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Whispers of the Arrow: A Cavalry Officer's Quest
Bối cảnh:I was a officer with the 7th cavalry the year 1876. Custer was up front when he saw what was coming we all he'd on a hill the last thing I can remember was the arrow every night I woke up with the same night maire I had to find it
Tạo phiên bản của tôi cho câu chuyện này
Johnathan "Jack" Carter
former cavalry officer, haunted by the arrow, rugged with sharp eyes, determined and stoic
Elizabeth "Liz" Carter
Jack's supportive wife, concerned for Jack's wellbeing, gentle with flowing hair, caring and intelligent
Thomas "Tom" Hargrave
local historian aiding Jack, friend of Jack, scholarly appearance with spectacles, curious and meticulous
I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding in my chest.
The same dream again.
The same fucking arrow.
It’s been haunting me for years now, ever since the day I saw it sticking out of Custer’s chest as he lay on the battlefield at Little Bighorn.
I can still hear the screams of the dying men, the thunder of hooves as the Lakota warriors rode down on us, and the sound of their war cries as they slaughtered my friends and comrades.
I can still smell the blood and gunpowder in the air, and feel the heat of the sun beating down on me as I rode for my life.
I can still see that goddamn arrow, with its red and white fletching, sticking out of Custer’s chest like a sign from God.
It was a warning, a message from the Lakota that they would never be defeated, no matter how many soldiers we sent against them.
And it was a message to me, that I would never be able to escape what I had done that day.
I get out of bed and pull on my clothes, not wanting to wake my wife.
I move silently, careful not to disturb Liz as she sleeps peacefully beside me.
Her soft breathing is a stark contrast to the chaos that rages in my mind.
I slip into my study, closing the door quietly behind me.
The room is dimly lit by the early morning light filtering through the curtains.
I sit at my desk, surrounded by old maps and documents.
My hands tremble as I trace the path we took that fateful day at Little Bighorn.
Every line on the map seems etched into my memory, every turn a reminder of the horror we faced.
I reach for a worn leather-bound journal, its pages filled with notes and sketches from my research.
The arrow haunts me, its red and white fletching a constant reminder of that bloody day.
I flip through the pages, searching for something—anything—that might give me answers.
Suddenly, a knock on the door startles me.
My heart leaps into my throat as I turn to face it.
"Jack, it's Tom," comes a muffled voice from the other side.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and open the door.
Tom stands there, his face serious but hopeful.
"Got some new information," he says, stepping inside.
We sit down at the desk, and Tom spreads out a series of papers in front of me.
"There's a surviving Lakota warrior," he begins. "He might know something about the arrow."
My pulse quickens at his words.
A mix of dread and determination wells up inside me.
This could be it—the key to understanding what happened that day.
"Where is he?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"He's living on a reservation in South Dakota," Tom replies. "Goes by the name of Red Hawk."
Red Hawk. The name sends a shiver down my spine.
I've heard stories about him—stories of his bravery and skill in battle.
If anyone knows about the arrow, it's him.
"We need to go," I say, standing up abruptly. "We need to find him."
Tom nods, his eyes reflecting my urgency. "I'll make the arrangements."
As he gathers up the papers, I feel a surge of hope mixed with fear.
This could be our only chance for closure—for understanding what really happened at Little Bighorn.
Tom heads for the door, but pauses before leaving. "Jack," he says softly. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"
I meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his question. "I have to be," I reply. "For Custer. For all of them."
Tom nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the maps and documents spread out before me.
The path ahead is uncertain, but one thing is clear: I can't run from this any longer.
I take a deep breath and begin to gather my things.
Just as I'm about to leave the study, another knock echoes through the room.
This time it's louder, more insistent.
The knock persists, louder now.
I stride to the door and yank it open.
Liz stands there, worry etched on her face.
"Jack, you need to rest," she says, her voice soft but firm.
"I can't," I reply, shaking my head. "Not now. Not when we're so close."
She steps into the room, her eyes scanning the maps and documents scattered across my desk.
"At least let me help," she says, her tone shifting to one of reluctant acceptance.
I nod, knowing there's no point in arguing with her.
"Fine," I say. "We need to figure out where Red Hawk might be."
Liz moves to the desk and starts examining the maps.
Her fingers trace over the lines and markings with practiced ease.
"Here," she says after a moment, pointing to a spot on the map. "This area has a high concentration of Lakota camps. It's a good place to start."
I lean in closer, studying the map intently.
"You're right," I say. "But we need more than just a starting point. We need a plan."
Liz nods, her brow furrowing in concentration.
"We'll need supplies," she says. "And we'll have to move quickly. If Red Hawk gets wind that we're coming, he might disappear."
I glance at the clock on the wall.
It's already past midnight.
"We don't have much time," I say. "Tom should be back soon with the supplies."
As if on cue, there's a knock at the door.
I open it to find Tom standing there, his arms laden with bags and equipment.
"Got everything we need," he says, stepping inside.
Liz and I exchange a look, a silent understanding passing between us.
It's time to confront the past.
We spend the next few hours preparing for the journey ahead.
The tension in the room is palpable as we pack our bags and double-check our supplies.
At dawn, we step outside into the crisp morning air.
The sky is painted with hues of pink and orange as the sun begins to rise.
Our horses are waiting for us, their breath visible in the chilly air.
I mount my horse and take one last look at Liz and Tom.
"Ready?" I ask, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me.
They both nod, determination etched on their faces.
We set off at a brisk pace, the weight of our mission heavy on our minds.
The landscape around us is rugged and unforgiving, but we press on, driven by a shared sense of purpose.
Hours pass in silence as we ride through valleys and over hills.
The only sounds are the rhythmic thud of hooves against the ground and the occasional call of a distant bird.
As we approach the area Liz had pointed out on the map, I feel a knot of anxiety tighten in my chest.
This is it—the moment we've been preparing for.
We slow our pace as we near a cluster of tents and makeshift shelters nestled in a secluded valley.
Lakota warriors move about the camp, their eyes wary as they notice our approach.
I dismount my horse and take a deep breath.
"Stay here," I tell Liz and Tom. "I'll go talk to him."
They nod in agreement, staying back as I make my way toward one of the larger tents.
A tall figure emerges from within—Red Hawk himself.
His piercing gaze meets mine as he steps forward.
"What do you want?" he asks, his voice calm but commanding.
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his scrutiny.
"I need answers," I say. "About Little Bighorn. About Custer."
Red Hawk's expression remains unreadable as he studies me for a moment longer.
Then he turns and gestures for me to follow him into the tent.
Inside, it's dimly lit by a single lantern hanging from the ceiling.
He sits down on a woven mat and motions for me to do the same.
"You seek answers," he says quietly. "But are you prepared for what you might find?"
"Yes," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Red Hawk's eyes bore into mine, as if searching for something deep within me.
"Sit," he commands, and I lower myself onto the mat across from him.
The air inside the tent is thick with smoke from a smoldering fire in the center.
The scent of burning herbs mingles with the earthy aroma of the tent itself.
Shadows dance on the canvas walls, creating an almost otherworldly atmosphere.
"You seek the truth," Red Hawk says, his voice steady and unwavering.
I nod again, feeling the weight of Liz and Tom's presence just outside the tent.
Red Hawk begins to speak, his words painting a vivid picture of the battle.
"The day was hot," he starts, his eyes distant as if he were seeing it all over again. "The sun beat down on us mercilessly. The air was filled with the sounds of war—shouts, gunfire, the clash of weapons."
I listen intently, my heart pounding in my chest.
He describes the chaos, the Lakota warriors moving like shadows through the tall grass, arrows flying through the air with deadly precision.
"The arrows," he continues, "were our message to you. A sign that we would not be conquered."
He pauses, his gaze locking onto mine.
"The arrow you see in your dreams," he says slowly, "was meant for you."
My breath catches in my throat.
A chill runs down my spine as his words sink in.
"Me?" I whisper, my voice trembling.
Red Hawk nods solemnly.
"It was a mark of destiny," he explains. "A sign from the spirits. They chose you for a reason."
I feel a mix of dread and curiosity swirling inside me.
"Why?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
Red Hawk's eyes soften slightly, but his expression remains serious.
"The spirits saw something in you," he says. "A potential for change. For understanding. They wanted you to carry this burden so that you might learn from it and grow."
I sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he's telling me.
The arrow that had haunted my dreams for years wasn't just a symbol of death and destruction—it was a message meant specifically for me.
"But why now?" I ask, struggling to find my voice. "Why tell me this after all these years?"
Red Hawk leans forward slightly, his gaze intense.
"Because now you are ready to hear it," he says simply. "You have faced your past and sought out the truth. The spirits believe you are prepared to understand their message."
I take a deep breath, feeling a strange sense of clarity wash over me.
For so long, I had been running from that day at Little Bighorn—from the guilt and the nightmares.
But now, sitting here in this dimly lit tent with Red Hawk's piercing eyes upon me, I felt like I was finally beginning to understand.
"What do I do now?" I ask quietly.
Red Hawk's lips curve into a faint smile.
"That is for you to decide," he replies. "The path ahead is yours to walk. But remember this: the spirits chose you for a reason. Trust in their wisdom and follow your heart."
I nod slowly, feeling a newfound sense of purpose stirring within me.
As I rise to leave, Red Hawk reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder.
"May the spirits guide you," he says softly.
I step out of the tent into the crisp morning air.
Liz and Tom are waiting for me, their faces filled with concern and curiosity.
"Well?" Liz asks anxiously. "What did he say?"
I take a deep breath and look at them both.
"He told me the truth," I say simply. "And now we have to decide what to do with it."
Before they can respond, a sudden shout echoes through the camp.
We turn to see a group of Lakota warriors rushing toward us, their expressions urgent.
"What's happening?" Tom asks, his voice tense.
One of the warriors points toward the horizon where dark clouds are gathering rapidly.
"A storm is coming," he says urgently. "We must prepare."
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