4Driving winds slashed at his skin and clothes, picking up rocks and tearing plants from the ground as the storm strengthened. Brilliant white-gold light zigzagged across the black sky. Bryan peered through the wheel spokes, and using the storm’s light, glimpsed three Comanche crawling toward him.
He waited several long minutes—precious, agonizing minutes—until the next lightning bolt scissored through the heavens and fired. Three bullets. Three dead Comanche.
Those settlers still able to fight followed his lead, waiting for the surrounding prairie to light up before they shot. Rain pelted the wagons, large, stinging drops that rolled off their soaked clothes. The pattern was familiar—lightning, gunshots, silence—only to begin again a few minutes later. As those shooting dwindled to only
