“Dig a trench with your knives,” shouted Bridger. “These fellows are out for our blood and they are going to come pretty near getting us. Move over near that water hole so that they can’t make us die of thirst, and we’ll see who can last the longest.”
Scrambling to their knees, the plainsmen quickly threw up a barricade near the water hole, and, hobbling their ponies behind them, began to take careful aim at the Sioux—one of whom was soon sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds. This enraged the remainder, and wild, blood-curdling yells echoed across the prairie as they drew nearer, hoping to make a rush and annihilate the five white trappers.
“Get ready, boys!” again shouted Bridger. “They’re going to rush us!”
All prepared for the advance by laying out additional ammunition and placing long hunting-knives near at hand. In a few moments the Sioux came on, whipping their ponies to their utmost speed, and yelping madly.
A ringing volley knocked over four of the leaders, but still on they came. Another shot sent a fifth chieftain to the Great Beyond, and, as the trappers reloaded, the Sioux seemed to lose heart. They swerved aside from the breastwork, offering excellent targets to the plainsmen, and, with a dull thud, still another red warrior fell from his galloping pinto. Two of the trappers, meanwhile, were wounded by bullets, while an arrow stuck into the coat sleeve of Jim Bridger, himself.
Now retiring beyond range, the redskins kept up a perpetual fusillade with rifles and with arrows. The trappers held their fire, threw up still higher entrenchments, and waited for the next onslaught, but this did not come. Instead, the Sioux lighted the long, dry prairie grass, and a sheet of flame and smoke curled surely and steadily towards the band of plainsmen, for the wind was blowing directly upon them. What were they to do now?
Necessity is the mother of invention. Quick as a flash, Jim Bridger leaped across the embankment, touched the grass off immediately in front of them, and burnt off quite a small alley-way before the roaring crackling flames came to their place of refuge. The force of the flames thus spent itself before the embankment was reached, and the wily savages renewed their whooping and yelling. Again they charged, but again they were driven off; while night closed over both besieger and besieged, bringing a lull to the unequal battle.
Next day the fight was renewed, and all five of the trappers were wounded. Towards evening it was decided that one of the party should creep through the lines and bring aid from a camp of fifty trappers, who were some miles down the river. The choice fell upon Jim Bridger, and it found him ready to undertake the hazardous expedition. At twelve o’clock he crawled over the side of the little fortification and wormed his way towards the fringe of red warriors who lay about them in a circle.
The scout kept on as quietly as he could and crawled for fully two hundred yards before he saw, or heard, anything of the redskins. Then he got to his feet (as he considered himself through their lines) and prepared to run. But before him was an Indian pony, its master sound asleep by its side. The horse had been feeding in a deep ravine, and—suddenly scenting the trapper—gave a snort which roused its master. The Sioux warrior gazed stupidly at the frontiersman.
But Bridger did not take long to make up his mind what to do. He dashed towards the Indian, intending to strangle him before he could give the alarm. The redskin uttered a loud whoop, and his companions immediately ran in his direction. The scout realized that nothing was now to be gained by silence, and, pulling out his pistol, shot the red man dead. Then, leaping upon his mustang, he urged him upon the gallop. The Sioux were all around him on their pintos, but he had the good fortune to be upon one of their fastest horses, which seemed to outdistance any of the pursuers.