Hi There.
This is a story I started working on recently, and sad to say I'm writing from a very poor base of Native American knowledge. If you see gross errors or mistakes in lore/culture/history please feel free to tell me, I would hate to write a fiction based on history incorrectly. Thanks!
He Who Hears lifted his head to the sky and closed his eyes.
The morning breeze sifted through his long hair and made the two eagle feathers tied in it hiss and spin against each other, the sound matched by the sigh of the dry grass that covered the northern plains he stood on. Taking a slow breath he inhaled the sick-sweet smell of fresh death around him, and opening his eyes he surveyed the gory scene before him.
An entire platoon of white soldiers lay dead.
He Who Hears eyes tracked the attack slowly, beginning with the dead sentry who's throat was slit ear to ear, his hand-rolled cigarette having left a ring of charred grass where it had fallen out of his hand.
The encampment had been slowly picked off tent by tent, careful slits on each canvas side done with silent, methodical precision before the murderer had reached in and dealt the same fate to the sleeping men the sentry had met.
All but four tents had the tale-tell mark, the blankets in these in disarray marking their alarm and quick rise to arms. He Who Hears attention fell to the dirt where bare and booted feet left their smudged imprints, marking the beginnings of their futile defense.
He bent down to trace the outlines of a distinct print.
The footsteps were sure and balanced, but small. A frown brought his brows together as his index finger brushed against the dirt that edged the crisp outline, gauging the skirmish to have happened just before dawn; less than two hours ago. It was not the marking of a boot he had ever seen. The big toe was separate from the rest of the toes, as if the shoe was split into two parts.
Only now vaguely aware of the clumsy, anarchic tracks of the white men he followed the strange prints, confused as to how they flipped one way and then another in quick succession until it clicked in his mind where he had seen something like this before. The powow's that went long into the nights left tracks like this as the warriors danced and jumped around the fires.
Following it past four more bodies the intricate footfalls stumbled suddenly, their weight shifting off balance.
His eyes slid to another soldier a dozen paces away, a piece of metal glinting out of his forehead. He Who Hears moved away from the tracks to get a closer look at the strange weapon, squatting down next to the corpse to eye it closer. It was a metal disc with serrated points jutting from its center, each edge of the star sharp but coated thickly in rust.
He picked up the rifle near the body and sniffed at the edge of the barrel. It had been one of the guns fired that he had heard while tracking for the herds of buffalo.
He Who Hears gaze swept the rest of what unfolded slowly through the campsite, the last body splayed across the campfire that still burned with plenty of fresh wood. The smell of singed coffee and flesh overpowered his senses as he walked downwind of it briefly, finding the trail of the killer had now changed to also favoring a heavy limp along with the other wound that was causing the once delicate prints to stagger.
He paused, glancing back to the eighteen army horses tethered together at the edge of the tents. The wounds must have been great for the killer to have left such a convenient mode of travel behind.
Pursing his lips in thought he followed the careening trail up a small knoll, stopping at the crest to stare at a dark form that lay crumpled at the bottom of the gentle slope.
Unsheathing his knife he went towards the body, pausing a distance away to study the strange, fully black garments that covered the person from head to toe. He circled once, noting the split-toe boots before crouching down, letting his shadow fall over their face. When there was no response he sheathed his knife and reached out to push the limp figure onto its back.
A whole armory of weapons were visible now, from the row of thin throwing daggers to the smaller though no less deadly utilities tucked around the belt. The dull material was shiny with moisture below their ribcage, and he reached out, pressing his fingers against the cloth to come away with them covered in blood.
Letting his gaze trail upwards to the covered face, he was surprised to see the fallen warrior was looking back at him through almond-shaped eyes half hidden in a thick fringe of lashes.
Reaching up slowly he pulled the mask away, unveiling a woman's face. Her features were ones he had never seen before; the angles much more subdued than Indian or even White people. She did have high cheekbones though they were faint, her nose flat and as small as a child's. Her smooth, light-complected skin made the white hair of her eyebrows, lashes and few loose strands of hair peeking out from the tight hood all but invisible. Her pallid, full lips were covered in blood that had smeared down her chin and throat as it soaked into the cloth.
He could tell from the calmness in her eyes she had accepted death, and death was not far away, but he could feel the connection between them clicking into place even in these last moments as he met her gaze. The hackles on the back of his neck rose, an electric warmth spreading from his chest, down his arms and into his fingers as he slid them beneath her neck.
Leaning down he listened to her slow but shallow breaths, aware of the moment their rhythm faltered and became a final exhale.
No.
He pinched her nose shut and covered her mouth with his own, cutting off her last breath and pushing it back into her body slowly before taking an inhale for her.
Come back to me.
His next breath rushed into her lungs forcefully, pulling her back from the brink and into utter agony. She jerked stiffly and he recoiled, watching her lids fly open to reveal eyes the color of a summer storm before she contorted in pain, lips parted in a scream yet no sound game but a constricted gasp.
He Who Hears watched in stunned silence for a moment before lifting her up and jogging back to the dead campsite, setting her down on a blanket that had been kicked out of a tent before rummaging through the supplies until he found field bandages.
By the time he returned to her she had slipped into unconsciousness, but her breath was stable. He cut open the material around her right leg where a bullet wound was still bleeding freely to assess the damage, tying the bandages into a tourniquet to keep her from bleeding to death.
He pressed a wad of the extra cloth into the other wound in her abdomen before wrapping it tightly to try to staunch the flow as well, silent prayers going up to Wankan Tanka that the projectile had not hit anything critical.
With the woman crudely taken care of he looked back at the camp, torn between supplies for his people and precious time slipping away to get her to his tribes medicine man. Settling on slinging two guns over his shoulders and tying the horses together into a train he draped her body over his mare before mounting behind her, gathering her up to cradle against his chest before turning for the village.
He dug his heels into the mares sides, and she leapt forward, the confiscated horses easily following behind them in a long trail. The beats of their hooves drowned out the sound of the wind, and he eased his grip on the reigns.
Exhaling slowly he fell into the rhythm of the herd, letting his mare take control. Behind him he felt the arrogance of a stallion put tension on the line, wanting to lead but his horse was strong, and she knew the way home. The rope in his hands went slack as the group became one, and they flew over the prairie like a band of wild mustangs.
It was two days of easy riding, but rotating between the many horses he made it back by nightfall. The thunder of sound alerted the Lakota tribe and there was a party of braves waiting to intercept what they had assumed was an incoming assault on their village as he rode into view.
The leading warrior eased his arrow off his bow-string, kicking his horse to join the herd with the two riders.
"He Who Hears, where did you get these?"
"A White Army camp to the East. I left much behind to get here quickly. Where is Sleeping Elk?"
"I saw him at his teepee last," Laughing Bear replied, his eyes flicking to the small figure He Who Hears was holding almost child-like against himself. "I will gather a war party, will you lead us back to attack the wasichu soldiers?"
"You do not need a war party, they are all dead," He Who Hears replied, releasing the train of horses and kicking the mare across the river to leave the group with more questions than answers.