The Coming Storm by Tracie Peterson Page B

He could hear other children talking in hushed whispers to their parents. Would any of these little ones live to see another day?
    Oh, God, please deliver us from this battle. You know these folks aren’t prepared or capable. Our only sin is being here .
    Cole rode Buddy around the perimeter of the circled wagons. His keen eyes scanned the horizon for signs of intruders. Daniel suggested the Sioux would slip in early and low, but so far, Cole hadn’t seen any signs of them.
    “What do you think?” Daniel questioned, riding up on his bay.
    “I still think they’re waiting for sunrise. I’ve heard some rustling out there, but I haven’t seen anything.”
    “Well, there’s no doubt they’re out there.”
    Cole nodded. “I know.”
    The next hour seemed to creep by, leaving Cole tense, his shoulder muscles aching and tight. The skies were a mottled blue-lavender just before the sun peeked up above the horizon. Cole scanned the land around him. Maybe they were mistaken. Maybe the Indians had given up the idea of attack. Maybe— The crack of a rifle being fired split the otherwise silent morning air. Cole felt the air go out from him. He turned Buddy back to the camp and barely made it before the screaming cries of nearly a hundred Sioux warriors descended upon them.
    Cole freed Buddy and took cover behind one of the wagons.
    “They gave no sign,” Cole announced as Daniel Keefer raced up.
    “Figures. Well, we were as ready as we were gonna get,” the older man said, taking his position. As the Sioux came swooping at them from every direction, the settlers had no choice but to fire.
    Cole emptied a box of ammo on the ground. “We’re in for the fight of our life!” The words no sooner left his mouth than a bullet ripped into Daniel’s shoulder. Blood immediately poured from the wound and his right arm went limp.
    Without missing a shot, however, Daniel simply changed arms, firing with the stock against his left shoulder.
    Cole heard the screams of children and women coming from behind him. He turned just in time to see a mounted warrior leap over a wagon tongue and enter the camp. Cole turned and fired at the man, dropping him to the ground.
    Cole had no sooner refocused on the attack in front of him when a bullet grazed his arm. A burning sensation traveled down into his fingers. Ignoring it, he continued to fire the rifle, stopping only long enough to reload.
    “This is hopeless,” Keefer cried just before an arrow pierced the middle of his throat.
    Time seemed to stand still after that. Cole saw the despair— the death—in Daniel’s eyes. The injured man slumped, trying to speak, as another bullet caught him in the head. Cole couldn’t even stop long enough to offer him comfort. In the next second, Cole took two arrows himself, both in the chest. They impacted with a dull thud, stunning Cole enough that he dropped his rifle. He stared down momentarily, dazed at the sight of the protrusions.
    He gasped for breath. Stretching, he reached for the rifle. It seemed like it had fallen a hundred feet away. He tried to raise it, but the muscles in his arms and chest refused to work. He felt the rifle slip from his fingers as dizziness overtook him.
    Cole closed his eyes. He could smell smoke, hear the Sioux war cries.
    “Dianne,” he whispered, pulling his revolver from his holster. “Think about Dianne.” The thought gave him strength.
    He raised the gun and squeezed off two shots before a Sioux bullet grazed his head. Cole was surprised the pain was only minimal. How many hits could he take before his body gave up?
    Cole fell back, the revolver in his hands. Daniel Keefer lay dead not a foot away—his open blank eyes staring at Cole.
    The world tilted, first left and then right. Cole looked down at his blood-covered shirt. He touched the arrows, marveling at the skill it must have taken to create such accurate weapons. How strange, he thought, to consider that now—at a time like this.
    They were