The Indians are not a kind-hearted farming people. They make a living by hunting. Every adult man is a born excellent warrior. With the same weapons and equipment, he is even more brave and skillful than professional soldiers.
However, in large-scale wars, victory is not determined by personal bravery, but the most important thing is discipline, and this is precisely what the Indians lack the most.
If you add something that makes discipline even more ineffective - alcohol, this luxury drink that is so popular among Indians is corroded by it, and their resistance to alcohol is as fragile as children.
Your vigilance and sensitivity will be completely lost.
The Americans, who have been massacring Indians for nearly 200 years, know this very well. Major Bagley, who comes from a military family, will certainly not ignore this. The so-called trade and the so-called peace are just preparations before war.
The sun was suppressed below the horizon, and it was the darkest moment of the day. In the valley, the Cheyenne camp looked particularly peaceful under the flickering light of the campfire. The hungover warriors did not know how cruel what awaited them
destiny.
The cavalry swarmed in.
The roaring horse hooves echoed in the valley along with the crisp sound of gunfire. The brave Indian warriors in the past were beaten like dogs in their sleep by the heavily armed soldiers of the 7th Cavalry Brigade. All the resistance forces were almost in the first place.
They were completely defeated in the first wave of attacks, and the panicked women and children were just the prey of the next wave of attacks.
Algren was in a daze. If Gant hadn't been there to support him, he might have been unable to stabilize his body on the horse. At this time, in his eyes, Major Bagley, the culprit who caused all this tragedy, was no longer there, but only factors popping up.
The tracers caused by the barrels, the ferocious-looking heads of Indians, the running and wailing young figures, and more faces filled with madness and greed in the blue cavalry uniforms of the American Army.
He didn't know how long the attack lasted, nor how he returned to the camp. It seemed that after witnessing everything, Algren, the original military model, had completely died with the destruction of the Indian tribe.
Just a walking zombie with a broken heart.
"Gant, I'm leaving. May God bless you." Algren patted the sergeant's shoulder and reached out to take the wine bottle from his waist. "Consider this a parting gift for me.
"
"Captain..." Gant didn't know how to speak. Even if he was slow, he felt that once he let Algren leave like this, he would never have the chance to see his partner again in this life. With his understanding of the captain,
, there is a high probability that he will say goodbye to everything and then send himself a bullet to leave this world forever.
"Sir, I'll go with you." Gant made up his mind and firmly held the captain's cold hands. "As for that beast Bagley, he can't stay in the army all his life. Don't worry..." He looked around
After a while, he spat fiercely and whispered: "One day I will personally deliver him to you! This is a promise from Gant!"
Algren's face showed a look that seemed to be crying or laughing. He neither agreed nor objected. He just lowered his head and walked out of the barracks. He silently took his horse and walked towards the outside of the town. Yellow sand was flying. Soon, the two of them were
The figure disappeared into the Gobi outside the town.
Lieutenant Jim, who had freckles on his face, carefully wiped the blood on the crown that represented the chief's identity, and said to Major Bagley: "Sir, do you need to capture these two guys and put them in solitary confinement?"
"Forget it, you're just a coward." Bagley snorted with disdain and ordered: "When the soldiers have finished venting their anger in the town, take a few people back to clean up. Someone has taken a fancy to that land, so we can't just let it go.
The corpses of those red lords made a stink, otherwise those damn businessmen would have lowered the price by at least 40%."
"As you wish, sir."
………………
Kongshan Yiye took turns changing horses, almost without rest, and rushed back to the Cheyenne tribe. When several horses started foaming at the mouth, they finally arrived outside the valley. It was already noon.
This time in the past should be the most lively moment in the valley. As soon as he appeared, the group of Indian children would cheer and run to him to help him pick up the prey in his hands, beat the simple small leather drum and dance for a while.
The adult soldiers who stayed in the camp would raise their weapons and wave at him, shouting greetings that he could not understand. The young cartel chief would also invite him to drink with him even if he was not drunk.
Those low-quality rums that were traded were always rejected by Sorayama Kazuha.
But all of this was replaced by a dead silence filled with the smell of blood. Apart from his own slightly heavy breathing, there was only the sound of vultures wandering in the Gobi wilderness pecking at corpses. Perhaps the food was too rich and the vultures devoured the meat.
The friction sound between the lump and the thin neck seemed extremely harsh to Sorayama Kazuyo's overly sensitive hearing.
"Battle, no, this massacre should have happened a few hours ago. Isn't there any breath of living people left?" Sorayama Kazuyo showed no expression on his face, holding the reins of the horse and walking forward silently.
The blood-soaked horse hoof prints stretched from his feet to the valley bottom plain. The further down you went, the muddy it became. From time to time, you would step on some greasy grease, which was the mark left by the horse's belly; there were countless scattered along the way.
Judging from the broken internal organs and limbs, the chopped off fingers, wrists and occasionally scattered bone rings, this group of massacres are quite skilled in making money, and they will not let go of any items in front of them that can be exchanged for money.
Looking at the increasingly dense corpses of different shapes, Kazuyo Sorayama unconsciously recalled the entire massacre experience: a group of about a hundred unknown attackers took advantage of the darkness to launch an attack and quickly pulled out the weapons on the periphery of the tribe.
During this process, most of the main force broke into the center of the tribe and killed anyone who rushed out of the tent. The remaining attackers circled along the edge of the tribe, intercepting the Indians' escape route and killing panicked women and children.
The few people who were lucky enough to jump into the river were shot one by one. No one could escape this rapid assault blockade tactic.
He could also see that the attacker's marksmanship was quite good, and his discipline was even better than his marksmanship. There were almost no single horse hoof prints, and at least five people were involved in a planned massacre.
"Bandits?" Kazuyo Sorayama shook his head, "According to what that guy Tuco said, large bandit gangs with more than 20 people are rare in the entire west. This kind of discipline, uniform horseshoe prints and bullet casings... are the characteristics of the army.
"?" Algren's figure in a US military uniform appeared in his memory, "It's you... peaceful... haha... premeditated massacre."
He walked to the largest tent. Chief Kettle's limbless body was almost shattered by large-caliber firearms. His empty eyes looked up at the sky. He didn't know whether he was being eaten by vultures or shot through by bullets. He was with a group of young people.
The bodies of the Cheyenne warriors were piled up together. It can be seen that he tried to fight back when he was attacked, but he was probably knocked away by the dense projectiles as soon as he rushed out of the tent.
"I have never formally thanked you. I originally thought that some words were just hypocritical words to relieve myself of responsibilities. It would be better to express it with actions without speaking... I was wrong... after all, you will never have the chance to accept my thanks.
Here we are, Keitel."
Sora Ichiyo crossed over this huge pile of corpses and walked towards the deepest part of the tribe. Behind him were those children who were not taller than a rifle. Their breastbones were smashed by horses and their spines were broken. They were dotted on the battlefield like rag bags. More may have been killed.
People were nailed to the ground from behind with knives, or their heads were beheaded directly. The attackers were so decisive that they showed no mercy to their own kind, even children who were not a threat at all.
At this moment, Kazuyo Sorayama's heart trembled, and a young headless corpse appeared in front of him. If it weren't for the familiar leather bag tied to his belly, he wouldn't even be able to recognize the twisted body.
The irregularly shaped corpse was the little Indian girl who had shyly exchanged food with him a few days ago.
Her head fell under a tree a few meters away. Blood mixed with tears left two dark brown marks on her barely intact face. Her round mouth, which she loved to hold her fingers in, was wide open.
Ichiyo Sora stood there blankly for a long time.
Not only has he seen much crueler scenes than this, but he has even created them himself. However, no matter how many people he killed, he was always fighting back or saving people. He never actively sought to kill. The most important thing was that he died in his hands.
Those people on the list are either evil-doers or highly skilled in martial arts. He has never taken action against unarmed civilians.
Even so, he was recognized by the world as a god of murder like Shura. For a long time, he himself felt that the number and methods of killing were too cruel. If he continued to kill, he would fall into boundless killing intent and be unable to extricate himself.
In the last ten years of the Rurouni Kenshin world, it was not so much that Sanai sealed away his murderous intention, but actually it was more that he himself was unwilling to kill anyone again.
But compared to the inhumane massacre before our eyes, how could that Shura named Ichiyo Sorayama be considered a Shura!
"Did you still not catch up after all?" He seemed to be talking to the little girl, and seemed to be talking to himself: "This kind of opponent... maybe I will die in this battle. If I stay here
We should still be able to protect some people from escaping, but the life-saving grace I owe you has not yet been repaid..."
Kazuyo Sorayama carefully held the little girl's head and put it on the body with some excessive movements, then slowly stood up and looked around.
The vultures pecking at the corpse seemed to be greatly frightened. They spit out pieces of meat and flew into the air. They screamed and fled into the distance. They looked down at the man standing in the center of the tribe. There was still a trace of human breath. He was clearly a human.
Cutting off a blade more dangerous than a ten thousand-foot cliff - this massacre froze the last bit of warmth in the world into ice.
The soul of the murderous god that made the Edo shogunate wail and fear was slowly opening its eyes, looking at everything on this land with lifeless eyes.