Smithson gingerly picked up the heads by the hair, a trail of blood followed in his wake and a thousand brace of eyes looked on as he tied the heads to the horn of his saddle, mounted and hastily galloped away, without looking back, the heads of his friends banging unpleasantly at his knees. As the sound of galloping hooves receded into the distance, Garston ordered the bodies removed and the blood scrubbed from the coarse woven floor coverings of his tent. He donned his cloak and decided to walk amongst the troops.
The night was crisp, a cool early spring chill floated down from the adjacent hills as the sun disappeared behind the peaks and sent rays of brilliant orange into the darkening sky. Men of the plains nodded and smiled, stilting their conversations as he passed. He came across
