Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 by Terry C. Johnston

then slowly, one by one, headed off to the northeast.
    â€œYou boys wanna follow ’em?” Cody asked, that big smile on his face.
    â€œYou and your ruddy notions!” Donegan replied, crawling to his feet. “Do we wanna follow ’em? he says.”
    â€œI’m for getting us them four scalps,” Curry cheered. “C’mon, boys!”
    Curry led the others down the slope where the white men yanked and pulled at the Cheyenne bodies, searching for plunder or at the least a souvenir to show the soldiers back at Wallace.
    â€œI’ve taken a liking to that belt pouch, Ranahan,” Donegan said as he strode up on the frantic activity over the dead warriors.
    â€œThis?” Ranahan held the pouch up, admiring the colorful porcupine quillwork. “Thought it was pretty myself.”
    â€œThe plunder is mine, Ranahan.”
    â€œWe all got call to it, Irishman.”
    â€œYou watched me, like the others. I killed this one.”
    â€œGet something off one of them others, Donegan. I like this pouch—”
    â€œNo,” and he said it quietly. “I want that pouch.”
    â€œBest give the Irishman the pouch, Ranahan.”
    He eyed Cody like a frightened animal. Then the small, feral eyes went back to Donegan. “All right, Irishman.” He slapped the pouch into the big man’s hands. “It’s yours. Take it. I … I didn’t want it anyway. Just leave me his scalp.”
    â€œYou know how I feel about scalps—don’t you, Ranahan? Remember Slinger—how you and Lane chaffed on him?”
    The black eyes hardened with a glint of fire to them.
    â€œDon’t push the Irishman, Ranahan,” said Tom Alderdice. “Just leave it alone.”
    Seamus watched as Ranahan suddenly turned on his heel, grumbling, moving off down the slope to join some of the rest combing over the other dead.
    â€œThat one doesn’t like you much, Seamus.”
    He looked at Cody a moment, then grinned. “Don’t like him much either.” Seamus stuffed the pouch under his belt, letting the decorated flap hang free. “I’ll damn sure be glad when he goes south to rejoin Pepoon fighting with Custer.”
    â€œSoon enough.”
    â€œNever soon enough for me,” Seamus whispered so that no other man heard. “Cowards and back-shooters only men I’m afraid of. I’ll be happy when that one’s gone south with Custer. Cowards and back-shooters…”

Chapter 6
    December 1868
    Reuben Waller didn’t know if he liked the cold of December any better than the damned heat of September on the high plains.
    And once again he wasn’t all that sure what the hell he was doing in a place like this. Yet, one thing was certain—he had to keep moving or his toes might damned well freeze off.
    Weeks ago, when the white soldiers of Carr’s Fifth Cavalry had arrived at Fort Wallace, four companies of the Tenth Negro Cavalry received their marching orders. These buffalo soldiers, as they were called on the plains, were sent to Fort Lyon, some hundred miles southwest of Wallace. There they were to join Captain William H. Penrose of the Third Infantry, and one company of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry, for a winter campaign. The combined force would drive the hostiles east toward the bulk of Custer’s regiment, which at that moment was marching south into Indian Territory to punish the Cheyenne, Kiowa and Arapaho for their bloody raids on the Kansas settlements.
    After loading a small pack train with what supplies Fort Lyon could spare for the coming campaign, Reuben Waller’s unit under Penrose struck out south by east, with plans of establishing a depot in advance of the arrival of Carr’s Fifth Cavalry, a much larger force. The commander of the department of the Missouri, General Philip H. Sheridan, feeling time was critical, ordered that a unit be sent into the field at the earliest moment. Therefore,