This is an account of a battle between mountain men pinned down by Apaches... Indian Fighters In soaring heat A scene unfolds Of conflict, pain and death. Before us now The stage is set Where hard men draw their breath. From our hilltop Vantage point We overlook the plain. The sound of guns Clearly heard Repeats a sharp refrain. As we draw near This flatland fight Combatants we can see. Hard-bit mountain Men pinned down By gunfire, They can't flee. The trackers lie In shallow spots Barely hid from sight. The depressions In hard turf Helps the white-eyes fight. The two pinned down Are Jones and Schulz, And last night they were three. But their partner In terror ran. Alas, poor man, Mcgee! Mcgee ran fast Into the night. The two heard no shots sound. But his loud cries Chilled both their blood, By warriors he'd been found! Throughout the night His voice was heard, In agony he cried. He cursed and spat, Reviled them all. By morning he had died. By noon today Both Jones and Schulz Are hot, and deadly tired! They watch yet still And warriors fall For each shot they have fired. The sun is high And sky hot brass, An oven the bottom land. Yet through all this Apaches hide, Making an unseen band. Jones watches close While schulz lies back, His Sharps as hot as coals. He slowly cleans It of all dust. Onto his side he rolls. His squinting eyes Take in the shapes Of shadows, rocks and such. He knows these men Are rarely seen Until one feels their touch! What is that there? A dark brown foot He sees not far away; His Sharps is fired, A man cries out. The warrior's cold clay. By unseen foes Are arrows shot. A deadly rain of flint. Jones rolls to left As arrows strike To right. His strength is spent. Schulz is awake Winchester up, Alert for action now. Though hot an tired, Dry and quite weak, Hot furrows he will plow. About them both The scene is still, As silence reigns the land. Apaches have All disappeared, And hidden bodies tanned. Their canteens are But half-full now, Each man takes minute sips. They long to drink And quench the thirst, Instead, they wet their lips. The jerky and The hardtack too Are dangerously low. Though their hunger Know no respite, They do no let it show. The test for them, A patience one. Without it they will fall. Their dark-skinned foes Are experts here, Fighting men are they all. Unseen by Jones, Out of Schulz' sight, Six indians still lay. Led by the one Called "Ghost That Walks", Steadily stalk their prey. These two white men Were a surprise, Their skill in combat, great. Squaws of Lone One, Sky, Whelp and Bear Will loudly mourn their fate. Yet still remain Strong Wind and Scar, And Wolf That Stands Upright. With Cunning Dog, Two Feet Of Clay And Eagle they will fight. The waiting game Continues still, Apaches still as stones. The whites must fall To Ghost That Walks, Where sun will bleach their bones. The braves hide low In open sight Of Jones and Schulz' view. Earth-brown bodies Covered with dust Are unseen by the two. As brave-to-be, These men had played At hunting games, times past. To deal with thirst And heat and ache, They can these two outlast! Cunning Wolf aims And looses a Shaft into the wallow. It nicks the leg Of Shulz to right. But the wound is shallow. As night moves in The war party Makes a desperate play. They do not want To fight at night. If death strikes, make it day! For if a brave In battle falls At night, his soul is lost. Therefore to fight After the dark Can bring too great a cost. A silent rush Of all six men Against the hard-bit two. The death shafts fly, While shots are fired. The trapper's aim was true. Two Feet Of Clay Is down with a Bullet, shot through his chest. Now he is in Great hunting grounds, With daylight death he's blest. But Ghost That Walks Can clearly see, Another trapper's hit. Dead or alive He cannot tell. But has time come to quit? Now but five braves Remain of ten, Hidden safe on the earth. And Ghost That Walks Is plagued with doubts. His magic seems a curse. The three white ones, They should have been An exercise at best! And easy chance For counting coup. This fight has been a test! As nightfall comes He makes his choice, The cost has been too high. The magic of The mountain men Has caused his braves to die. In silence now He gives the sign And quickly they pull out. Taking their dead Unseen by Schulz. They've had enough, no doubt! Schulz les stock still Alert for moves To signal his demise. Waiting for them To rush again. Like ghosts before his eyes. Night has come down, As dark as pitch And still they have not come. In spite of fear He dozes off, In dreams deep tom-toms thrum. The day dawns clear With no attack. Apaches have all gone! And Schulz alone He buries Jones. A bitter victory won. In weariness He gathers up Food, water, his old pack, And starts the trek Towards Houston-town. He walks off down the track. In the village Of Ghost That Walks Mourning women are loud. For those who fell To magic strong. For the dead, they stand proud. In soaring heat A scene unfolds Of peace, silence and wind. The land goes on Just as before, While men to death will tend.