The Battle of Louisville

[Lief Erikson]

*Well, I suppose I might as well be the first one to post one of my short stories here. This one I wrote a year and a half ago. I've written several others since then, and I'll be posting several of them in this forum also.

I'm really looking forward to reading short stories that some of the others of you have written.*


The Battle of Louisville

"Matthew Tom Orlins, you are the biggest fool I ever saw in my life."
Matthew sighed and looked up at the sky for a moment, his hands finding their way behind his back. He then wobbled for a moment on tiptoes, his typical defensive posture. A habit he’d had for a long time, however odd it might be. The young woman who stood before him had her hands on her hips and glared up into his eyes angrily.
"Listen Elsa," he said as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. "You know that Bark Jarn has just recently come into town, and he says that there’s Indians comin.’ He knows what he’s talking about, and . . ."
"Then why aren’t you helping with the preparation?"
"I was going over to old Red Ermine to hear what he forecasts for the situation. He can see into the future, you know."
Elsa shook her head in despair. "You would wait on the old fraud hand and foot if he asked you to, wouldn’t you? You would be far more useful either helping to prepare the defense or helping us women hide the valuables." She took a step closer. "You didn’t by any chance find out which Indians it was, did you? It wasn’t . . ."
"I think it was Mad Owl."
She breathed a small sigh of relief. "Well. At least that aint Far Blower. Last time he came through he killed three of ours, one of whom was Joe Woodkins. He was one of the most likable people in town, and it hurt bad having him gone."
"One of the others was mighty good with his rifle as well, I hear. Did he scalp any of them?"
"Just the outlander boy. Tom . . . Oh, I can’t remember his last name, but his first name was Tom. The others he killed with arrows, and we were able to hold him off so that he couldn’t come into the town itself."
Matthew took a step away from her. "Yes, well this aint Far Blower. Mad Owl never was known for his ability to make strategy and the like. All he could do was attack like . . . well, like a Mad Owl. Company charge."
"He won’t be any problem. But you’re pretty good with your rifle yourself, so you really ought to be out there with the others. They’re chopping trees to use for barricades or to impede Mad Owl’s progress, and you really should . . . Hey! Where you goin’?"
Matthew quickened his pace away from her. "Red Ermine really should have something interesting to tell, after that I promise I’ll . . ." he let his voice drift off before he was completely out of hearing distance.
"Crazy mutton head," Elsa walked away muttering.


Far Blower looked up at Mad Owl. All the fool could think about was scalps and killing. He had no thought for strategy, only foolish bravery. But if he ever was going to accomplish his goal of conquering LouisVille, he’d need all the help he could get. And that meant he needed Mad Owl. For distraction if nothing else. This was the last time their warriors would meet up before the separated completely, Far Blower and his men waiting for Mad Owl’s to take the lead and then sneaking off into the bushes to hit the village behind the men. Let Mad Owl take the brunt of the fighting. That was probably what the insane Indian would want, anyway. He himself would strike the town, taking them all by surprise. They would be surprised indeed to find twice the numbers they were expecting to fight, and a good deal smarter of a commander in charge of the second force. He would finish off all of the women and children, taking only the able bodied ones as slaves. Then he would wait and kill or torture the men when they returned as well. But the pain of what their wives and children had gone through would be the worst pain they would suffer through it all.
Then he’d scalp their survivors and leave the lot of them in agony.
A smile spread across Far Blower’s face. All of his plans were well laid out, and his men would certainly get the easy pickings. His former defeat when he’d attacked LouisVille had left a permanent wound in his pride, and he would now finally heal that wound by doing this deed.
He fingered his scalping knife. Yes. He would deal with them all.

[Lief Erikson]

Bark Jarn looked up as Matthew Orlins walked past him. "Howdy mate! Good to see you. You goin to join us at the barricade?"
"Sure," he answered easily. "Just one more call to take first."
"Don’t let it be long. These Injuns aren’t going to wait politely for the whole company to be assembled."
Matthew picked up his pace. Red Ermine’s hut was nearby. Just across the brook and about a half mile away. But still, it was true that there wasn’t any good in dilly dallying. The company which was going out to fight the enemy was already being assembled, and he intended to be part of it.
Swinging up onto his horse, he set off at a quick trot towards the hut. It wasn’t long before he reached it. The old Indian was sitting down beside a smoking campfire. There was little fire in it, only barely red coals.
"Hail, Master Orlins," the Indian said without looking up at him.
"Uh . . . hail, Red Ermine. You got any information which I oughta know?"
The Indian continued stirring the coals. "Well, there is one small piece of news which you may want to know."
Matthew dismounted and walked over to the Indian, pulling the horse’s lead rope. "What is it?" he asked when he was standing directly in front of the Indian.
"Your friend, Bark Jarn. He is in terrible danger of losing his life in the coming battle."
Matthew’s eyes widened. "Who or what is endangering him? Is it firmly set in the future, or is it possible to alter?"
"It is vague . . . I think it is firmly set, but there might still be hope."
Matthew squatted down beside the Indian. "What would I have to do?"
"Protect him from a one eyed man. That is the man that brings the wings of doom to clutch Bark Jarn."
"I will deal with him. Does this one eyed man come with the Indian attackers? Or will this be later on?"
The Indian squinted at the coals. "Yes, I think he will indeed be coming with the Indians. Go, and do as you wish in this matter."
"You can count on me." Matthew stood up. "Well, if that’s all, I guess I’d better be going. We’ve got us a war to fight."


Mad Owl watched the trees ahead. He wore buckskin pants and a coat of the same color. Its laces were undone, exposing his bare, war paint covered chest. Around his head he wore a magnificent headdress with eagle feathers. His bow and arrows had been scattered and broken a year ago when he’d been galloping through the forest and knocked into a river by a flying rock. Who had thrown the rock was still a mystery to him. He had exchanged those weapons for a modern rifle and cartridges. His tomahawk was still with him though, stuck through his belt. His scalping knife was also begging for people to work on.
He motioned to his other warriors with one hand and they approached, pulling out their weapons as they did.
"The enemy who caused us so much trouble lies ahead! Charge to death or glory! Either is honorable! On!"
His men gave a halfhearted cheer and followed his lead as he kicked the sides of his mount and plunged recklessly into the woods.
Gunshots rang through the air all around him, bullets and leaves whipping past. The honor, glory and coolness of it all!
Thud!
All of the air left his lungs and he gasped in startled shock. He could see his horse below him still galloping onwards in panic. Ill trained beast. When its master was stuck on a branch, it ought to know better than to simply run away! It ought to wait on him!
He looked down at the ground and simply dangled there, supported by the tree branch.
"Gagh!" he muttered in anger. "Down!"
Pulling out his tomahawk, he began chopping at the tree branch. Seeing that this was not helping much, he eventually stopped and put the tomahawk back beneath his belt.
With a grunt of effort, he pulled himself the rest of the way onto the branch and balanced on it precariously a moment before falling off.
Ooff!
All of the air left his lungs again and he looked up, finding himself splayed out on his back on the leafy ground.
Picking himself up, he gave a fierce war whoop and charged off into the woods, looking for enemies to scalp.

[Lief Erikson]

"Where’ve you been?" Bark Jarn shouted as Matthew Orlins dismounted and ran over to the barricade, rifle in hand.
"Sorry for being late."
Bark Jarn was surprised by the look of concern and protectiveness in Matthew Orlins’ face and tone, but decided not to mention it at present. "The main fighting is out in the woods right now. A few trappers started a bit of a surprise attack for the Injuns, but they’ll be comin’ back soon. See look," he pointed, "There’s the first of ‘em comin’ out now."
Two trappers ran from the woods, scrambling up the hill and swinging over the barricade where they lay winded, panting for breath.
Matthew checked the load of his rifle once, then looked forward into the forest again.
Now several more trappers were running out of the woods. "That’s all of us that’ll come," said one who swung over the barricade. "The rest are trapped or hiding. I don’t know if any on our side were killed, but I know for certain that the injuns have had a few losses."
"They’re right puny and bad equipped targets," Bark Jarn said, spitting on the grass nearby.
"Don’ gimme anymore a your bad grammar," the trapper snorted. "You aughta watch you tongue."
Bark was just drawing his fist back for a punch when a shout came up from within the ranks and the first Indians began scrambling up the hill. Instantly shots began to sound and the Indians’ bodies soon all lay crumpled on the ground.
The fighting lasted several minutes more, but finally it was plain that the Indians had been decisively beaten. Only one person, the disagreeable trapper, had been wounded. And he said that the Indian arrow sticking out of his shoulder was only a scratch, so no one bothered with giving him medical attention.
Soon the company had slung their rifles over their shoulder and were heading back towards the town, victory in their grasp and happy smiles on their faces.


*I'll continue the story later, but will give people a chance to read this much, first. Once again, I'm looking forward to reading other people's short stories as well .*

[Lief Erikson]

Far Blower opened his eyes slightly and wiped the sleep out of them. Suddenly he started. Sleep!
He jumped to his feet with a roar of rage, startling his warriors. "HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN ASLEEP???!"
None of the warriors answered him, knowing that he would slay the speaker.
The sun was a good deal higher in the sky than it had been last time he looked. It must be at least a couple hours. Mad Owl must be dead already, and those at the barricade returning home. There was too little time, but he had to take out his revenge on them. They might just make it if they hurried. In a fury, he gave orders for his men to charge the town, moving forward at all speed.
"Masked Otter, you shall be my right hand. Come, we must proceed swiftly if we are to regain our honor."
The one eyed Indian, Masked Otter, smiled darkly. "Yes, Chief Far Blower. I share your lust for glory and scalps. I shall gladly follow you."
Far Blower spat on him.


"What was that?"
Matthew Orlins cocked his rifle and aimed it in the direction Bark Jarn had indicated. "I’ll shoot it whatever it is."
"You mean you heard it too?"
"No, but I’ll take your word for it."
"You’ll simply startle the other members of the company, and someone might get hurt. I’ll drop back and see."
"No! You’ll die!"
Bark Jarn’s eyes widened in shocked surprise. "What do you mean I’ll die?"
Matthew shrugged noncommittally. "It’s just a feeling I have."
Bark Jarn stared and him in incredulity for a moment. "Well, I doubt that it was anything. Come on, let’s be on our way. Elsa and the other girls will be looking for us for certain."
An arrow hissed past his ear, but he didn’t notice.
"Look, an arrow," Matthew remarked as he noticed the arrow quivering in the ground several feet ahead of them.
"ATTACK!" Bark Jarn shouted, swinging behind a tree and cocking his rifle.
Matthew dove for a bush and crushed it under his weight. He rolled off of it and struggled to get into a more upright position so that he could use it as cover. Then he remembered Bark. Swinging around, he pulled a pistol from his pouch and fired it off into the brush. Two more shots rang out from others who were responding to Bark Jarn’s warning.
The Indians, thinking that the shout ‘attack’ was an order for them, even though it was English, charged forward.
Far Blower and Masked Otter dismounted and moved towards their opponents more cautiously.
Matthew ignored all of the Indians galloping past him, knowing that they could slaughter him if they discovered his hiding place.
As the last of them disappeared in the brush ahead, Bark Jarn and Matthew Orlins stepped out of their hiding places. Both had reloaded their weapons, and now was the time that Matthew was certain their one eyed Indian opponent would reveal himself. His feelings drew into a tight knot, and his eyes widened with fear. He stared around, looking for their attacker.


"Look," whispered Masked Otter. "There are two white men. I’ll shoot one, you kill the other."
"Fool," Far Blower said in disgust. "You would shoot and more than likely miss, and then the other would turn and take out both of us. Our hiding place isn’t that good, my Indians cannot afford to loose a good leader because his second in command is stupid. We’ll go around them."
"I feel the urging of fate."
"Then go and follow your fate. I don’t need someone like you anyway . . ."
"WAAHOOHOOHOO!"
Masked Otter’s war whoop startled the two white men, and they both whirled around, instantly raining bullets through the brush in the direction of the noise.
Far Blower glared at Masked Otter as he sank to his knees. "Now look what you’ve done, you fool. I shall never live to restore my honor."
"Nor I to accomplish the will of fate."
Far Blower let his knife join the bullet wounds that covered Masked Otter, and that Indian fell over, dead.
Finally Far Blower lay down too, and glared around, as if daring anyone to take advantage of him on his death bed. And so died the great Indian Chief Far Blower, and a poem was written of his death by his followers, many years later:

[Lief Erikson]

The warrior chief, the great Far Blower,
He took his bow and he took his arrow,
Then off he rode to face his foes
In the evil Town of LouisVille.
He rode all night and through the morrow,
His strong arm ready and determination set.
So down he rode, down from the village,
Down to the fortress of LouisVille.

They burst the walls and spiked the cannons,
They slashed the front row of soldiers to ribbons,
But woe was there, for the great Far Blower.
For even as victory began to look certain,
Just as his enemies began to run with fear,
The horse of steel, the great locomotive
Swung into the town and let loose its load.
From it leapt soldiers, their weapons ready,
Their eyes black and sabers polished,
And the chief looked and laughed,
And began the Shinonee, the dance of death
In the olden tongue.

Then the fighting was fierce, Far Blower at the front,
As he slew hundreds and fought the thousands left,
But long it could not last, and finally his axe fell,
His quiver spent and his knife broke,
And down fell the warrior chief,
Down fell the Far Blower.

[Gwaimir Windgem]

Originally posted by Lief Erikson
*I'll continue the story later, but will give people a chance to read this much, first. Once again, I'm looking forward to reading other people's short stories as well .*

I've only read this far, but it looks very good. There were a few things I saw, though:

"Well. At least that aint Far Blower. Last time he came through he killed three of ours, one of whom was Joe Woodkins. He was one of the most likable people in town, and it hurt bad having him gone."

The last sentence seems a bit...out of place or unnatural, maybe even a little forced to me. -shrugs- I don't know; maybe it would be better to relegate that to thought, something like:

"Well. At least that aint Far Blower. Last time he came through he killed three of ours, one of whom was Joe Woodkins." Joe had been one of the most likable people in town; losing him had hurt everyone bad.

These Injuns aren’t going to wait politely for the whole company to be assembled."

I think "These Injuns ain't goin' to wait" might be more in keeping with dialect.

The honor, glory and coolness of it all!

By coolness, do you mean as in temperature?

And that's as far as I've read so far. As I said, very good and interesting, indeed. I find the Red Ermine chap very interesting, indeed.

[Lief Erikson]

That was a brief switch into modern language . Cool, as in, "Oh, it's so cool that he's learned skateboarding!" It was a word that was commonly used around my house at the time too. Something was cool or it was not cool. For example, a dramatic fight sequence in one of our games or the introduction of somebody with new powers who wins the day was "cool." A villainous wicked tyrant riding a horse having his horse stabbed in the bottom from behind and careening him off the cliff was considered "uncool," though things like that have been known to happen .

The Indian chief was thinking how cool in terms of how dramatic the action was.

[Arat-Falathion]

Ah I enjoyed that story Lief and the poem at the end there was just fitting. How people lie to give their chieftain a honorable death

- Falathion

[Lief Erikson]

Yes .