Seize the Sky (Son of the Plains )

Seize the Sky (Son of the Plains )

Terry C. Johnston

Language: English

Pages: 400

ISBN: 0553289101

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

1991 - Bantam Domain - 2nd Printing - Paperback - Seize The Sky - Vol. 2 : Son of the Plains Series - By Terry C. Johnston - Historical Fiction of Custer and Little Big Horn - VG Condition - Collectible

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battle is to see that fight through the eyes of a keen and objective observer, one who views his role in the conflict only through the lens of a very particular microscope: his entry into the fracas, his coups, his wounds. By piecing together the many of these stories collected over the decades from veterans of that fight against the soldiers along the Greasy Grass River, I have constructed what I believe to be the most plausible rendition of that battle which left no white survivors. In

hearing.” “Just make sure you don’t, son,” his father replied, stepping back of the mule and taking up the harness reins. “It’d break your mother’s heart to hear you use such talk—what with the way that woman’s tried to raise you.” Turning, Thaddeus Bass laid the leather straps in his son’s hands. “Now, get back to work. Sun’s going down.” Titus pointed over at the nearby tree where he had stood the old longrifle. “I been at this all day, and I ain’t had a chance to go fetch me no squirrel

Far West would make himself a small fortune from army coffers at Terry’s behest, as well as taking out of each soldier’s pockets whatever the man had left in the way of loose pay after all this time on the trail. True enough, Tom realized that trader James Coleman had made out quite well along the column’s way west. Coleman and his partner Sipes stayed busy tonight minding their whiskey kegs. For all but the most hardened of drinkers, the traders’ whiskey seemed the best bargain offered beneath

nipple. After the medicine man dug his fingers beneath the pectoral muscles and the blood flowed freely, the shaman would shove a short stick of peeled willow through the wound and beneath that muscle. These small sticks would then be attached to the long rawhide tethers already lashed to the top of that tall pole erected in the center of the Sun Lodge. Gradually the ropes would be drawn up and tightened until the dancer was forced to stand on his toes, eventually drawing the bleeding, torn

curious gathered, slowing their dash to the battle or their flight into the hills for a moment to listen to the old Cheyenne’s story. “These soldiers are the same who attacked my village—when Black Kettle camped us along the Washita many years ago! Aiyeee! These are the very same pony soldiers who killed my mother! The ones who butchered my wife and children when they could not escape the soldier bullets that winter dawn before the sun rose above the blood and stink of our dead people! I have

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