Tworivers
Copyright© 2025 by Harry Carton
Chapter 2: The Crow Arrow
The council fire crackled, casting long shadows across Nantan’s weathered face. Warriors sat cross-legged, their expressions taut as bowstrings. Chooli laid a bundle of Crow arrows on the hide—each fletched with raven feathers, tips sharpened obsidian. “Scouts brought these. They are two suns away, strike at dawn,” he said, tapping the painted stick map where blue clay marks clustered near a river bend. “Twice our numbers.”
Thomas studied the terrain – a narrow pass flanked by sandstone bluffs. Perfect for an ambush, if they had elevation. Dawson nudged him, voice low. “Snipers dream, boss. High ground’s ours if we move now.”
Winona appeared silently, handing Thomas a waterskin. Her fingers brushed his, calloused from grinding arrow heads. “Wind Rider sees the land differently?” she asked.
Thomas traced the bluffs on the map. “Here. Archers hidden above. When Crow enter the pass...” He mimed arrows raining down.
Nantan’s eyes gleamed. “Like antelope driven into a canyon.” He rose, barking orders. Warriors scattered to gather quivers. Thomas suggested that Chooli should take half the warriors to the other side of the canyon, and wait for Thomas to give a signal: a flaming arrow fired from Thomas’ side.
It took the better part of a day to get into position. They moved under moonglow, to get in position on both sides of Dead Bear Pass, moccasins whispering through sagebrush and waist-high grass. Thomas’s thighs burned – riding bareback had left him sore, a reminder that riding a jeep hadn’t prepared him for this. Then they settled down to wait. The Apaches had leather waterskins and buffalo and elk jerky.
Dawson grunted beside him, adjusting his quiver. “Feels like recon patrol back in Kandahar. Except no NVGs.” He tapped his temple. “Just this headache.”
Thomas scanned the bluffs – pale limestone glowing under the stars. “Quiet. Sound carries.” The Apache moved like shadows, vanishing into crevices and scrub oak thickets. He scanned the bluff; the Apaches apparently could hide in plain sight, like GIs wearing ghillie suits.
Dawson settled beside him behind a jagged outcrop, testing the draw of his new recurve bow. Below them, the pass yawned – a dry riverbed choked with boulders. “Remember Takur Ghar?” he whispered. “High ground saved our asses.”
“Different mountains,” Thomas murmured, scanning the eastern horizon where dawn tinged the sky blood-orange. He adjusted the aluminum arrowhead on his bowstring. “Same principle.” The air smelled of dust and juniper, cold enough to see his breath.
Beside him, Winona lay motionless, her body pressed against stone. Her eyes, fixed on the canyon entrance, held the focused stillness of a predator.
“What are you doing here?” Thomas whispered, startled by her sudden appearance at his side in the tall grass. He hadn’t heard her approach -- and he thought his sniper training in the Army had taught him everything there was to know about moving silently.
She had a recurve bow and a full quiver. “Are we not supposed to be quiet?” She whispered back. “Many Apache women came to protect our men.”
Thomas had never heard of Apache women warriors in the history books. But here she was, her body coiled like a spring, her eyes scanning the canyon below with unnerving stillness. She held her bow with easy familiarity, fingers resting lightly on the sinew string. Dust motes danced in the first pale light filtering over the bluffs, catching in her dark braids.
A thought flashed into his mind. His grandfather had said Women Apache were twice as fierce as men warriors. And less forgiving to captured enemies. His eyes slid to the side, catching Winona resting her head on a forearm. He noted that she had tied her hair into a tight braid that was tucked into the back of her dress. He also noted that her breasts were squashed against the stone of the bluff.
He realized he hadn’t been that close to a woman since Afghanistan. Then he remembered Dawson’s wound, and his duty as a medic. He whispered, “Dawson. How’s your head?”
Dawson touched his temple. “Still throbs. This cold doesn’t help.”
Thomas kept his eyes locked on the canyon floor below. Dawn bled across the sky, painting the sandstone bluffs in rusty orange light. The air hung utterly still, thick with the scent of dry earth and crushed sage. Then, a faint tremor vibrated through the rock beneath them. Dust puffed from crevices. Winona’s knuckles tightened on her bow. Her nostrils flared almost imperceptibly, scenting the wind. Thomas felt his own pulse kick up – not fear, the old familiar hyper-focus settling over him like a second skin. Targets inbound.
He fingered his Zippo lighter, preparing to light a specially prepared arrow.
Hooves drummed against hard-packed earth. Shadows resolved into riders – Crow warriors painted black and red, their horses kicking up ochre dust. Thomas counted thirty, perhaps more, winding into the pass like a dark serpent. Dawson shifted beside him, his breathing shallow and rapid. “Range?”
Thomas gauged the canyon floor. “Two hundred yards. Wait.” His palms slicked with sweat where they gripped the recurve bow. Moments stretched, brittle as ice. The lead Crow scout paused below their outcrop, scanning the cliffs. Thomas froze, becoming stone. Winona’s stillness mirrored his own – no twitch, no blink. The scout nudged his horse forward.
Dawson’s whisper cut the silence. “He suspects?”
Thomas shook his head minutely. Crow arrogance. They rode deeper into the trap.
The scout advanced, his gaze sweeping the bluffs. Thomas held his breath. Winona’s knuckles whitened on her bowstring. Dust settled. The scout waved the column onward.
Thomas struck his Zippo. Flame kissed the oil-soaked rag wrapped around his arrowhead. He drew the recurve – sinew and wood groaning – and loosed. The flaming arc sliced dawn’s haze, plunging into dry sagebrush at the canyon’s mouth. Fire roared to life as the dry sagebrush; a wall of smoke and flame blocking retreat. Crow horses reared, panicked screams echoing off stone.
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