Tworivers
Copyright© 2025 by Harry Carton
Chapter 18: Ride at Dawn
The smoke thickened on the horizon like clotting blood. Wind Rider lowered his binoculars—through the haze, he caught the flicker of torchlight moving methodically through distant lodges. Scorched earth. LaFollet wasn’t just raiding; he was erasing whole villages from the map.
Wind Rider found Nantan near his tipi. The man looked suddenly older, he walked with a limp. He motioned toward Wind Rider, “My hip pain. It troubles me more and more.” Arthritis, thought the former Green Beret.
Tall Pine came with Broken Pine at his side. “Nantan, we would have a peace parley with the Crow. We have common enemies now. French soldiers raid the Crow villages to the northwest. The Crow seek sanctuary with the Comanche. If Crow and Comanche can live together, we of the Apache Nation can fight the French. They are taking slaves to the French forts.”
Nantan looked at Broken Wing with suspicion.
“They burned your lodges because you trusted the French,” he said, gripping his hip. “Now you come offering knives instead of arrows?” His gaze shifted to Wind Rider. “This smells like a trap.”
Broken Wing unsheathed his knife – slowly – and drove it into the dirt again, blade quivering. “LaFollet’s men took my sister.” The words came out shredded. “They branded her thigh with fleur-de-lis irons.” He yanked his collar down, revealing a livid burn over his heart. “I carry their mark too.”
Wind Rider caught the flicker of recognition in Nantan’s eyes – the old chief had seen French slavers’ work before. The air thickened with the stench of distant burning hides. Tall Pine shifted his weight, spear grinding against gravel.
Nantan considered. “Maybe not a trap, then. Or one of French making. They have come a long way from their city at the mouth of the big river — misi-zibbi in the Comanche language – a big city. Many boats from over the water come there: Nu Or Lee.
Thomas Wind Rider’s ear was jolted into the 21st century Can he be talking about New Orleans? And the Comanche called the river Mississippi?
Nantan continued, “French have strong fort there. Many soldiers. Guns like the Spanish.”
Broken Wing grunted in agreement. “Yes. Now they have many, many small forts that go deep into the mountains. They take our women and chain them like animals.”
Wind Rider studied Broken Wing’s reaction—his eye twitched slightly at the mention of forts. “Which mountains?”
“Great mountains. West of Crow lands. West of Comanche lands.” Broken Wing gestured to the smoke still visible in the sky.
Wind Rider frowned. The Rockies. The French shouldn’t have a presence there yet—not in this timeline. Unless LaFollet’s men were pushing west faster than history recorded. Or unless this wasn’t Earth at all.
Broken Wing tapped his knife against the Crow execution symbol carved into his forearm—a row of inverted triangles. “LaFollet leaves these on dead scouts. His men wear metal pieces over their throats with the same mark.” He spat. “They say it protects them from bullets.”
Helmut, who had crept close enough to listen, muttered in German. Wind Rider caught the word “Habsburg”—the same symbol had been on those Austrian musket molds back in Santa Fe.
Wind Rider overheard Helmut’s mumbled comments. “Christ, how many European powers are crawling through this territory?”
Nantan limped forward, his shadow stretching long across the packed earth. “Crow blood stains Apache arrows today,” he said, gesturing to the bodies being dragged away by Strong Bear and the others. “Yet you stand here holding a knife instead of drawing it.” His arthritic fingers flexed. “Why?”
Broken Wing’s nostrils flared. The branding scar on his chest gleamed angry red in the afternoon light. “Two winters ago, LaFollet’s men came to our village with gifts—wool blankets, iron pots.” His fingers twitched toward the knife in the dirt. “They stayed one moon. Learned our hunting grounds. Then...” His voice dropped to a graveled whisper. “They returned with chains.”
Wind Rider watched Tall Pine’s grip tighten on his spear. The distant smoke columns had merged into a single roiling mass—three, maybe four villages burning simultaneously. The math was inescapable: coordinated attacks across hundreds of miles. This wasn’t random raiding; it was systematic eradication.
Tall Pine said, “We must act. First, we ride to see what our new Comanche allies say. They face the Crow running from the French.”
Nantan hissed through his teeth, rubbing his hip. “A war party leaves at dawn. Broken Wing rides with us – his people’s suffering proves his words.” He turned to Wind Rider. “You bring the guns. The Austrian too. His devil weapon may whisper death farther than arrows. Tall Pine will ride for the Apache Nation. I will stay here and make Geronimo safe.”
“Wait,” said Wind Rider. “We must gather all the rifles that Helmut has made. And we must show the Apache riders how to use them. Not a full war party. Scouts to see what the Comanche and the Crow escapees are doing.”
Tall Pine agreed. “Wind Rider makes sense. We cannot ride without our new rifles. And we cannot send our war party with rifles they do not know how to use.”
Nantan looked displeased. His hip pain always worsened when plans changed suddenly. “Then you will train them tonight,” he ordered. “No sleep. You ride at dawn.”
Wind Rider knew when he was beaten. He grunted in agreement with his commander-in-chief. He chuckled at the ‘in chief’ part. Nantan is still the Chief of this tribe. We’ll take only the cavalry scouts. With extra ponies for remounts, we can be there in three days.
He turned and found Helmut. “Fifteen rifles loaded and ready. And you’re coming with us. Winona will make more, and extra air containers. No women on this trip.”
Helmut grinned. “Ja, ja, but I will bring my Girardoni. And some lead balls.”
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