The Apache Warrior looked down at a valley from the crest of the hill. He could see whatever was down in the valley, but whatever was down in there could not see him. He looked at his comrades on both of his sides. They looked expressionless behind their boulders. He knew though that they were just as anxious as him.
The Confederates were somehow able to find the correct road that the Apaches were using, and were right on their tail. Some dynamite traps were able to slow them down long enough that Geronimo was able to set up his ambush in the valley. Each warrior was to roll down as many large boulders as they could down the hill, and then shoot at the Confederates. It seemed like a good strategy, but you never could tell.
If this fails, we will have to retreat to our camp,the Apache warrior thought. He also knew that would mean the Confederates finding it.
He couldn't think much longer, for here came the Confederates. Their gray and butternut, a word that the Apaches thought was a weird name for a shade of brown, uniforms stood out in the mountains like a sore thumb. Not as bad as the blue coats or the Mexicans, but still bad, the warrior thought. Their rifles rested in their scabbards attached to their horses, while their revolvers and their sabers were attached to their sides. They were much more numerous than the Apache warriors, but they did not have the advantage.
The Apache looked at his fellow warriors, and prepared to push his boulder down the hill. When the signal was given, he pushed it down with all his might, and watched as it rolled down quickly and loudly. He raised his Tredegar carbine, a close copy of the British Martini-Henry rifle and the official rifle of the Confederate States of America, to his shoulder and fired at the Confederates. Men and horse alike fell and collapsed to the ground with high-pitched shrieks. The warrior worked the lever to eject the spent round and proceeded put a fresh one in.
Zip! A round zoomed past his head. The warrior hugged the ground to avoid a possible second bullet. He aimed his rifle at the cluster of gray and butternut and fired. He angrily watched as his shot missed, and he worked the lever again to put a new round in. Crack! his rifle went, and he watched as it missed the Confederates again, making a puff of dirt in the ground. The Confederates were starting to run up both hills.
He couldn't reload his rifle, for shouts of "Retreat!" in the Apache language rang out through the valley. The warrior got up from his prone position and ran to the direction of his horse. He looked behind him to see two of his fellow warriors laying dead in the dirt.
To the Apache, losing one warrior was equivalent to the Confederates losing ten.