Limestone Gap

The biting dawn air in the Bighorn valley pierced straight to the marrow.

Thick, turbid morning mist hung like a gray silk banner across Limestone Gorge—the narrow choke point of the Powder River.

Before departure, thirty Talon Ridge warriors sat motionless on their dark warhorses. Their eyes burned with the ruthless ferocity of wild beasts backed into a corner, their bare torsos painted with streaks of black and red that rose and fell with their heavy, rapid breathing in the freezing air.

Elena stood beside a limestone ledge, a soft deerskin tunic draped over her shoulders and her crude dross satchel slung across her chest.

"You stay in the village."

Grey Elk spoke, his voice sharp and cold as a hunting knife pulled from its sheath. He sat atop his colossal black stallion, his long, jet-black hair whipping in the freezing wind. His amber eyes locked onto her, devoid of any room for debate.

"I am a doctor," Elena stepped forward, her ash-gray eyes meeting his without a single flinch. "Thirty of your warriors are riding into a hail of bullets. When the guns go off, blood will spill in seconds. Who will stop their bleeding? Your prayers?"

"Talon Ridge does not need a white woman acting as target practice for artillery!" Running Deer bellowed from behind, tightening his ammunition belt.

"Enough!"

White Feather spurred his horse between them, looking at the eastern sky brightening with the coming dawn, then at the iron-willed resolve in Elena’s eyes.

"A-pó," White Feather said softly in Lakota, his voice low. "This is a vanguard ambush. We won't have time to carry wounded warriors back to camp. With her behind the rock outcrop, the wounded won't bleed to death on the retreat."

Grey Elk remained silent. White plumes of steam burst from his stallion’s nostrils into the frigid air. He lowered his gaze to the slender hand gripping Elena's satchel strap. The space between them froze solid.

"Stay behind the rock outcrop," Grey Elk growled in halting, gravelly English, each word dropping like a heavy sentence: "Do not raise your head. Do not take one step out. If you step out... I will shoot your leg out myself."

Elena let out a cold, sharp, ironic smile: "Keep yourself alive before you worry about shooting me, Chief."

The mist began to thin.

Elena lay crouched low behind a limestone ridge higher than a man’s head, resting less than two hundred yards from the canyon floor. The damp, freezing earth seeped through her deerskin dress, sending violent shivers through her frame. She bit her lip hard, her hands clutching her satchel filled with coarse gauze strips and powdered Yellow Root.

The dawn silence over the prairie bore a terrifying beauty.

Then... it came.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The rhythmic, disciplined thunder of regular cavalry hooves echoed from the canyon mouth. It was not the free, wild cadence of native horsemen, but the cold, methodical march of a war machine.

The Union vanguard entered the gorge.

BOOM!

The first Springfield rifle cracked, tearing through the morning mist!

Instantly, a volley of thunderous explosions (Boom! Boom! Boom!) erupted in rapid succession. Thick gunsmoke, heavy with the pungent stench of sulfur, poured toward Elena's hiding spot, burning her throat. The bitter, metallic taste of blood and gunpowder coated her tongue.

Peering through a crevice in the limestone, Elena watched the chaos unfold.

It was a nightmare of slaughter. Heavy lead bullets tore through flesh and muscle, horses neighed in frantic agony, and the wild war cries of Talon Ridge warriors clashed violently with the shouts of blue-coated soldiers.

atop a high ridge out of bowshot, a figure mounted on a gray horse stood as still as a statue.

He wore a dark blue officer's coat with silver-braided epaulets.

Colonel Thomas Whitfield.

He drew no sword, nor did he bellow orders. He merely held a brass telescope, calmly observing the ambush below... like a scientist studying a ruthless experiment under a microscope. The chilling, absolute cruelty radiating from his quiet posture sent an involuntary shudder down Elena’s spine.

Crack!

A young cavalry private took a bullet to the chest, tumbling backward off his horse right into a dry ditch near Elena’s outcrop.

"Mother... Help me..."

The young soldier—his name, Daniel Reeve, stitched across his tunic—stretched a blood-soaked hand toward the retreating cavalry. But no one turned back. Whitfield’s war machine coldly passed him by, leaving the young private writhing in the mud and stone.

"Retreat!"

White Feather’s bison horn sounded a deep, wailing blast.

The vanguard ambush had served its purpose, throwing the enemy formation into disarray. The thirty Talon Ridge horsemen wheeled their mounts around, galloping like the wind toward the northern canyon.

Just then, a young warrior riding at the rear took a rifle ball to the shoulder. He slid from his mount, crashing heavily onto the rocky road.

Galloping up front, Grey Elk whipped his head around.

Without a second's hesitation, the chief hauled back hard on his reins. The black stallion spun 180 degrees, tearing back through the storm of enemy fire to save his fallen warrior.

Bending low, Grey Elk hooked a powerful arm through the young man’s leather belt, hoisting him onto his horse.

Crack!

A dry, sickening crack split the air.

A heavy rifle ball, fired from the high ridge where Whitfield stood, tore through the air and slammed straight into Grey Elk’s left flank!

The chief's muscular frame jerked violently. Crimson blood spurted out, staining his dark deerskin tunic. He lurched sideways, but gritted his teeth, using his final strength to drive his black stallion toward the limestone ridge where Elena was hidden before tumbling off his horse to the hard earth.

"A-pó!"

Time seemed to freeze entirely for Elena Marsh.

The roar of gunfire, the wild war cries, the wind howling through the gorge... all vanished. In her ears remained only one sound: the wild, chaotic hammering of her own heart (Thump! Thump! Thump!) threatening to burst from her chest.

Seeing Grey Elk’s massive frame collapse onto the jagged rocks, blood spreading rapidly across the dry grass...

Every promise, every threat of shooting her legs out turned to dust.

The instinct of a surgeon and the unyielding fire in her soul erupted.

Elena leapt up from behind the ridge, clutching her satchel, and sprinted straight into the crossfire!

"Elena! Stop! You crazy woman!"

Running Deer galloped from behind, reaching out a calloused hand to snag her wrist, yanking her back violently: "Bullets are flying! Do you want to die?"

"Let me go!"

Elena roared in English, the fierce, authoritative fury of a top surgeon bursting forth. She twisted her wrist with all her strength, breaking free from Running Deer's grip, and sprinted toward the limestone rocks where Grey Elk lay.

Lead bullets slammed (Thwack! Thwack!) into the dirt right at her feet, kicking up red dust. But Elena didn't blink or duck. She charged through the sulfurous smoke and dropped to her knees beside the chief.

"Grey Elk!"

She used every ounce of her strength to drag his heavy, towering frame into the shadow of a large limestone boulder.

Grey Elk lay on his back. The heavy Springfield bullet had pierced his left flank, leaving a gaping wound as wide as a palm. Bright red arterial blood gushed continuously, drenching his tunic and coating Elena’s hands.

The chief’s stone-carved face was pale as ash. His lips were drained of color, turning a cold, icy purple. His proud amber eyes grew vacant, his pupils contracting—the ruthless clinical signs of acute Hypovolemic Shock.

His carotid pulse was faint, rapid, and nearly imperceptible.

"Pale... cold skin... rapid, thready pulse..." Elena muttered in a trembling voice, her pale hands pressing down hard on the bleeding wound over his ribs.

His hot blood flowed through the gaps of her fingers, dripping onto the damp earth.

Grey Elk slowly opened his eyes. Even at the threshold of death, his amber gaze locked onto the panicked face of the white woman before him.

His pale lips curled into a faint, raspy, bitter smile as he rasped out in broken English:

"You... disobedient..."

"Shut up!"

Elena snapped in English, tears unbidden brimming in her ash-gray eyes, mingling with the soot on her cheeks. She threw her entire body weight onto her hands, pressing down violently to stanch the bleeding, turning her head to scream at Sarah, who had just rushed over:

"Sarah! Translate for Running Deer NOW! Tell him to cut a strip of rawhide! Roll up the dried moss into a compress! Fast, his brother is bleeding to death!"

Sarah gasped, screaming the instructions in frantic Lakota to Running Deer.

Running Deer froze. Seeing his chief's hot blood spurting through Elena's fingers, the fierce warrior had no time for hesitation or hate. He drew his hunting knife, sliced a strip of leather from his own tunic, tightly rolled a clump of dry moss, and thrust it into Elena’s hands.

Grey Elk’s hot blood kept surging through her fingers, bright, crimson, and burning amid the brutal cold of Limestone Gorge...