My eyes fly open as the lock clicks into place keeping the monsters at bay, for now. I need to do something. The Indians shoot at us from all directions. We are running wild. We are dead if I don’t come up with a plan. We are probably dead even if I do.

“Corral the wagons!” I shout to Lieutenant Lewis. He springs into action yelling this order and that to his men. His small handful of inexperienced men skirmish with the savages on the rear while Lewis and the teamsters continue the arduous task of trying to corral the wagons and avoid dying. It’s hard to think with the yelling of men, the hoofbeats of the horses, and the savage yells of the Indians. The devil himself could not have conjured up a more terrifying scene. 

“Armond!” I hear the accented scream of a man who rushes to the fallen soldier. He presses his hand to de Armond and it comes back covered in blood.  De Armond lies limp in his arms, his eyes open yet unseeing. 

I shift my focus to Lewis who yells and presses a hand to his leg where a bullet ripped a large hole. The men immediately flock to his rescue and the ball of stones that is sitting in the pit of my stomach sinks lower. I am down a skilled soldier and possibly a Lieutenant. I have seventy more men who depend on me to get them out of this alive and there are about four hundred Indians on the ridges following us from all directions firing weapons that our government gave them. 

I yell at Sergeant Hay to take over for Lieutenant Lewis at the rear where the heaviest fire is. He reins his horse and yells to  his men. They continue firing back allowing the teamsters to complete the corral. Suddenly a bullet whizzes by my ear, so close I heard it whisper my name. I yell at the men near me to open fire on the Indians. We fire at them for some time. Many of the men have had little experience with our new rifles and miss their target. Even in the assault, I cannot in good conscience want the Indians to die. I simply want my men to live. To live without the horrors of taking a life if I can. The chaos continues as the sun sets. I would marvel at the rusty red and orange of a Texas sunset if I had not seen so much red already. The symbolism of a blood red setting sun is not lost on my heavy poetic heart. 

De Armond is dead. Lieutenant Lewis is as good as dead if a doctor doesn’t get here, and Wagon Master Sanford has been shot. We have a captive white Indian whom I do not trust, but he seems to help as he can. We have little water and food. Perhaps even less ammunition. Four hundred Kiowa, Cheyenne, and Comanche Indians lie on the ridges waiting to kill us. I wonder why they don’t get it over with? What are they keeping us from? 

I order the men to dig rifle pits along the inside of the corral. This will provide extra protection for us if this skirmish continues into another day as I suspect it will. I delegate this task and crawl to a solitary place to think. It’s a pitch-black night on the ninth of September. I have no other option but to write for assistance. There is no way we will survive without it. 

Dawn rouses me with her soft white light. I have barely opened my eyes to register the new day when the enemy begins shooting again. Shooting and small skirmishes which my men drive off take up most of the day. The Indians charge us with splendid displays of horsemanship. Colorful blankets and bonnets with long feathers decorate their dark skin and their horses. They are simultaneously the picture of fear and grace. I will never be as good a horseman as they are. But, admire them as I do, I must protect my men, for unlike me, they do not care if they kill us or not. I have a feeling many would prefer to scalp us all. 

I gather the men at dusk. “Soldiers, we are in a perilous situation. We cannot move ahead and we will surely die if we stay. We have lost several men to the enemy as well as to our own incidences. I have written a letter, and it must be taken to Fort Supply.” I hold up the letter for them to see. They stare are it with mixed expressions. One soldier says, “Captain, we will die of thirst before the letter reaches Fort Supply. We need water.” The grumbling assents of the group rise. Some get shifty on their feet. I pull the letter from my jacket pocket. “Unless the Indians decide they are tired of us and move on, this is our only hope.” I scan their dirty and weary faces. Guilt pools in my stomach. What I am about to ask of one of them is nothing short of a death sentence. “Who will take this letter to Fort Supply?” The only sound breaking the silence is the purring of the cicadas. “I will do it,” says the strong voice of one of our scouts, Schmalsle. I close my eyes for a second. I am relieved to have a volunteer, but I don’t know Schmalsle, he’s new to us, hired on as a scout to get us through this wilderness.  I pray he is savvy and his horse is strong. I dismiss the men, but before they disperse a dark- haired man questions me about taking a party of men to gather water. I tell him it is not a smart tactic. The enemy is lying in wait. He knows this land better than anything, save the creatures that find ways to survive here. I will not risk their lives for water until it is absolutely necessary. “We have been out of water for one day,” I tell the dark-haired man. “We will wait until our situation is dire and then we will formulate a plan.” He presses his lips together to keep whatever words of disagreement from passing them, but I can see the message loud and clear in his dark wide set eyes. He salutes me at his dismissal. 

Schmalsle and I stand at the north edge of the corral. We do not have the cover of darkness tonight. Though only a quarter moon, it is bright and full of promise and hope. I hope my words carry the same tone. “Ride fast and hard. Do not stop until you reach Camp Supply. Give this letter to Colonel Lewis of the 19th Infantry.” I hand Schmalsle the letter and he tucks it securely inside his shirt. He looks at me with small dark eyes. He twitches his moustache. “I will make it to Camp Supply, Captain.” His eyes shine with earnest hope. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding and put a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, man,” I reply low enough so that only he can hear me. By the way he looks at me, I can tell the gesture I gave him was acknowledged. He might not be a registered soldier in with the Army, but he has the respect due a soldier from me. He bows his head at me before he turns to mount his horse. In a flash he is gone. I can hear the hoofbeats of his horse strike the hard earth in rhythmic time. For a moment I feel relief flood my weary body. Then I hear gunshots and the shouts of Indians. I send a prayer up to God. For only God can save Schmalsle now. 

As I approach the center of the corral, I am met by a wide-eyed green soldier. I can’t understand what he says, but he gestures wildly and points to the opposite side the corral. I follow him there and see the shadowy figures of several men running into the night. 

I swear under my breath. Desperate men will make rash choices, but these men defied the direct order of their captain. I’m not sure how much time passed, but eventually the shouts of Indians and the sounds of bullets break the silence of the night and a small herd of men come running back to the safety of the corral. When they are all safely inside their heads hang in shame and failure. I want to unleash my anger on them. I want to tell them I told them it was a foolish attempt. But I can see the shame they feel is more treacherous than any tongue lashing I can give them. Instead I order them to dig two graves for DeArmond and McCoy (the other teamster who died) and we hold a small ceremony under the stars. The very least I can offer is a moment of civility. A moment to remind us of our fragile humanity. 

Days pass agonizingly slowly. I swear the land wants to punish us as badly as the Indians. The sun drains us of energy and the wind is either deadly still or it lashes so great that we are whipped by dirt. We have been out of water two days. I’m forced to risk runs for  the watering hole nearby only to be met with gunfire and arrows, they scramble back with their lives. But who knows for how long we cling to life. I am not sure why the Indians don’t finish the job. We are outnumbered, we are out of provisions, we are utterly at their mercy. Yet, they do nothing. It is peculiar behavior that differs from all accounts of Indian raids I am familiar with. Perhaps they have learned the cost a soul pays each time a life is taken. It’s a lesson I keep relearning. 

The men are so desperate for something to drink. We drink the juice from cans of tomatoes and peaches, rations intended for Mile’s men also out of provisions by now. The enemy continues to fire on us from all directions. More men are injured from skirmishes with the Indians. Prayers to God in a multitude of language fill my ears. He is the only one who can see us freed. Suddenly, huge fat raindrops assault my face. As I wipe the water away, I hear the low rumble of thunder and the clack of lightning as it strikes the sky in a jagged line. Thankful for the rain, we set out pots and pans to catch what water we can. The rain slowly turns from blessing to curse. Soon we are laying in puddles, the water is rising. Some of my men report seeing Indians leaving. But we cannot be sure it’s not another one of their tricks. Even if they leave us here, without help, our wounded men will die and we’ve lost too many mules to be able to deliver the wagons. The Indians know this. Why bother to kill us, we are dead anyway.

The day passes into night. The men grumble and moan. They look to me for answers, for how to save them from this death trap. If I had food in my stomach, I would vomit. I don’t know how to save them now. There are just some things even the most skilled soldier cannot overcome. I am in the belly of the whale, when a man rushes up to me. His eyes, lit up with excitement are a welcome relief from the downcast dull stares I have grown accustomed to. 

“Captain! There’s a party of men in the distance. It might be Schmalsle bringing help!” I jump to my feet and follow the soldier to see the party of men. They are far away shrouded in mist. It is hard to see them. We signaled to them with yells, but they did not hear us. I ordered a few men to run out and guide them back. Hope crept into my bones. It was an odd sensation. I had forgotten what it felt like. It tingled and sent butterflies fluttering in my stomach. But the fluttering beauties stilled, and I swallowed the taste of bitter disappointment as the mounted party turned away from us.

Alone. I feel like I am always alone even though I am surrounded by my men. I look at their sunken pale faces. They walk about as if they are trapped in some kind of hellish limbo. I wonder what they have left to be here. Do they have wives and children? Do those who came to America for a better life  wish they stayed in their homeland? Do I have what it takes to get them back to the things they love? 

They rainy day turns into a rainy night. We are soaked to the bone, and I fear someone will catch a sickness and spread it to the others. I’m not sure when it happened, but eventually I drift into a cold wet sleep. It’s restless and full of fits. One moment I see the beautiful face of my wife, the next I see the blood-stained fields from years of fighting against the Rebels, then the red paint of the Indians who charged us, it’s all red. I can feel it in my throat choking the life from me. It’s taken over my body and it’s shaking me with such force. I gasp, pulled from this horror by the shouts of the men. 

“Captain Lyman! Help is here! Schmalsle did it!” Voices lit with such excitement that if I had not witnessed it, I would not be able to tell they had spent days locked in endless battle, exhausted, thirsty, in pain. . I jump up and look over the hill. The sun is beginning to rise and I see it. Hope crests the ridge and stretches her fingers out to us. I clasp it with my blood-stained hands.