Outside, the world was stirring. Through the misty windows a new sun was widening the sky from the dark purple of twilight and turning the base of long fingers of rippled clouds to deep red. But forty miles to the north the ripples of red were from rivers of blood. In the middle of a frosty field pleasantly tinted by wood smoke, and rising high above Black Kettle's lodge on a tall angular tepee pole, an impotent American flag hung limp at dawn. Its presence was meant to afford protection to those camped near it; a suggestion holding a promise of Fort Lyon's commandant. But instead, it advertised a tragedy so barbaric that two officers refused to have any part, while watching others unleash industrial thunder onto an unsuspecting people. Artillery wagons spat fire and terror as Indians tried to escape into a draw, while close rifle fire cut them down by the score, regardless of sex, age or children raw, women and babes and tired old men alike. Some of Fort Lyon's soldiers had spent the night inside the camp, having been peaceably trading with the Indians, as was often permitted, and were almost killed by the indifferent spit of their own guns. When the cannons fell silent the cavalry charged; sabers high, flashing, slashing, sabering every piece of flesh bare, flaying to the bone, pistols belching smoke and lead as the frenzy of drunken cowards hollered craven obscenities to offset the horror of their actions. Children were shot in frightened groups huddling together. Shot in the comfort of their mothers' arms. Shot as they stumbled along, numb, stunned and frantic. Shot in the back while running scared. Even shot point blank sitting in bewilderment to cry and stare. Shot without quarter while eyes pleaded not to be. All shot. Black Kettle's wife was holed nine times, but miraculously survived to tell the ghastly tale of humanity's hypocrisy. Then both the dead and wounded endured scalping and butchery to a degree of bestial brutality that cast a stain on all mankind. This barbarous depravity, so well performed beneath a limp banner of liberty, was then lauded by the territorial governor.
About the Author: Robert D. Hubble grew up to be a farmer, leaving his London school at the first opportunity to do so. Immediately after college, however, life forced a change, as it so often does, and Robert became a Sapper instead, serving as a Combat Engineer in Britain's Corps of Royal Engineers. Then, still with a desire to farm, he left England to help run a mid-west dairy farm among the frozen lakes of northern Minnesota. Another life changing experience led Robert to the wilds of central Idaho where he immediately fell in love with the magnificent mountains and the dirty physical work of fighting wildfires. A job which eventually enabled him to experience many years as a U.S. Smokejumper in the Rocky Mountains of Montana. Where he now lives with his wife Christina, who has twice nursed Robert back from the edge and given him time to write.