Chapter Twenty-Two—The Battle for Whitewater

     Sam and Robin arrived in Whitewater just about sundown. Robin could see lights starting to come on in various buildings along Main Street, and more than that, hear the music, laughter, and noise that emanated from several saloons. She was even glad to see a sign that said “Madame Marie’s.” She was home, and she was so happy.
     As they rode beyond the “Miner’s Corner” of town, a few people recognized Robin and came running over to her.
     “Oh, it’s so good to see you….”
     “How did you get away?....”
     “Did this man help you?” Most people didn’t know Sam.
     “Tommy, run over to Martha Morrow’s house and tell her than her niece is home…”
     “Are you ok? Did they hurt you?...” Yada, yada, yada.
     Sam stopped his horse and held up his hand, asking for silence. There were about 20 people gathered around now and more were headed in their direction. “Let me get Miss Morrow home, if you don’t mind, folks. She has had a rather harrowing experience and needs some rest. I’m sure you can understand that. Her story will all come out in due time.”
     “Miss Morrow,” somebody shouted, somebody who wasn’t put off by Sam’s imminently reasonable request, “Can I have an interview with you? Get the whole story. Put it in tomorrow’s edition…” Robin looked over and saw Jonathan Stover, the local newspaper editor.
     Robin couldn’t help but smile. “Mr. Stover, I promise you a story, but can it wait a day or two?”
     “Oh, but everyone is going to want to know….”
     “Oh, shut up, Stover,” somebody in the crowd said. “Let her have some rest first.”
     Sheriff Morris Bernstein pushed his way through the crowd. “Miss Morrow, we are right pleased that you are home safe and I hate to put you out any, but if you were with the Indians…can you give us any idea of what they might be up to? What their plans are? When they might attack? As you recall, the Army thinks they are going to try to stop the mining in the mountains.”
     Robin shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sheriff Bernstein, I know nothing about their plans. I do know that they have kidnapped 24 other women who are working, basically at domestic chores—cooking, cleaning, washing, that sort of thing, so that the Indians can go about preparing for whatever they are going to do. I have no idea when, or where, they might attack. I’m sorry.”
     Robin heard several gasps when she mentioned the other women.
     “How did you get away? Did the other women get away, too?” This from Jonathan Stover.
    Robin glanced at him, a little perturbed. “I sprouted wings and flew away.” Then, sadly, “The other women weren’t able to come with me. They are still there, but they weren’t being mistreated or abused.”
     Then, a loud voice. “Robin! Oh, Robin….” She looked up and saw Aunt Martha running towards her. Robin immediately dismounted and the crowd opened a way for her to run and meet her aunt. They embraced tightly, both of them weeping openly.
     “Oh, my dear, I thought I’d never, never see you again,” Aunt Martha said, crying, hugging her niece tightly, and rocking back and forth.
     Robin held on to her aunt just as tightly. “I’m ok, Aunt Martha, they didn’t hurt me.” Geez, this isn’t the Aunt Martha I remember…The two of them turned and walked towards their home, an arm around each other, Aunt Martha repeatedly asking for assurance that Robin was ok. They left the crowd behind, a crowd which graciously let them go.
     Sam was still sitting on his horse. Stover wouldn’t let up. He knew Sam because he had interviewed him before over the matter of the railroad coming to the region. “Mr. Burke, what part did you play in this matter? I know that you and several others went looking for Miss Morrow last weekend….”
     Sam sighed. He was very tired, too. “Mr. Stover, I know you want a story, but I’m pretty weary as well. Tell you what, meet me at the hotel restaurant in half an hour. Let me get my horse stabled and clean myself up a bit. We can talk there.”
     Stover was drooling. “Yes, yes, ok, I’ll be there.”
     The crowd started to disperse. The sheriff was still there. He looked up at Sam. “I don’t reckon you know anything about the Indians.”
     Sam slowly shook his head. “All I can tell you is that there are six fewer of them. I know nothing of their plans.”
     Bernstein’s eyes narrowed. “Six fewer?”
     Sam gave him a wry grin. “Read about it in tomorrow’s paper.” And he kneed Trixie and headed to the hostelry.
     Stover got a whale of story. Robin got a great meal and fussed over all evening long. Aunt Martha, of course, wanted to know every little detail, and Robin told her all about it, weaving an interesting and exciting tale, embellishing here and there because she knew her aunt would eat it up. Robin wouldn’t have to give a story to Jonathan Stover; Aunt Martha would have it all over town, probably before noon the next day.
     At the moment, Robin didn’t care. Her own bed felt sooooooo good that night. She was in it by 9 PM, went to sleep immediately, and didn’t wake up until 9 AM the following morning.

     Even though the explosion rattled windows all through Whitewater, Robin slept through the whole thing. She was simply exhausted from the previous days’ adventures. It was a little before 9 AM when she finally woke up, and then she lay there for a few more minutes before finally arising. She was still a little weary, but once she got cleaned up and ate some breakfast, she felt almost brand new.
     “Did the explosion this morning wake you up, dear?” Aunt Martha asked while Robin was eating breakfast.
     “What explosion?”
     Her aunt chuckled softly. “I guess that answers my question. The army is out in the valley west of town preparing for the Indian attack. They set off some dynamite about sunrise. I thought the world was coming to an end.”
     “No, I never heard it. Are they expecting the attack today?”
     “They seem to think so. The mayor came by and he wants all the women and children to evacuate to Whitewater Park by noon. The men are going to prepare a barricade at the east end of town in case the Indians get that far. But I’m sure the army will stop them. We’ll take our horses just in case. Your horse can run fast, can’t it?”
     Robin glanced at her. She could tell Aunt Martha was nervous. “Yes. Roberta is very fast.” She recalled with a smile the day Rob bought her. The Palomino wanted to run immediately and she took off like a bolt of lightening. It had been a thrilling experience and she doubted the Indians had anything that could catch her. But Aunt Martha’s other two horses weren’t so fast and Robin certainly couldn’t leave her aunt behind. Hopefully, it won’t come to that…
     Roberta brought Rob to her mind…I can’t think about him now. I can’t think about him EVER again. He’s gone…he betrayed me…I should hate his guts…And it surprised her a little, after all that had been going on for the past several weeks, that she still had such strong impressions of her time with Rob Conners. I hardly got to know him…She picked at her food.
     “Are you ok?” Aunt Martha asked her, breaking into her thoughts.
     “Oh. Oh, yes, I’m fine, Aunt Martha, thanks. I’m still just a little tired. It was a stressful week.” She just then noticed the incessant drum beat. “Those drums? Are those the Indians?” The drums had been beating for hours.
     “Yes, at least that what’s Mayor Grey said. He seemed so frazzled and harried, the poor man.”
     Robin was looking down at her plate, still thinking about Rob. She mumbled idly, “Yeah, well, he can get in line for that,” but Aunt Martha was washing dishes and apparently didn’t hear her.
     There was a knock on the front door. “I’ll get it,” Robin said. She wanted to get up anyway. She went and opened the door. It was Sam Burke. She smiled.
     “Hi, Sam. Come on in.”
     He did, but said, “I can’t stay but a minute. I just wanted to check and see how you were.”
     Before Robin could answer, Aunt Martha came into the room, drying her hands with a dish towel. “Hello, Mr. Burke. It’s so nice to see you. Robin told me how you saved her from the Indians. Thank you so much.”
     Sam was modest about it. “Well, Mrs. Morrow, we had an unseen benefactor that did more than I did. I sure would like to find that fellow and thank him.”
     “Yes, Robin told me about that, too. But if you hadn’t been so persistent in looking for her, then she never would have gotten away.”
     Sam gave her that charming, Rob-like smile. “Well, I had to save her. She stood me up for a date and I intended to get it regardless.”
     Robin laughed, and remembered that she and Sam had planned to have dinner the evening following the big town meeting, but that was the night she got kidnapped. “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “Matters beyond my control intervened.”
     "Are you doing all right?” he asked her, returning to his original question.
     “Yes, I’m fine. I got a good night’s sleep last night and that’s what I needed more than anything.”
     “You and your aunt are going to evacuate to the park, aren’t you?”
     “Yes, we’ll go before noon and take our horses in case we need to get away.”
     He nodded. “That’s a good idea.”
     Aunt Martha cut in. “Mayor Grey said for us to take some food and drinks with us.” She appeared annoyed. “I guess he thinks we’re going to have a picnic.”
     “Well, it’s best to be prepared,” Sam said. “From what I hear the army doesn’t know for sure when the Indians are going to attack. Some think it won’t be until maybe dawn tomorrow or the next day, so you might need to be there for awhile.”
     “I suppose.”
     Robin said to Sam, “What are you going to do?”
     “The men of the town are building a barricade at the edge of town. I’m going to go help them and stay and defend if the Indians break through.”
     “It’s not your fight, Sam. You don’t live here.”
     He shrugged. “But I am trying to build a railroad through here and if this town is wiped out, well, I’ve wasted a lot of time and effort. And besides, how can I leave these people and not help them? I could never do that.”
   Robin nodded. She understood. It wasn’t just Whitewater that was under attack here, it was the whole American way of life. It was larger than just one town. Of course, the Indians felt the same way…She replied, “Well, I know the people here will be grateful for your help.”
     “I’ll do what I can and maybe collectively, with the army leading, we can make things work out.”
     “I hope so.”
     And he smiled. “And I hope they don’t burn down all the restaurants.”
     Robin smiled back. “Me, too. If they do, you can eat out of our picnic basket.”
     He chuckled. “I’m sure it would be better, given some of the food I’ve had in the restaurants in this town.” Then, he said, “Well, I need to go. This is a pretty tense situation obviously. I’ve got confidence in the army and I think everything will be ok, but you just never know until it happens.”
     “Yeah. I’m confident, too, but I do wish it was over with. You be careful.”
     “You, too.” He said good-bye to Aunt Martha and then left.
     “Such a nice man,” Robin’s aunt said.
     “Yes, he is,” Robin replied. And he looks like Rob when he smiles…Then she shook that off. “We need to get ready to go, Aunt Martha…”

     Whitewater Park was crowded, but not overflowing. The picnic area, which had about 12 long tables, had a lot of food that people had brought to share with one another. People were mostly meandering around, and there was a decided, noticeable tension in the air. Aunt Martha had asked Robin to stay close to her, not necessarily for protection, but if escape became mandatory, they would be able to leave together and not get separated. Robin didn’t want to especially hang around her aunt, so she came up with a counter-suggestion.
     “Aunt Martha, I think it will be easier if we just plan to meet at the picnic area if Mayor Grey blows the whistle. That way we won’t have to be looking out for each other or worry about wandering off.” If full flight was needed, the mayor was going to blow a shrill whistle. That would be the signal for people to mount up and head east.
     Aunt Martha didn’t especially like Robin’s idea—she never likes ANY of my ideas—but she agreed. That would be easier than just standing around, virtually holding hands.
     The talk, not surprisingly, was of the coming Indian raid.
     “I hear they are going to hit about sundown…”
     “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll be able to hear it…”
     “Oh, Earl, it’s so awful….”
     “I know, sugar plum, but that’s what the Army is there for. They’ll protect us…”
     “But what if those savages get through?...”
     “We’ve got our horses. We’ll get away and go to your Uncle Foster’s in Omaha…”
     And the rumors grew wilder. “I hear they’s more’n 5,000 of them savages…”
     “Nah, just 3,000’s what I heard…”
     “5,000, 3,000, what’s the difference. They’s too many for the army to handle….”
     “Then why don’t you head out?...”
     “Might do it. Ain’t hankerin’ to get my hair lifted…”
     And in another place, Robin heard, “Oh, no, George, the drums have stopped…”
     “Well, they been beatin’ on the blasted thangs for over a day now. You figger they gotta get tired sometime….”
     “When they stop the drums, that means they’s fixin’ to attack…”
     “Lucy, do you have your gun in your purse? Like I told you. Just in case they get through…”
     Robin had a small pistol in her purse. She always carried it, though she wasn’t sure why. But the thought wasn’t a bad one. If it was a choice of getting gang-raped or putting a bullet through her brain, she’d choose the latter any day.
     Then she thought of Sonny. She felt a little pang, because she remembered, not just the enjoyable times she’d spent with him, but more her last vision of him—fighting for his life against the bigger, stronger Bruno. She realized that she had no idea how that fight came out, but that Sonny had risked—and very possibly given—his life to save hers. And it had only happened a couple of nights ago…it seems like ages ago…so much happening…
     She saw Chris Draeger coming towards her. He smiled and she smiled in return. “I hear you had a hair-raising experience,” he said, then with a wry smile, “I’m glad it wasn’t a literal one.”
     “You got that right,” she replied. “Yes, it was…frightening. At least at first. Actually, they never harmed me at all. But I was glad to get away, that’s for sure. But that was the most dangerous part.”
     “Yes, the story is all over town now, thanks to your Aunt Martha.” Geez, she works fast. When did she have time?…Then Robin remembered that she went to bed fairly early the previous evening and Aunt Martha was having some of her friends over. The biddy network…
     “Poor Jonathan Stover got scooped,” she replied, and Chris laughed. The she asked, a bit worriedly, “Chris, are you…and your father going to help man the barricades?”
     He nodded. “But only if needed. And I don’t really think we will be. Some of the miners are going to be the first men behind it. If the Indians reach that far…well, the rest of us need to be there to hold them off long enough for the women and children to escape down the road.” Then he shook his head. “I don’t see how in the world they will ever get through the Army’s defenses, though. Have you heard about them?”
     “No.”
     Chris proceeded to tell her the breadth and depth of the defensive line that Colonel Ratliff had set up. “Wow,” Robin replied. “That’s pretty impressive. It does seem they would have a difficult time getting through all that.”
     “Yeah. Indians can be pretty sneaky, though.” He grinned at her. “Take it from an old Indian fighter.” And she laughed.
     “Chris, just be careful.”
     And he smiled at her. “You, too. If it comes to that.” He paused. “Well, I need to go. I hope to see you soon. Maybe we can go out to dinner again soon if the Indians don’t burn all the restaurants down.”
     It was a weak effort at a joke, but Robin knew he was just trying to make her smile. “Yes, that would be nice. The dinner,” she added, hastily, “not the Indians burning them all down.”
     He chuckled. “Everything will be ok. You just wait and see. Bye.”
     “Bye.” She watched him walk off in the direction of the barricade. From where she was standing, about 100 yards behind it, she could see a lot of men milling about, oiling their rifles, stacking ammunition, putting the final touches on the blockade. It wasn’t much. Mostly a stack of heavy crates, with some bales of hay and cotton. There just hadn’t been time to construct the kind of wooden wall that the army had built at the other end of town.
     Robin sighed. There wasn’t much she could do, so she wandered over to the food table, picked up a carrot, and started idly nibbling on it.  I can’t stand just wandering around…I’ve got to do something to help. But what?      She couldn’t think of anything. Frankly, there really wasn’t much she could do. I can watch…She looked around. One of the hiking trails meandered up into the mountains…I think I’ll go up there and see what I can see…

     Robin arrived at a place where she probably shouldn’t have been. She followed one of the pine-needle covered hiking trails as it wound up through the trees, and then across the Whitewater River via a lovely little log bridge. She followed the trail and it meandered back down towards the town. She ended up on a little ridge not too far above Broadway Street. The trees had been trimmed back some, so she had a near-perfect view of not only the town but much of the valley to the west. She’d be able to see much of the battle once it began. She wasn’t sure she wanted to, but she couldn’t leave either. She saw a lot of activity still going on—soldiers scuttling to and fro, getting in position for the coming attack, a lot of yelling, orders being given—she could hear some of it, but not all. The drums had stopped and now the silence was as nerve-wracking as the “boom boom boom” had been. Robin found that her nerves were taut, even though she was far away from the battlefield. The anxiety was building in everyone, and no doubt that was part of the Indians’ plan. Get everyone on edge; mistakes are easy to make that way.
     It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the high, soft blue sky, a gentle breeze blowing, rustling the leaves in the trees behind her, warm temperature, but not too hot. A beautiful day to die…Robin winced at that thought, then found a place to sit on a boulder and hoped the natives would change their mind and not attack.
     She wasn’t going to put much stock into that hope, however.

     Robin remained on the ledge above town where she had gone. As far as she knew, nobody had seen her, but that didn’t matter. She was safe. If any of the Indians started up the hill towards her, she’d just run back to the park. But, like everybody else in town, her stomach was in knots.

     Late afternoon, but still plenty of light…the Indians started their approach. There seemed to be an endless horde…

     Sam Burke had positioned himself on top of Frieda’s Dance Hall and Saloon, not far from the western edge of town. He was studying the Indians through a pair of field glasses. I wonder if they’ve won the battle before it’s even begun…

     Robin Morrow was situated to where she couldn’t see the foothills to the west because of trees blocking her view, but when the Indian force swung wide across the valley in order to approach with the sun directly at their backs, her heart began to beat rapidly and she clenched her fists. I don’t remember there being that many…Oh, this is going to be horrible…

     As frightening a scene—and sound—as it was, Robin’s eyes were glued to the oncoming mass of natives. As far as the eye could see were horsemen, raising up dust, screaming their cries of encouragement to their comrades and terror to their enemies. Wave after wave of them…as far as her eye could see…

     The Indians were taking their time, jogging their horses into position, about three miles out. They were obviously playing another psychological game as well as trying to get the sun in the eyes of the American troops. They were led by their fiercest warriors—Four Feathers, Black Bear, Taskawa, Wind-in-the-Trees, Sharp Arrow….The various Nipita bands were grouped together. They had a modicum of an attack plan. 300 of them spread across the valley floor in the front. Then another 300 behind them, another 300, another—nine lines deep. Wave after wave after wave would hit Ratliff’s troops.
     It was indeed an intimidating force, and more than one of the U.S. soldiers wanted to turn and run for their lives.
     But none of them did.

     Once the Indians got into position facing the defenders, they began to slowly trot towards town. As noted, they were about three miles out. Colonel Benjamin Ratliff and his men could clearly see them, strung out across the wide valley, rifles, lances, war bonnets—an intimidating sight. The Indians rode slowly, once again a psychological ploy to build up greater tension in the soldiers. When they got about one mile out, they would start with their shrilling war cries and push their ponies to top speed. The attack would begin.
     Ratliff had his main bugler, Corporal Matouse, with him, ready to blow various messages to his troops. The colonel’s voice would never be heard above the noise; hopefully, the bugle would. There would be only three calls sounded: “fire,” “cavalry attack” (or “charge”) and “retreat”—the latter hopefully never to be used. If it was, his men were to make their way up the mountain or back to the town and try to defend there.
     As they got within two miles, Ratliff actually began to hear the war cries and the ponies sped up, though not at full gallop yet. The Indian lines began to narrow, because they could not enter the tapered funnel just west of Whitewater spread out as they were. Some would probably attack in the hills and mountains, though, and this might prove a hindrance to Ratliff’s cavalry hidden there. Hopefully, not.
     At one mile, the thunder of hooves and volume of terrifying yelps were clearly audible—to everybody, even deep into Whitewater.

     As frightening a scene—and sound—as it was, Robin’s eyes were glued to the onrushing horde. As far as the eye could see were horsemen, raising up dust, screaming their cries of encouragement to their comrades and terror to their enemies. Wave after wave of them…as far as her eye could see…

     “Steel yourselves men!” Colonel Benjamin Ratliff called from his command post about 100 yards up on Turtle Mountain where he could see the entire battlefield. He had several runners with him in case he needed to send quick messages to any of the squadron commanders. If the Indians reached Whitewater, he intended to join the fight himself.
     Of course, very few people heard his exhortation to “steel” themselves. But once he slashed down his sword, Corporal Matouse blew the bugle call for “Fire!”, and the west end of Whitewater Valley erupted in a cacophony of noise and mayhem.

     Ratliff’s sharpshooters were the first to fire. Forty barrels of gunpowder had been buried in the ground, placed in rows of 10, about 50 feet apart. The shooters had determined beforehand who would shoot which barrels so that they wouldn’t all aim at the same one.
     These men fired when the Indians got about a quarter mile from the narrowing of the valley—where the first barrels had been laid. They were a little late in shooting—or perhaps their timing was better than intended. The idea was to shoot and have the barrels explode right in front of the horsemen. What they did was catch the horses just as they were about even with the barrels, thus blowing up under the backend of the horse. Natives went flying head over heels and some of them were crushed under their mounts.
     The barrels spewed dirt and powder outward a good fifteen yards in each direction. They had been placed so that, when the Indians were having to tighten their lines in order that they could all getting into the valley funnel, the blasts would have maximum effect. And indeed, the first 10 explosions did some damage.
     Colonel Ratliff saw and heard the pandemonium the explosive powder wrought. Horses squealed, Indian warriors screamed, and if the rider was directly over a barrel when it exploded, he might be tossed 15 feet in the air, and body parts of his horse blown in every direction. The blasts per se probably didn’t kill more than 5 Indians, but it did clog up and slow up the attack. A number of the frightened Indian ponies reared up and threw their riders, who were summarily crushed when the second wave of warriors plowed on through. This caused more horses and riders to fall creating greater chaos. When the second line of natives reached the second level of barrels, the sharpshooters fired again and more Indians and horses screamed and were blown in various directions. On top of that the dust from the ground and powder were blocking the vision of the Indians coming up behind the first two waves and they began to swing wide to try to get away from the conflagration ahead of them. When that happened, Ratliff instructed his bugler to sound off again—a call for general firing to begin.
     Thus, any American soldier who could see any Indian or his horse began firing at will. Their first instructions were to hit the horses for two reasons: horses falling, scrambling, or dying on the ground would make it more difficult for the charging warriors behind them to get through. Sergeant Pepper Freeman’s squadron laid down a withering fire that dumped at least 15 horses. The Indians might survive the fall of their mounts, but that would make them easier prey for the American cavalry when Ratliff finally turned them loose.
     But this wasn’t a mass free-for-all for the Indians. The third wave began releasing fire arrows towards the southern hills and some of the dry grass caught quickly and caused a scrambling among the soldiers to get away. Most of them ran in the direction of the town, and stopped and fired where they could. But by this time there was so much smoke and dust in the air, yelling and screeching, it wasn’t always easy to find a good target.
     The noise became cacophonous. Men shouting orders or warnings: “There…to your left!...”
     “Watch out behind you!...”
     “McGriff, get over and help Tomlinson!....”
     “I can’t see the barrels for all this dust!....”
     The Indians were also shouting to one another but mostly the white men heard the shrills yips and chitters of the native warriors. It added to the bedlam.
     And there were the inevitable cries of moans, groans, and pain:
     “aaaaiiiyyeee….”
     “oh, god, I’m hit…”
     “Phillips! Go help Adamson! Get a tourniquet around his leg!....”
     “AAAAAAhhhhh……ooooohhhhh…..oh, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts….oh, please heeeeelllllpppp…….” Anybody who thinks war is fun is out of his mind.
     Wave after wave of the Indians came galloping on. The third set of barrels exploded. Natives began to swing wider into the southern and northern foothills that bordered the narrow valley, but they ran into a withering fire from the soldiers’ repeater rifles. One Indian killed a soldier who was kneeling under a cottonwood tree, but then made the mistake of getting off his horse to scalp the dead man. Three other soldiers made him pay with his life. Many of the Indians had rifles and they were firing; those who did not had arrows and they were cutting loose just as rapidly. Yet with the congestion of horses and men in front of them, the Indians’ progress had slowed.
     A group of them got to the fourth line of barrels—10 more explosions, more screams, more bodies flying, more horses whining in death’s agony…rifles firing, men shouting and hollering, more dust, powder, and smoke rising into the air. Frankly, it was hard to tell what was going on….

     Robin watched all of this, fingernails biting into the palms of her hands, though she didn’t even notice that. She couldn’t help but wince every time the kegs of powder blew and she saw and heard the resultant death and destruction that was caused. Many of the Indians in the last few waves tried to circle around through the foothills north and south, but it was slow and dangerous going and they made easy targets for soldiers who were hiding up in trees or behind rocks. Once the last wave of Indians came to within 100 yards of the narrow valley entrance, Ratliff had his bugler blow “Charge!” He kept blowing it and blowing it and blowing it, but Ratliff’s cavalry had been waiting for it and expecting it, and on the first sound, they came bursting from their hiding places, north and south, almost 800, and they hit the Indians lines in the flank and from behind.
     The Americans now had the Indians surrounded. The only problem was, the Indians still had the Americans outnumbered by about 3 to 1. But the U.S. troops had the natives outgunned. Only about half of the Indians had rifles—which still meant more than the soldiers—but all of the U.S. men had rifles, plus a hand gun, and a sword, and a knife. Indians who were now horseless could be cut down with a sword or bullet. If they could get close enough, the American soldiers could also cut down Indian horsemen with their swords, as the natives had no comparable weapon. Many of them had lances, but they weren’t very effective at close-in fighting. Sergeant Pepper Freeman’s contingent of 25 men came up behind a group of Indians who had been backed up by the congestion in front of them and were able to kill at least 20 of them before the Indians turned to fight or run.
     “Watch out for their arrows!” Freeman said, and fired his handgun, knocking a native out of his saddle just before the latter let loose with an arrow at an American. Freeman, a burly man with massive biceps and bushy black eyebrows, dodged a lance thrust from an Indian on the ground and shot him. Twirling his horse around, looking for other immediate targets, he saw his men in fierce combat with a greater number of Indians, and he grimaced when three of his men went down with cries of agony. But just then, Lieutenant Roger “Stormy” Weathers arrived with 50 soldiers and overwhelmed the natives. The Americans continued to press forth, forcing the Indian braves towards the narrow valley where the sharpshooters still in the trees and behind the barricades could mow them down—the ones they could see, given all the dust and powder.
     Robin saw all of this, saw the Indians virtually surrounded…but there’re so many of them…But then she saw a number of the natives break through the Army lines at the rear and head for the hills at a gallop. “Let ‘em go!” someone shouted, though Robine coudn't possibly have heard that. Well, that will help…there’s at least 100 in that group…But then she groaned out loud when she saw an American soldier become a pin cushion for five Indian arrows. With his eyes shut, a painful grimace on his face and his hand covering the arrow in his chest, he fell from his horse. A native immediately jumped onto it, and just as immediately was blown off it. She saw an American soldier on horseback swinging his sword back and forth…an Indian grabbed him by the leg…the soldier kicked him off…fired his handgun…it was empty…jumped off his horse and stabbed the Indian, then just as quickly re-mounted and looked around for more prey…and then dust and smoke blocked her view….
     The natives had numbers, though, and they came on….a huge contingent of them arrived at a trench that had been dug all the way across the bottleneck of land leading to Whitewater and filled with gunpowder and wood…the powder was lit….there was a massive explosion as flames and wood came flying out of the trench. Many of the Indians screamed in agony as they were hit with the flames or burning wood. Horses screeched and threw their riders; a couple of the Indians even landed in the pit and died roaring in agony. The American troops on both sides fired their rifles incessantly at any target that moved, and a significant number of Indians were shot from their saddles or from where they had hit the ground and were trying to rise. A few were even run over by their allies from behind as they plowed on. There was beginning to be a near impassible battery of horses and bodies blocking the narrow valley entrance into the town.
     But there were just too many of them. And many of the Indians, older, wiser warriors, when they saw the trap that had been set for their horses, dismounted and ran into the hills and mountains. They were met by the American troops that were there, but there weren’t enough of the latter. Ratliff had weeded out his infantry in the hills to put them on horses for cavalry attack. So while the American soldiers killed many of the Indians, nearly all of the troops that were flanking the narrow valley entrance were overrun and massacred. And these Indians pressed on towards the town.
     Robin watched as the battle raged, minute after minute, amid the shouts of men, the firing of rifles, the screams and cries of human and animal, the horrors of war. The Indian braves pushed inexorably towards the town of Whitewater. The men stationed by the western log barricade wielded their rifles with deadly effect until five fire arrows thudded into the dry wood and set the barricade ablaze. “Fall back!” Captain Wallace Martin, who commanded the barricade troops, yelled at his men, and they all did so, into the town to find what cover they could.  The soldiers stationed on the rooftops of buildings were now firing and many of the Indians were falling but there always seemed to be another one, then another, then another to take the place of those who could no longer fight. Robin winced and muttered “Oh, no!” as she saw fire arrows flying towards the wooden buildings at the west end of town; that most of those buildings were brothels and saloons didn’t matter. If something didn’t happen soon to stop them, the natives would push deeper into Whitewater and destroy the whole town. It appeared now that that would very likely happen.
     Now much of the fighting in town was hand-to-hand fighting. Colonel Ratliff threw the last of his reserves into the streets of Whitewater, and he himself, with sword in one hand and pistol in another, jumped into the melee. Robin cried out involuntarily when she saw Sam Burke hit by a bullet and fall from rooftop to sidewalk. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered, a tear rolling down one cheek, but then something caught her eye that made her skin crawl, and her stomach turn to ice.
     Sonny!
     The powerful Indian brave was fighting ferociously, a lance in his hand to thrust and parry. Robin’s eyes were glued as she watched the man whom she thought was dead knock one…two…three army soldiers to the ground with the butt of his lance and move on to find more. He seemed a crazed, unstoppable machine.
     And then Robin found her legs.
     There was a narrow path that led from the ledge where she had been watching down to the north end of Broadway Street. Robin ran down this path, tripped once and went head over heels for about 15 feet before she regained her footing and continued to sprint as fast as she could. She reached Broadway, running, running, running…the noises of battle were get louder as she got nearer. When she reached Main Street at a full run, she quickly glanced to her left and saw a wall of miners and male citizens of town—at least 150 of them—storm out from behind the eastern barricade and head en masse towards the battle at the west end of town. Robin dashed towards the fighting. She saw Sonny and yelled to him at the top of her voice.
     “Sonny!…Sonny!…Sonny!…”
     Amazingly, amid all the clamor and shouting and noise of the battle, he heard her. And, apparently, so did everybody else because Indian and white man alike stopped what they were doing and turned to look in her direction. It wasn’t impossible that a lot of the army soldiers might have had a fleeting thought that their mothers were calling them. What stopped them, however, was the new sound, something different from the din of war. A female voice…a voice crying in the wilderness…
     Sonny had been about to drive his lance through a fallen soldier when he heard Robin call. She had stopped in the middle of the street. He looked at her and she saw a momentary expression of surprise come across his face. Then he returned to his normal, stoic, handsome countenance. The clamor around him had died. He stared at Robin for several seconds. The men—white and Indian—looked from Sonny to Robin then back to Sonny. They didn’t know what was going on, but it was something extraordinary.
     Everyone in town went still and silent. There were a few sounds of battle lingering beyond, but even they began to die away.
     Sonny slowly began to walk towards Robin.
     She stood there, about 150 feet from him, breathing hard. The men who had been coming from behind her stopped as well, bunched in the crossway of Main and Broadway streets. Everyone, white man and Indian, was watching, mesmerized, as Sonny approached Robin. Even those who came into Whitewater from the west end to join in the battle halted when they saw that no one was fighting.
     It was an eerie scene. Men paused in the poses of acts of violence--as if time had stood still. Every head was turned toward the middle of the Main Street now, watching a lone woman, who had stopped this battle all by herself, standing there, alone, as an Indian brave advanced towards her. Weapons were slowly lowered as curious men observed the incomprehensible drama that was unfolding before their eyes. At least, for a few moments, death was being held at bay in Whitewater.
     Robin stood there, watching Sonny’s approach. He was sweating, and a trickle of blood ran down the outside of his left arm, from shoulder to elbow. He carried the lance in his right hand. His eyes locked with hers, and as was almost always the case, she could read almost nothing in them. But the one thing she could read—he would never hurt her.
     He came and stood about five feet from her and for several seconds they simply looked at each other. Tears came to Robin’s eyes, and she slowly, and softly, spoke.
     “Go home, Sonny. Please go home.”
     As mentioned earlier, she had taught him a little English in the week they had been together, and he had taught her some of his tongue as well. He understood her. His face clouded a little and he pointed with his left hand up towards Turtle Mountain.
     “My mountain!” he said. “My!”
     Robin closed her eyes and dropped her head, the tears rolling down her cheeks now. She shook her head slowly. “No, Sonny. Not your mountain any more.”
     Then, startlingly, from a building behind and to Robin’s left, a rifle shot rang out. Robin felt something powerful hit her in the lower left back, and she arched and cried out. Her first reaction was to be dazed; then she reached her hand back and touched the area of her body from whence she felt a numbness. She then looked at her hand and, uncomprehendingly, saw blood on it. The realization slowly hit her, I’ve…I’ve been shot….Then the pain began…
     A few seconds passed. Robin’s legs wouldn’t support her any more, and she fell to the ground. No one moved; the whole crowd was stunned, every bit as shocked as Robin had been. Even Sonny’s face registered amazement as he saw this woman with whom he had shared an important part of his life slowly sink to the earth. For Robin, the world was turning fuzzy and grayer by the moment. But she could see Sonny’s face looking down at her.
     “Go…home…Sonny. Please go…go home.” And then everything went dark.

     Sonny was a warrior and, after the initial shock of what had happened, he tried to find the source of the rifle shot. He saw a white man, standing about three doors away, with a smoking rifle in his hands. The man seemed stunned, too. All eyes turned to him.
     “I…was only…I was trying to hit…the Indian,” Burt Draeger said.
     Sonny’s face became filled with rage and anger. With a loud war cry, he ran about five steps towards Draeger and threw his lance with all his might. Draeger screamed, but the lance took him right in the stomach, and with such force, that the pointed end went right through him and stuck out of his back a good six inches, pinning him to a support post. Draeger dropped his rifle, whimpered a couple of times, and then his head fell to the side. He was dead.
     Sonny was staring at the dead man, breathing hard, his fists curled, fire coming out of his eyes. But then, calming himself, he turned and went back to Robin. Still no one, white or Indian, had moved. Sonny slowly leaned down and gently picked her up in his arms. Now several men, white and Indian were coming over. The first to reach Sonny were Len Kramer and a Nipita chief, Four Feathers.
     Len’s face was a mask of pain and anguish. He looked at Sonny. “Is she…?” He couldn’t say the word.
     Sonny’s face had returned to its normal granite feature. “She alive. Hurt bad. No live long.” He gently handed her to Len who took Robin’s limp body in his arms. Blood dripped from the wound in her back.
     Len turned and shouted at a nearby miner. “Here! Take her! Get her to Doc Sharpe’s place, on the double!”
     The miner ran over, took Robin, and immediately headed towards the doctor’s office on 3rd street, just off Broadway.
     A number of men, including Mayor Grey and Colonel Ratliff, had slowly gathered round, along with several Indian warriors. Len dropped his head, looking at the blood on his hands and arms. “This…was so unnecessary.” He looked back at Sonny and the Indians standing behind him. He gestured to Turtle Mountain. “Your mountain,” he said to them. “We will dig no more.”
     Four Feathers translated for the Indian contingent. Mayor Grey stared at Len with amazement. “Mr. Kramer…”
     Len silenced him with a sideways glance that said, in no uncertain terms, “shut up.” He then spoke to Four Feathers and the Indians. “Take your warriors and go. They are brave men. They are good men to fight for what they believe in. Robin told us…we should have listened….how many lives…?” He sighed, a deep, weary sigh.
     Four Feathers nodded. “We will take our wounded and dead. If you dig again, we will return.”
     Len shook his head. “We will not dig again. You have my word on that.” Then he tried to smile. “If the word of a white man is worth anything to you.”
     Four Feathers took his knife in his right hand, lifted his left, and sliced the knife across his palm, drawing a thread of blood in his hand. He held out the knife to Len. “Seal your word with your blood, white man.”
     Len took the knife, cut his left palm as Four Feathers had done, and then the two men gripped palms, mingling their blood. Their eyes met and locked for several seconds. No sound could be heard any more except the fire crackling from the burning buildings. Four Feathers nodded, and released Len’s hand. He turned to walk away.
     “One question,” Len said.
     Four Feathers turned and looked back at him.
     “We will dig no more. The mountain, the earth is sacred to you. But the trees on the mountain. Are they sacred as well, or may we have the lumber?”
     Four Feathers face showed the same expression as Sonny’s—hard, firm, uncompromising. He replied, “We bury our dead in the earth, not the trees. You may have the trees. But plant a new tree for every one you take so that the earth will not weep for its loss.”
     Len nodded. “Thank you.”
     Four Feathers walked away. All the Indians followed him except Sonny. He looked at Len. “Rah-ha-bin,” he said, and then he walked away as well.
     The white men watched as the Indians slowly moved westward down Main Street, picking up their dead and wounded on the way. Len looked at Mayor Grey, the councilmen, Colonel Ratliff and a few of his men who were there, but then he fixed his eyes on the contingent of miners whose jobs he had just given away. Except he said to them with a slight smile, “Kilmer Mining Company has now become Kilmer Lumber Company. You men still want jobs?”
     And he was met with smiles and a chorus of “hoorays.”
     But the cost, Len thought, oh, the cost…and Robin…