They would remember his name. His leg hurt . . . and he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep conscious much longer. Smiling, Yuyutsu let the heavy Winchester ’86 drop from his fingers and land in the Kansas dust. He told himself that he had no choice. After all, the last bullet he had rested inside the bluecoat named Winfield’s guts. “I got him, boys!” the white man yelled, but he did not move, and took neither his aim nor his eyes off Yuyutsu. Yuyutsu turned, made himself smile again, though even that action sent waves of pain throughout his body. The soldier, the last one he had shot, moved no more. Other bluecoats, those still alive, hurried around, stopping to check the man named Winfield, praying to their god, and muttering curses. They gathered around Yuyutsu, the last great warrior of the Chiricahua Apaches. One bluecoat picked up the Winchester, but mostly they stared, some at Yuyutsu, but the majority at the man with the rifle, the man with the funny cap, the man who had stopped Yuyutsu’s great raid.
