Buntokapi rubbed his jaw with a stubby thumb as he considered everything laid out before him. ‘No, you see,’ he said at last, ‘we shall strike just before they reach the second crest, so they think that they have been engaged by our advance patrol. But most of our men will lie in wait to the rear.’ He grinned with vicious anticipation. ‘The bandits will think the bulk of the Acoma garrison in front of them, defending the borders of the estate. They will run back the way they came, through our arrows, on to our shields and swords.’ He paused and added, ‘Papewaio, you will go with Lujan to the other end of the vale, with’ – he quickly calculated – ‘all but fifty of the best archers. Keyoke will take twenty archers and station himself at the high ridge pass, just out of sight.’ His anticipation grew ugly. ‘Keyoke, when the bandits come, have the men yell war cries and strike their armour and dance to send up dust, so the enemy will think you an army. If they still advance, shoot them down.’
The matter decided, Buntokapi shouldered his bow. ‘The archers will take cover on the rim above the bandits, the better to rain death down among them. It is wisest if I oversee this company.’ Keyoke nodded agreement, recalling the practice bouts in the yard before the barracks. Buntokapi might be slow with a blade, but with a bow he was a demon. Excited now, Buntokapi delivered his last orders to Papewaio to ensure no bandit would slip through the line.
Grim beneath the shadow of his helm, Keyoke admired the audaciousness of the plan. Buntokapi expected a victory; and with the bold twists the young Lord of the Acoma had added, the bandit force might indeed be doomed.
Crouched upon the ridge, Buntokapi waved to the archer concealed across the dell. But the men moving below did not see his signal, for early morning mist whitened the dell like a blanket, obscuring anything more than a dozen yards away. The sun barely reddened the rocky rim of the eastern peaks, and the haze would not burn off for several hours. The invaders were only beginning to stir; here a man squatted to relieve himself, while others washed at the spring, beat dust from their blankets, or gathered dry wood to make fires for tea. Few yet wore armour. If scouts were posted, they were indistinguishable from the warriors rubbing sleep from their eyes. Amused by the general lack of preparation, Buntokapi laughed quietly, picked his target – the squatting man – and let fly. His arrow thudded into flesh, and battle at last was joined.
The first victim fell with a strangled cry. Instantly every Acoma archer loosed their bows from the ridges. Thirty raiders were struck down before a man among them could react. Then the bandit company erupted like a hive. Blankets fluttered abandoned and cooking pots rolled into fires as the men under attack broke for cover. Buntokapi chuckled viciously and let fly another arrow. It struck his target in the groin, and he fell, writhing, and tripped a fleeing companion. Too many men were crowded together in too small an area, and their panic made the slaughter easy. Before their commanders could restore order, another twenty were struck down. Voices shouted commands in the clearing. Acoma archers picked their targets with increasing difficulty as the raiders went to ground, using fallen trees, large rocks, or even shallow depressions for cover. Yet still the arrows found targets.
An officer’s shouted orders caused the raiders to break towards the Acoma borders. Buntokapi’s exultation turned savage. Probably the ruffian in command thought he had encountered a patrol whose intent was to drive his men back into the hills. Those bandits who managed to regroup and obey reached the shadow of the second ridge, only to be stopped by shouts and the squeak of armour. Five men in the van fell with arrows bristling from them as Keyoke’s archers entered the fray. The soldiers in the lead jostled to a disorganized halt. Another dozen went down before the rearguard understood their predicament and an officer ordered a retreat.
Sunlight touched the mist, dyeing the fringes red as the original thirty archers continued their murderous fire from the ridge. Hampered, and dying by the moment, the invaders pulled back through the narrow defile. An elated Buntokapi guessed a full third of their number lay dead or wounded. He kept up his rapid shooting, and calculated that another third would be down before his retreating victims encountered the Acoma soldiers who waited to their rear. Yet well before he ran short of targets, Buntokapi exhausted his supply of arrows. Frustrated at his inability to kill, he grabbed a large rock and sighted upon a man lying just behind an outcropping of stone. He reared back and hurled the stone, rewarded by a cry of pain from below. Heated with the lust of battle, he sought more rocks.
Other bowmen out of arrows soon joined in, and now a hail of stones descended upon the raiders. From the east, dust rose along the trail, accompanied by the sound of men shouting, Keyoke and his band lending the appearance that their ‘army’ charged to attack. Several of the raiders sprang to their feet in alarm, while the more panic-stricken spearheaded a general break to the west. Buntokapi sent his last stone whistling downwards. Afire with the anticipation of glory and victory, he drew his sword and shouted, ‘Acoma!’