Reap the Whirlwind by Terry C. Johnston

there was singingand courting and occasionally a young buck would leap out front and count his coups—vowing to count even more on the white soldiers this summer.
    “You don’t think I should dance, Bat?”
    “Dance if it suits you, Grabber. But if you do, trust that I’ll watch your backside for you.”
    “Reshaw ain’t stupid enough to try anything here.”
    The half-breed Pourier wagged his head, still whispering, his eyes watchful as the Sioux celebrants throbbed and spun and cavorted past. “It ain’t just Louie. He’s got a lot of family here. Likely they’ll make quick work of you.”
    Grouard snorted. “No, they won’t.”
    “How you so goddamned sure,” Bat demanded.
    “’Cause I got you to watch while I find me a squaw to dance with.”
    Frank heard Pourier chuckling as he pushed into the whirling maze of dancers, ablaze and resplendent in beads and blankets, in feathers and all their finery for this dance called by the tribal chiefs to take the minds of all off the lure and beckoning from the leaders in the north country. So these agency Indians would not dwell on the seductive siren call of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, offering the sweet appeal of the free, roaming life on the high prairie.
    Earlier that evening Red Cloud and his headmen had left Agent Hastings’s office in a huff, and an angry Crook and his soldiers stomped off into the darkness, leaving Frank and Bat alone with the agent and that smirk of Hastings’s.
    “I hear the drums,” Pourier had suggested.
    “Suppose we ought to see what’s going on,” Frank had replied, knowing that this was Louie Reshaw’s ground.
    After Reynolds’s attack on the Powder River village failed and Crook returned his column to Fort Fetterman, the general disbanded his cadre of scouts, save for the three who would await the outfitting of the spring campaign. Grouard was to stay close, assigned to Fort Fetterman. Pourier was dispatched to cool his heels down at Fort Laramie. And Crook sent Reshaw as far away as he could from Frank Grouard—all the way down here to Red Cloud Agency to wait out the coming of spring.
    But here they were, thrust together again. Bad bloodand all, tempers smoldering after the disastrous winter march into the Powder River county.
    When Crook headed out from Omaha, he telegraphed ahead to have Grouard meet him in Cheyenne after coming through Laramie to pick up Pourier. The pair would accompany the general on his questionable mission to enlist Sioux scouts and auxiliaries.
    “They gonna try to get close enough to me to use a knife?” Frank whispered as he slid back beside Pourier, winded and sweating from the exuberant dance.
    Bat shook his head. “No. Plan is to shoot you when you leave here.”
    He smiled, his dark eyes flashing. “Then I got time. I’m going to dance some more.”
    “Keep your eye on me, Grabber. I’ll let you know, I see anything shaking loose.”
    He wasn’t on the floor very long before he caught sight of Bat bobbing his head toward a group of four half-breeds hugged up against a near wall. As Frank turned back to the young woman to excuse himself from her, he found she had melted into the crowd. Just about the time a woman shrieked and a man grunted.
    Grouard wheeled to find Big Bat had seized a man’s arm, shoving it into the air, a pistol trembling at the end of it. With his fists Pourier hammered the half-breed back into the stunned crowd, then whirled on the other three. He caught one by the collar as Frank leapt upon the other two, riding them clear to the floor.
    It was only seconds before Hastings was in the middle of things, along with Bob Strahorn, the newsman out of Denver. They were pulling the young half-breeds out from under the pummeling Pourier and Grouard were handing out.
    By the time the government man ordered the two army scouts out of the agency buildings, the dance was all but broken up. Frank stooped to retrieve his hat, nodding toward the door where Strahorn stood