Broken Arrows, Broken Promises

The roar of the attack had subsided, replaced by the ragged gasps of men and the low, mournful cries of the wounded. Dust, thick and acrid, still clung to the air, a shroud over the carnage. We had driven them back, or at least, held them. The sheer ferocity of their assault, the unwavering wave of painted faces and glinting steel, had seemed unstoppable just moments before. Now, a strange, fragile quiet had fallen, punctuated only by the groans of the injured and the distant, mournful howl of a coyote.

My lungs burned, each breath a searing reminder of the smoke and sweat and fear that had filled the canyon. My rifle felt impossibly heavy in my trembling hands, its barrel still hot from the rapid fire. Around me, my men lay sprawled, some still, some stirring, their blue uniforms stained with the crimson of their wounds. Sergeant Miller, bless his brave, foolish heart, was gone. I’d seen him fall, a dozen arrows sprouting from his chest like morbid blossoms. The guilt, a familiar serpent, coiled in my gut. Another one. Another man lost on my watch.

“Douglas?” Elias’s voice, raspy and strained, cut through the ringing in my ears. He was beside me, his own face a mask of grime and blood, a nasty gash bleeding freely above his eye. He clutched a pistol, its cylinder empty.