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| The Hunt - The Other Side by � goeswith3faces The three warriors went through thorny bushes, creeks and wastelands since days. When they arrived the Gila River, they rode for a while in its water down-stream in order to obscure their tracks. Their plan was to confuse following soldiers or scouts and to make them believe that they try to leave the area, but they wanted to go back to the reservation when all are searching them far away from St. Carlos. Some days ago, they had an exchange of fire with soldiers. On of the warriors was badly wounded. A bullet entered his body and when it bounced off his rips, it left a terrible hole in his left side that bleeds by every move he did. Since now he was able to ride but the loss of blood would make him that way feeble, that it will be only a question of time that he cannot stand the ride anymore. They made a short stop on little rocky plateau. The two healthy warriors made a little fire to disinfect the wound of their friend. After they had sterilized the wound, the wounded soldier went behind a bush to a little rock to refresh the bandages for his wound. He made the bandages out of shreds from his shirt. Carefully in avoiding every track, he put the old bandages behind a loose stone that he put carefully back on its place, when he finished. One hour later, they rode again. They was not afraid about the army, the biggest problem they had were the native scouts who followed them for sure. Native scouts were a hand full of half- and full -blooded reservation-natives who were recruited by the army at first for pathfinder jobs. Most of them lost all relations to their tribe and the reservation made them unable to breath. That is why they saw their only ways out in joining the army and fighting, even when it means to fight their own people. Because of the fact that the army was unable to act in the hard climate of New Mexico and its surroundings, they were increasingly used for blood-jobs. They knew one of them, �Carlos�, who was the son of a chiracahua woman who had been violated by a drunken reservation-trader. When Carlos was born his mother committed suicide. Carlos grew up in the St. Carlos Reservation. It was impossible to see a difference between him and other chiracahuas but from the day of his birth, his heart was broken. On day, people found the dead body of the reservation-trader behind a saloon. Somebody had beaten him to death with a blacksmith�s hammer. They never found the perpetrator, but it was a good reason for the army to send many �suspicious Indians� into prison. Carlos was to that time 13 years old. Three years later, he joined the army as scout and his name was well known in the army, because he never gave up before a job was done. He was the army�s best blood dog but not interested in any company. He was never seen with friends. All his life he was alone. For sure, they will send out Carlos to find them. The warriors rode the whole night and the whole day in direction of the White Mountains. The wounded warrior touched his wound from time to time and recognized that it did not stop bleeding. He tried to take a nap on his ride but the pain in his left side made it impossible. Now they changed the direction again and in a hook, they returned to the direction of St. Carlos. After hours, the wounded soldier went alone his way back to St. Carlos. The other warriors made a short stop again. They checked their guns, before they put around their ponies� hoofs shreds of their shirts in order to avoid tracks, when they rode the whole way back near the place where they made the hook in direction of St. Carlos. Round about one mile before they reached the place, they let their horses free. The horses would find by it selves its way home to the reservation. The lead melted away to maybe not a whole hour when they dug themselves in into the sand near the place at that they changed the direction. The Winchester Rifles in front of them, all time ready to shoot and only hidden by the sand, they awaited the arrival of the scouts. They were right with their calculation, because it took not an hour, before a cloud of dust came slowly near the place where they lay. They could see three riders. Native-scouts. One with a dusty hat inquired the track, the other followed close behind. The scout with the head leaded his horse on its bridle, when the warriors jumped off and started shooting. Nearly at the same time two bullets entered the chest of the Native-Scout who wear the dusty had and throw him back between two rocks. During his fall, two other bullets entered his body, one in his left leg and the other near his throat. The other Scouts were unable to react that was why before they recognized what had happened, they touched deadly wounded the ground by a hail of bullets. Before the smoke of powder was gone, the two warriors made sure that the scouts are dead. Only the scout between the rocks was still alive, but because of his wounds, he was unable to move. His eyes glow when he saw the warriors coming, but not hate made his eyes glowing; it was thankfulness that he had reached after a short but heavy life an end. A peacefully smile brightened his face when one of the warriors put his rifle on his chest to pull the trigger. After the last shot, his body reared a last time, before the wind took his spirit away. His long hair surrounded his face like a frame. Even in his death the peacefully smile did not disappear. Carlos was 24 years old when his life found an end. Before they caught the scout�s horses in order to ride back to St. Carlos, they put around Carlos head a red headband, to let Creator know, that he was one of them � In Respect to all lives on Mother Earth ~ Goes-with-three-faces ~ |
