Tworivers
Copyright© 2025 by Harry Carton
Chapter 21: Prairie Peace and Plans
It took nearly a full month for the tribes’ people to form a city around the military fort of Prairie Peace.
Eight longhouses were constructed to the west of the fort and three bands of Comanche and Crow warriors settled into the barracks of the fort itself. Black Horn led the remodeling of the officer’s quarters, converting it into a council hall where tribal elders could meet in peace. The woods, from which the Apache women fired into the French soldiers, were felled under Yellow Hair’s direction. The wood was used for construction inside and around Prairie Peace, while the open land provided improved safety.
Wind Rider discovered a cache of French maps in a locked trunk inside the commandant’s quarters. Some maps showed locations of Spanish settlements, others marked French forts stretching eastward to the Mississippi River, but one, written in a precise hand, showed mining operations deep in P’há Sápa.
“See this?” Wind Rider tapped the map where charcoal lines illustrated tunnels. “They’re not just taking ore – they’re carving tunnels through sacred caves.”
Broken Wing leaned closer, his breath hot with fury. “The Black Hills are bleeding.”
Outside, the rhythmic thump of axes split the morning air as warriors dismantled – and then rebuilt – the fort’s eastern palisade. Winona strode in, wiping black powder residue from her hands. “Geronimo’s forges have turned out many rifles. We should – “ Her words died as she saw the map. Her finger traced a dotted route snaking toward Spanish Santa Fe. “Silver caravans.”
Wind Rider exhaled sharply. “They’re funneling sacred metal to fund more slave raids.” He glanced toward the window where Apache women drilled with Girardonis near the riverbank—their precise volleys punctuated by laughter. The sight should have heartened him. Instead, his gut twisted.
Broken Wing’s knife thunked into the table between them, quivering. “We burn the tunnels.”
Wind Rider unrolled another map, this one smeared with what looked like berry juice marking Comanche migration routes. “First we choke their supply lines.” His finger jabbed at a narrow mountain pass. “Here. Where silver wagons bottleneck.”
Winona snatched up the quivering knife and sliced the air. “Ambush won’t stop the mining.”
“No, but this will.” Wind Rider unfurled a third map – this one hand-drawn on elk hide – revealing a spiderweb of mountain springs feeding P’há Sápa’s valleys. He stabbed a finger at a convergence point. “Divert the water. Flood their tunnels.”
Broken Wing’s nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. “The French drown in their own greed.”
Winona traced the elk-hide map’s contours, fingers lingering where streams branched like veins. “We’d need explosives—collapse the diversion points.” Her gaze flicked to Wind Rider. “Helmut’s nitrates.” He looked at Winona, wondering when this simple Apache princess had turned into a field general.
Under Yellow Hair’s guidance, the fortress of Prairie Peace was developing a strong defense along the twin rivers to the west and the north. There were interior walls now, behind the exterior ramparts. Places to shoot from and to control the bridges from safety.
About six weeks after the battle of La Forche, the Prairie Peace scouts warned the town of a large troop of French soldiers approaching from the east. Tall Pine took a group of ‘his guerrillas’ — now about forty warriors strong — out of the town and up the north branch of the river. The north branch was now named the Tahlequah River by the Comanche, after a small group of Ilinni who lived near the big lake that fed the river, miles upstream.
Wind River and a group of warriors went to the near side of the bridge, which had been built up with a waist high stockade. Wind Rider held up white flag on a Girardoni rifle.
The French officer rode forward, his uniform pristine despite the dust of travel. He sneered at the mixed group of warriors behind Wind Rider. “Vous êtes le chef?”
“I am the chief of this fort now. No parley Francais. — English or Comanche?” Wind Rider answered.
The French officer’s lip curled. “Certainement. You have stolen French property. Return it or face destruction.” His answer was in French accented Comanche.
“We took the fort and freed over one hundred captured slaves. If you are the commander, know that we do not recognize slave traders.”
The officer sneered. “YOU will free no slaves. In fact, I will take you as slaves and leave your village in ashes. Tomorrow.”
“Why wait for tomorrow? Please attack at your leisure. We do not fear you.”
The French officer hesitated at Wind Rider’s mock-gracious tone – then stiffened as Winona stepped up beside him, casually twirling a fuse cord around her fingers. The officer’s eyes darted past her to where Apache women knelt behind log barricades, Girardonis resting on buckskin sandbags. Something flickered in his face --- calculations behind contempt.
“Très bien.” He wheeled his horse violently. “En avant!”
Wind Rider ducked behind the barricaded bridge, and shouted to his rifle brigade. “One round when they start to cross. Then wait until we get back.”
The French commander gave orders in a rapid-fire voice, deploying Dragoons along the riverbank while infantry formed ranks behind them. Their polished breastplates flashed in the sun—ceremonial armor for parade grounds, not battle. A cannon creaked forward on wooden wheels, its crew sweating under wool uniforms. The commander signaled, and a drummer began a steady rhythm.
Winona exhaled through her nose. “They’re lining up like ducks in a shooting gallery.”
“Let’s see if they quack,” Wind Rider smirked.
The first French column hit the bridge at a crisp march, bayonets fixed. At fifty yards, Wind Rider whistled—twenty Girardonis coughed in unison. Half the front rank crumpled. The survivors wavered, muskets swinging wildly toward unseen shooters.
Wind Rider and his party quickly ran back to the log where his riflewomen were. “Weapons free,” he shouted.
French soldiers were dropping like flies before they even crossed the bridge, screaming as lead balls cracked through their formations. The cannon crew abandoned their piece, scrambling backward – only for Tall Pine’s guerrillas to erupt from the tall grass on the far bank, hacking at stragglers with tomahawks. The Dragoons’ horses reared in panic, throwing riders into the churning river. It was too deep for the Dragoons’ horses, the current too strong.
Winona didn’t waste arrows. Instead, she snatched up a fallen musket, spun the bayonet like a Comanche lance, and hurled it like a javelin. It punched through an officer’s throat, pinning him to a wagon wheel. His gurgling scream was lost beneath the war cries of Crow warriors, charging from the rifle barricades, loosing arrows as they came.
Wind Rider grabbed the fuse cord from Winona’s belt. “Their powder wagon.” He nodded toward the unattended ammunition cart near the riverbank. Winona’s grin was feral as she struck flint to steel – but the fuse fizzled when a musket ball tore through her forearm. She barely flinched, wrapping the wound with a strip of elk hide while Wind Rider lit the fuse himself.
The explosion sent wooden splinters scything through French ranks. Horses bolted, dragging artillery caissons through panicked infantry. Beside the damaged bridge, Tall Pine’s guerrillas emerged from the smoke like vengeful spirits, tomahawks glinting. A Dragoon lunged at Wind Rider – only to collapse choking when Broken Wing’s knife found his kidney from behind.
“Fall back!” The French commander’s voice cracked. His surviving men broke formation, stumbling eastward through trampled grass. Winona raised her rifle one-handed – pftt – and the commander’s shoulder jerked. He kept running.
Wind Rider signaled cease-fire as the last French stragglers vanished into the distant tree line in the east. The bridge smoldered; water hissed where hot lead met river. Tall Pine emerged from the smoke, his tomahawk dripping. “They won’t regroup before nightfall.”
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