Son of the Hawk by Charles G. West

slugs thudded into Dimeron’s back. One yelp of pain and he was dead, slumped at the foot of the wall. Annie stifled a scream as the two black holes in Dimeron’s white shirt rapidly became larger red stains as the reporter’s blood spread across his back.
    The three on the ledge needed no further incentive, and turned at once to scramble up toward the trees. A half-dozen shots rang out from the sides of the canyon, and Logan and one of his friends tumbled back down the steep slope, landing at the foot of the stone cliff, both dead. The third trooper, hit in the heel and spun around, nevertheless regained his balance and, using his hands and feet, clawed his way into the trees before a lucky shot split his head like a melon.
    Buck looked around him, considering the four of them left to hold off what he estimated to be close to two hundred Sioux warriors. “Well, we sure coulda used them three guns,” he said. “But they wouldn’t have made a whole lot of difference at that, I reckon.”
    With no options before them, they sat back and waited. Their fate was in the hands of the Indians now, because there was no way the four of them could hold the hostiles off if the Sioux decided to rush them. Buck felt that the reason there was now a lull in the attack was because the Sioux were having a powwow to decide whether it was worth the losses they were sure to have. As it now stood, they had won a great victory with very little loss of life. They had horses and plunder—why risk even one more warrior’s life?
    Buck was partially right in his speculation. After talking the matter over, the main body of warriors decided to withdraw, but a small party of twelve decided to stay behind, not willing to let any of the white men escape. They planned to climb the ridge and work around behind the trapped soldiers.
    “Uh-oh,” Buck suddenly uttered and sat up, “lookee here.” Luke and Grady cocked their heads to see. “Looks like they’re pullin’ out,” Buck said, scarcely believing it himself.
    It may be some kind of trick to get us to come out,” Luke suggested. Buck nodded his agreement.
    “I believe they just got tired of waiting,” Grady said. No one offered anything else for a while as they watched the Indians jump on their ponies amid a chorus of war whoops and shrill yelling. Several of the young braves charged their ponies straight at the four white souls laying low in the gully, pulling up only fifty yards away to hurl insults and taunts at the survivors before turning to race back to their brothers. Buck was sorely tempted to dust one of them off hispony, but decided it might rile them enough to attack again.
    When the large band of hostiles disappeared around the bend of the canyon, Grady stood up. “Hell, they’re gone. Looks like we made it.”
    “Grady!” was all Buck managed to shout before a rifle ball ripped into the sergeant’s chest. Grady staggered backward a step, staring in disbelief at the hole in his chest. No more than a moment later, another slug thudded into his stomach, and he dropped to his knees. Buck and Luke quickly grabbed him by the arms and pulled him back into the gully, but it was too late. Already dazed and weakening as blood soaked his blouse, Grady’s eyes were wild and he was mumbling something so rapidly that the others could not understand. Luke tried to calm him, but Grady knew he was dying.
    Horrified, Annie kept asking herself why she had been so stupid as to insist upon accompanying this patrol. Buck had advised against it, Luke had advised against it—but she had insisted that she had to personally search for her husband. Now, as she shrank back against the stone wall—not wanting to watch the dying gasps of Sergeant Grady Post, but unable to look away—she realized that Tom had not crossed her mind during these last horrible hours. Terrified for her own safety, she found herself praying that it would all go away. Whatever her life span beyond these terrible moments,