War Cry

Summer, 1863

Walks Ahead squatted next to a small stream. He glanced left and right, then bent over and scooped up some water in his hand. Lifting his hand to his mouth, he took a sip and enjoyed its cool, refreshing taste. His eyes never quit moving, though, and they continued to scan his surroundings as he scooped up more water.

He was in enemy territory, and it wouldn’t do to relax. Satisfied with the water, he straightened up and stepped back into the tall grass. This land was controlled by the Shoshoni, or Snake Indians, and he was looking for any sign of them.

Walks Ahead was a member of the Cheyenne, who had long been at war with the Shoshoni. He belonged to a sacred society among his tribe known as the Dog Soldiers. There were several other societies among the Cheyenne, including the Kit Foxes, Red Shields, and Elk Horn Scrapers, but Walks Ahead liked to believe he belonged to the greatest of them. He had joined the Dog Soldier Society before his sixteenth year, and had spent the last ten years working to gain the respect of his peers. He was now a scout, a very trusted position. He was the eyes and ears of many raiding parties, often the first man to enter enemy territory. He was well suited to the task. Standing a few inches less than six feet, he was lightly muscled, but had the endurance to travel all day. Most importantly, he stepped lightly, rarely making an unintended noise. He had superb eyes, and was able to see accurate details at a much farther distance than most others. He also had the uncanny ability to see well in the dark, a handy ability when travelling on enemy lands.

His current task was to find a Shoshoni hunting party. He’d cut their sign a couple of hours earlier, but so far had not been able to find their camp. They had several horses with them, the object of his own party’s desire. His fellow Dog Soldiers were about a half hour behind him, moving slowly, carefully, so as not to alert any Shoshoni of their presence.

Walks Ahead wrinkled his nose. He paused, and inhaled deeply through his nostrils. Smoke. Now he had them. He moved quickly, but almost silently, through a grove of trees. It was mid-summer, hot and dry, and Walks Ahead was careful not to step on any dry sticks laying on the ground.

He half walked, half jogged, always hunched over. He was lightly armed, carrying only a knife and his hatchet. The hatchet hung on his right side, the wooden handle hitting against his leg with each stride. He wore only a breech clout and his well worn moccasins. His skin was dark, often exposed to the sun this time of year, and his long black hair hung loose over his shoulders.

He stopped at the edge of the trees, checking the open area he had to cross. Although he moved quickly, Walks Ahead never hurried himself while scouting. He took the necessary time to ensure that the area was safe before moving out into it. The grass was knee high, and the dry blades were sharp against his bare legs.

He crossed that open area without incident, and re-entered a wooded area. The smell of smoke was much stronger now, and he headed toward it. There. Suddenly the enemy camp was clearly visible. He squatted, looking intently. It was late afternoon, and the Shoshoni hunting party had stopped for the day. They’d built a small fire, and were roasting small strips of fresh meat.

Walks Ahead counted eight of the Snakes. One of them was with the horses, which were staked out, grazing, several yards from the fire. The others were relaxing, watching the meat cook, and talking among themselves.

The enemy were armed with bows. He did not see a rifle among them. The Shoshoni seemed content, confident so deep in their own territory. Walks Ahead saw the game killed by the Shoshoni for their home lodges. They’d done well, he thought. So much the worse that they’d have to walk home. He smiled, and backtracked toward his fellow Cheyenne.