Chapter 8

Soldier Girl Margaret was mounted on a piebald mare with a solid back and easy-going ways. She liked that horse because it was used to gunfire and would stand like a petrified log in the midst of chaos.

The half breed Indian scout was pissing behind the cottonwood tree near the shoreline, and she caught sight of his impressive tool that seemed out of place on an Indian not usually known for the size of their dicks.

She knew his real name was something like Grey Eagle or Grey Owl, but she was really not all too certain it was his real name or just an assumed name that he picked out of the air.

The renegade Indians came up on them unexpectedly out of a hidden swell that acted as a hiding place for them and their mounts with no need to ride out in the open land and risk getting shot out of the saddle.

The half-breed to his credit didn’t flee the scene but swung his buffalo gun out across his saddle horn and took a bead on the presumed leader with the string of human scalps hanging down from his waist.

The trio of wagons were unable to circle so they formed a uniform front to the party with all guns ready for business but not firing until they got the word from Margaret.

They were outnumbered at least five to one facing the resolute enemy of about two dozen braves mounted on the small Indian ponies that had a lot of bottom for long distance coverage.

The defenders had no less than six repeating rifles aimed at the attackers with nervous trigger fingers itching to pull them into the middle of a chaotic confrontation with unknown outcomes.

Margaret spoke to the leader of the raiding party in their native tongue surprising the plains Indian who considered white women mere vessels to be pumped full of indigenous male seeds at every opportunity. He had a pair of white females in his teepee serving as hump machines for his pleasure much to the despair of his unhappy squaw with her neglected slit waiting for his attention.

He responded very rudely to the white female telling her it was beneath him to converse with a “dirty” white girl who lacked the nuances of their precious tongue.

Strangely, Margaret understood where the irritated Indian was coming from because she had suffered so much under the indigenous culture that held all slaves as property to be tolerated only because of their value for the labor.

“Oh, great warrior, I only mean to inform you that despite your numbers, you are outgunned because we have the new repeating rifles, and you only have the outdated muskets handed down from your forebears.”

The deeply tanned Indian virtually shook with restrained rage at the white squaw’s words. He was smart enough to understand the implication of her words. Her logical reasoning only served to ignite his short fuse ready to wreak havoc on the small party of invading settlers daring to touch his mother Earth with their dirty wagon wheels.

He raised his French and Indian war long gun and didn’t quite get it into firing position when Margaret blasted him out of his saddle with a single shot from her brand new Remington given to her by the mountain man with his generous concern for her safety.

That was the signal for the chaotic ninety seconds that followed.

During that time the seven repeating rifles threw out a total of forty nine bullets that put an end to no less than seven of the braves while they only managed to eliminate poor Jake with a lucky round in his throat that drained his blood supply to the crimson splattered forest floor in less than three remaining breaths of life in his shattered body.

The remaining slightly more than a dozen renegade Indians made it back into the shallow ravine escaping the withering fire from the tiny band of settlers.

Now that the odds were a lot closer than before, the band of travelers took heart and scoured the terrain for any movement that gave them a good target to home in on and wipe from this life without a second thought.

All but two of the remaining braves were inclined to continue the conflict observing the the settler’s faces including Margaret who know how lucky they were in winning the day.

She roamed the battlefield and mercifully used her handgun to give solace to a few still dying losers. In her mind, she was showing kindness, but some of the others considered it brutal and cruel not understanding that it was compassion and not ruthlessness that drove her cleansing.

They buried Jake on a small knoll with a tiny cross to mark his grave. She told the group to leave the Indians where they fell because the carrion birds and animal would soon leave only the white bones to mark the battlefield. They took the handful of unharmed Indian ponies with them to carry some of the baggage to lighten the load in the heavily laden wagons making their way to their final destination.

The animals did not have a care about who was their master, as long as they had plenty of grass to eat and water to drink and maybe an occasional brushing to keep their bodies healthy.

They made lots of progress the next two days and on the third day they came up with a single wagon ahead with two outriders heavily armed and on guard against the wilderness.

Margaret rode up to the small group and asked them where they were heading.

“If you folks want to join our party, we would welcome the extra guns. We are heading in the same direction and hoping to make the mountain pass before the snow starts to fall.”

The short, stocky, heavily bearded man in front of her nodded his head and now they had four wagons with three added guns to help in their defenses.