. We’ve made it through, you and me.”
He hooked the bow over his shoulder and lifted Joan from the snow. Waving his axe over his head, he called out to them.
The column halted at the top of the ridge, their voices clear and certain against the snow-covered hills.
“What is it?” Custer asked.
“Goddamn stragglers,” someone said.
Rising in his stirrups, Joshua Hart held his hand over his eyes against the setting sun. “Wait,” he said, as shots rang out, first one, and then another. Crumpling into the snow, the figures lay still.
Joshua dismounted, his heart pounding. “God help us, they were waving for help, sir. I’m sure of it. They aren’t Cheyenne at all.”
Custer turned in his saddle. “You don’t know Cheyenne when you see them, soldier?”
“Permission to go back and check, sir.”
“I’m not holding up this regiment for you to go wandering off. You’re on your own if those others return with reinforcements.”
“I’ll catch up soon enough, sir.”
Custer held up his hand, the bugle sounded, and the Seventh moved off. And when they’d gone, Joshua made his way to where the bodies lay. Caleb’s axe was at his side, and the girl had a fleur-de-lis necklace about her throat. Their hands were clasped in death.
Joshua dug a stone into the newly covered grave to mark their place and, with the tip of his knife, scratched in a fleur-de-lis. It was not his way to mourn or rail against wrong, not anymore. He’d have to go soon if he were to catch the others.
As the moon rose over the bloodied valley of the Washita, he stood for a moment, his breath rising in the bitter night.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my publisher, Holly Monteith, and the staff at Cennan Books for their enthusiasm, insight, and patience as this work passed through the editorial process. It’s gratifying to have such support and expertise on my side. And, as always, thanks to my wife, Nancy, who has listened patiently to my ideas and stories all these many years.
Sheldon Russell, A Forgotten Evil
