Assault on Atlantis

CHAPTER SEVEN

Crazy Horse sprinkled dirt from a gopher hole over his body and then over the horse he was mounted on. He ignored the stares of the other young warriors around him on Lodge Trail Ridge. He· was already painted for battle, with a lightning bolt on his face and hailstones on his body. The dirt, which he always carried in a small leather satchel around his neck, was because of a vision-dream he had had a few years previously, where the “voices” had told him that the dirt would protect him from bullets. Because he had yet to be shot at, he had no idea whether there was truth to the vision. But his mother had taught him to trust such things. She had assured him he had the “eye” as she had and her mother before her lad and that he must pay close attention to whatever it showed him.

He could hear shots from the northwest, over the ridgeline where others of Red Cloud’s warriors had surrounded a group of woodcutters from the white man’s fort, which lay a mile and a half to the south, along the Bozeman Trail. Crazy horse, and the other four warriors with him, watched the fort loosely. They knew the shots could be heard inside the wooden palisade, and they could see blue coats running about.

“It is a good day to die,” Crazy Horse said, stretching his urns wide and pushing out his bare, painted chest. It might have been a good day to die, but it was a bad day to be practically naked. December in the Montana Territory, near the Big Horn Mountains. Was guaranteed to be cold. And the gray sky overhead hinted heavily of snow.

A bugle call echoed plaintively out of the fort and Crazy Horse calmed his nervous horse. The white men were very slow. A warrior could be ready for battle in less than a minute. More than fifteen minutes had already passed since Red Cloud’s warriors had attacked the woodcutting party.ear the stream, and still the fort’s gate was closed and the soldiers ran about like ants after their nest had been poked With a stick.

Crazy Horse could see a few men inside the fort dressed in buckskin, most likely trappers and hunters among the blue coats. One caught his eye, a tall man with long black hair tied with a leather braid and wearing a distinctive calfskin vest. Even though he couldn’t see his face clearly, a shiver ran up Crazy Horse’s spine-not from the weather, but from recognition. He’d felt the presence for weeks now, ever since arriving near the fort, and now he knew whose presence he had felt.

He didn’t want to admit it. This could not be it. The whites were too few. Too stupid. Too scared. This would not be a great victory, and he wasn’t even leading, having almost had to beg Red Cloud to allow him to lead this part of the plan.

The bottom line though, was that Crazy Horse did not want to believe in the prophecy. For if any part of it was true, then his people were doomed.

Mitch Bouyer edged closer to the two arguing officers. Colonel Carrington was the post commander of Fort Phil Kearny and someone Bouyer had little use for. The man was a deskbound bureaucrat who rarely strayed outside the fort’s gate. Even during the recent war in the east between the States, Carrington had never seen action. The younger officer, Lieutenant Fettennan, had graduated West Point too late to be bloodied in the Civil War and was also pretty much Worthless in Bouyer’s opinion.

Just the previous week, Fetterman had loudly boasted after the Indians had run another woodcutting party back to the fort, that with one company of soldiers he could ride through the entire Sioux nation. Bouyer had known the stupidity of such a statement. He also knew the.re were more an just Sioux in the hills to the north of the fort. While hunting in the past week he had spotted Cheyenne and Arapahoe signs, which he had reported to Carrington, who had stared at Bouyer as if he had informed him that snow was white. All Indians were the same to most white men, but Bouyer knew there was great significance in finding sign of those three tribes in the ‘same area. They were traditional enemies, yet here they were gathered in one place.

Carrington — indeed all the blue coats-were new to the west. Fort Kearny had only been established five months ago in July. Along with the other two new forts in the territory, it was placed here to protect civilians traveling along the Bozeman Trail into the gold fields of Montana. The Bozeman frail also ran straight through some of the best hunting land the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapahoe had-a fact, which, Bouyer knew, was unacceptable not only to the Lakota, but all the tribes in the area.

The blue-coat officers were arguing about what to do to rescue the woodcutting party, how many men to send, and what route to take. Bouyer looked over the palisade at the Ridge to the north. He could clearly see five mounted braves on top of the ridge, one of them practically naked despite the cold weather. That warrior was staring directly at him. Bouyer took an unconscious step backward as if he had been hit in the chest. He, too, had felt the presence of the other, but this was the first time he could see the source of the presence. Was it time? He had not had a vision that it was, and this place didn’t feel right. Still, there was his half-brother on the ridge. There must be a purpose to this meeting.

Bouyer looked at the arguing officers once more. He found it hard to believe such incompetents could be part of the prophecy. Still—

‘’Colonel,’’ Bouyer called out.

Carrington and Fetterman both turned to him in surprise.

“The wood party ain’t got much longer,” Bouyer said.

He could see anger cloud Carrington’s face. “I did not ask your opinion.”

As a contract hunter for the garrison, Bouyer knew he held no stature in the colonel’s eyes. “Sir.” Bouyer tried to think of the best way to ‘say it. “Sir,” he repeated, “they’re-”

He was cut off as Fetterman gave the spurs to his horse, yelling orders to the company of men that had finally formed Some semblance of a formation.

“Under no circumstances must you cross Lodge Trail Ridge,” Carrington ordered Fetterman.

Bouyer looked once more at the ridge. The Indians were gone. Cursing, Bouyer went to his small lean-to against the inside of the palisade and gathered his Henry repeating rifle and a box of ammunition along with an embroidered leather satchel that had been hidden underneath some straw. He walked to the stables as the gates opened and Fetterman led his column of Infantry out. He was in no rush, as the vast majority of Fetterman’s eighty-man force had not yet mounted.

By the time Bouyer exited Fort Kearny, Fetterman’s column was a half-mile from the fort, heading toward the valley to the west of Lodge Trail Ridge where the woodcutting party had gone. When the column was in the valley and out of sight of the fort, Bouyer had reached the trail elements. The column was spread out, with Fetterman in the lead mounted. A few civilian scouts with him also on horses. Then a platoon of infantry. A gap. Then another platoon. The trail platoon was spread out, a sign that some of the men were obviously reluctant in the mission.

Bouyer turned to his right as several war crimes echoed down from the ridge. Five warriors-the same five as before — were once more visible. Taunting Fettennan and his troops, tiding parallel to the soldiers’ column. Bouyer dug his heels into his horse’s side, picking up the gait. He cursed as he saw the head of the column already angling toward the Ridge, Fetterman in the lead. A shot rang out as one of the civilian scouts fired at the small war party.

As he rode, Bouyer checked the satchel, feeling the hard shape of the crystal skull inside. Surprisingly, it felt warm to his touch, something he had not experienced before. Perhaps hi~ was the time?

More shots echoed across the valley. Fettennan, pistol out, was trying to spur his horse up the ridge. One of the civilian scouts was yelling at the lieutenant, trying to make him wait for his command. The column had stretched out along the side of the ridge, extending over a half-mile.

Bouyer pulled back on the reins, halting as Fetterman and the lead men went over Lodge Trail Ridge. Bouyer knew the terrain. Beyond the ridge was a jumble of more ridges, valleys, boulders and trees. He knew what was coming. Hell, Fettennan had had the same thing happen only two weeks previously and barely escaped. Bouyer spurred his horse and raced up the ridge, passing foot soldiers.

Reaching the top, Bouyer paused to get an idea of the situation. Fetterman had slowed down, a platoon of Infantry now right behind him. Only one warrior was still visible, just inside rifle range, screaming taunts. The one who had lightning bolts painted on his face and hail on his body — Crazy Horse. Bouyer ignored the sweating, cursing soldiers who ran by him, trying to catch up to their leader. He stared at the warrior and was rewarded with Crazy Horse pausing in his tirade to return the glare. Bouyer raised his rifle, parallel to the ground, and nodded. The warrior ignored the gesture even as several shots kicked up dirt around his horse’s hooves.

Bouyer slowly lowered the rifle. He dismounted, standing astride lodge Trail Ridge. Over his shoulder he could see smoke from the cooking fires at Fort Kearny. The last of Fetterman and Captain Brown move forward, a platoon around them, descending into the next valley, still chasing the taunting braves.

As the last blue coat disappeared into the valley, a vast volley of shots and war crimes issuing from almost a thousand voices rose out of the low ground. Bouyer remained still. He heard screams, a bugle blowing for several long seconds then ceasing abruptly. Shots continued, not volley fire from a unit n a coordinated defense but scattered. And screams. Bloodcurdling yells from the depth of a man’s essence elicited by pain and imminent death. It was a sound Bouyer knew could ever be imitated and would stay with him to the end of his days.

Bouyer remounted and moved forward. A soldier appeared, running out of the valley, no weapon in his hands and fear on his face. He staggered, then stumbled to his knees as m arrow struck him in the back. Within seconds, at least two-dozen more arrows struck around and into the soldier, pining his lifeless body to the ground.

Bouyer halted less than ten feet from the dead soldier. He could see the entire battlefield now. The blue coats had been ambushed while they were stretched out. Most were already dead. There were at least a thousand warriors visible, moving forward from their ambush positions. He could see Fettennan and Captain Brown with perhaps a half-dozen of their men round them making a stand near a couple of large boulders. The warriors weren’t charging into their guns, but rather standing back and firing volley after volley of arrows up into the air A light snow had begun to fall, coming down onto the soldiers along with the deadly arrows.

Bouyer could feel the desperation in the air as the warriors closed on the soldiers. There was no hope of escape. He saw the young warrior he had exchanged signals with, Crazy Horse, gather a large group of braves near Fetterman, preparing for a final charge. Bouyer opened the satchel and removed the crystal skull. He held it in his hands, feeling it grow warmer by the second.

Fetterman and Brown also saw the last charge preparing. Bouyer swallowed hard as he watched the two officers kneel side by side, pistols pointed at each other’s temple. Fetterman’s mouth was moving, counting, Bouyer realized.

On three both men fired.

Cowards. The word came to Bouyer. They had not died fighting but in shame.

Crazy Horse galloped forward at the lead of a wave of a hundred warriors. They swept over the little knot of resistance, and in seconds no white man was left alive there. Bouyer watched as survivors from the rest of the column were run down and killed. A few of the warriors looked in his direction, but none headed toward him. The skull was too warm to hold in his naked hands, so he used the satchel to cradle it in.

A bolt of lightning crackled through the falling snow, hitting a tree not far from Bouyer. While the rest of the warriors were scalping and dismembering bodies, Crazy Horse turned his horse and galloped up the ridge toward Bouyer. He came to a halt twenty feet away, staring at the skull in Bouyer’s hands. It was glowing, giving off a slightly blue hue.

The two men stared at each other as another bolt of lightning struck directly between them. Both horses reared and lied to run, forcing them to dismount. Bouyer could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing straight out. The heat from the skull was coming through the satchel’s leather.

Another bolt struck in the same place, and Bouyer lost his grip on the skull. It fell to the ground in front of him, now glowing bright blue. He blinked as a black circle appeared between him and Crazy Horse. It was small, less than a foot in diameter.

Was now the time? Bouyer wondered.

He could see Crazy Horse beyond the black hole. The young Indian was gesturing, stopping other warriors from approaching and killing Bouyer but keeping his eyes on the circle.

The hole grew larger, extending down to the ground.

A hand appeared, the skin blistered and burnt, holding a metal tube. The arm followed, then half a person. His other arm Was stretched back the way he was coming from, as if someone or something were trying to hold on to him.

Bouyer stepped forward to take the metal tube, but a hock of electricity knocked him back a few feet.

The man collapsed through the hole and the circle napped out of existence. The man turned blind eyes toward Bouyer, hands raised in supplication. Crazy Horse and Bouyer both moved forward. The hands fell to the ground.

Bouyer knelt, feeling the man’s neck for a pulse. Nothing. He looked up at Crazy Horse standing over him. “Brother,” he said in Lakota.

A grimace crossed Crazy Horse’s face. “You are not my brother.”

Bouyer ignored the correction as he examined the body. The man wore strange clothes. Even though they were scorched, Bouyer could tell they were made of some kind of tiny material he had never seen before. There was fur around the coat’s hood. It must have been cold like this, where the man had come from, Bouyer realized.

Reaching inside the coat, Bouyer found a metal chain with two small metal plates. He pulled them out. There was writing on them, in English. Bouyer frowned as he read the few words:

It made no sense to Bouyer. What would a Navy man be doing out here on the High Plains, as far from ocean as one could get? And where he had gotten the clothes made of such strange material? And how had he been burned? There was something clutched in the man’s hand. Bouyer pulled back the burnt fingers to reveal a slim metal tube, which he removed.

Bouyer didn’t have time to look at the tube as Crazy Horse stepped up to him, coming to within dew feet. Bouyer slowly stood to face the Sioux warrior.

“It is as Earhart predicted,” Bouyer said. He waved his and to indicate the scene of the massacre below. There were no survivors among Fetterman’s troops, and scalps were being taken while bodies were mutilated. “A desperate battle opened a gate.”

“But it was not time,” Crazy Horse noted. He spit as he nodded his head toward the site of the massacre behind him. “They were weak and cowards.”

Bouyer nodded. “As she said, we will meet again, brother. Another battle, much greater than this, with many brave fighters on both sides.”

“And then you will die,” Crazy Horse said.

Bouyer gave a wistful smile. “We are guided by a greater spirit than our own. And we are more brother than we are not.”

“Next time we meet, only one of us will walk away,” Crazy Horse said.

Or the greater good,” Bouyer said.

The anger left Crazy Horse’s face for the first time. “Whose greater good? My mother said the same thing.”

“Our mother.” Bouyer said.

“I should kill you now,” Crazy Horse said. “Perhaps that will change the prophecy.”

Bouyer noted that Crazy Horse made no move to attack, even as he said the words. “It is our fate to meet again.”

He looked at the scorched tube. There was a mark near one end. Bouyer twisted it and the tube came apart into two pieces. A piece of paper was inside. Bouyer pulled it out and unrolled it. It appeared to be a page tom from a book, but Bouyer had never seen such smooth paper or fine typesetting.

“What does it say?” Crazy Horse asked, his curiosity overcoming his hatred.

“It is a list of names.” Bouyer nodded to himself as he read down the two columns.

‘’Whose names?”

In response, Bouyer tore the paper in two, separating the Columns. “1 believe it is those who must be there for our next meeting.” He handed one piece to Crazy Horse.

Crazy Horse glanced at the paper in his hand. “I cannot read the white man’s writing.”

Bouyer looked at the warriors below, reveling in their victory. “Some are here. Some are from tribes far away.” He took the list back and read it out loud. “From your tribe, the Oglala: yourself, Big Man, Black Twin and He Dog. From the Brule Sioux: Crow Dog. From the Blackfeet: Kill Eagle. The Sans Arc: Fast Bear and High Elk. The Hunkpapa Sioux: Sitting Bull, Gall, Black Moon.” Bouyer continued reading even though Crazy Horse was shaking his head. “From the Cheyenne: Brave Bear, Crazy Head, Two Moons.”

“Those tribes will never gather under one leader,” Crazy Horse argued.

Bouyer folded the list and put it in his pocket. “You have time to prepare. It will most likely be years before we meet again where mother foretold. At the Little Big Horn,”

“And your list?” Crazy Horse asked.

“A man I’ve never heard of. A soldier named Custer and several of his brothers, along with some other officers and men.”

“Why these people?” Crazy Horse demanded.

“Warriors. Brave warriors in one place. As Earhart foretold.”