By this defeat and slaughter of Fetterman's command, Red Cloud gained so much fame that he was chosen to be the leading war chief of the Sioux. Thousands of painted warriors enrolled themselves with his band, and he soon found himself in control of numbers of daring spirits who were constantly on the lookout for another battle with the Government troops. Travel on the Bozeman trail was given up entirely. Letters from the soldiers which got through the prowling Indians to the East often had in them the words: "We are in constant fear of our lives. This may be my last letter. The Indians fairly swarm about the fort." Men of the garrison who had moved West for adventure's sake had found all that could satisfy the most delicate palate. Danger was always present.
As winter passed and the warm breath of summer blew across the prairie, Red Cloud was persuaded by his warlike followers to make another attack upon the whites. The painted braves were weary of cutting off stragglers and attacking stagecoaches; they wanted another stand-up fight. Half of the Sioux were armed with rifles which they had obtained from white traders, and some had repeaters. There were about three thousand of these red warriors, and they were not cowards, although they had a healthy respect for the white troops. Under cover of frequent skirmishes, Red Cloud collected his adherents within striking distance of the fort, and by the first of August he was prepared to have a desperate encounter with those who had dared to trespass upon the land of his fathers.
Woodcutting was still going on in the vicinity of this stockade in the far wilderness, and, under the leadership of Major James Powell, numerous soldiers protected those engaged in this task. The wagons used by the woodcutters were furnished by the quartermaster's department. In order to afford as much protection as possible to their occupants in case of an onslaught by the Sioux, loopholes were cut in the sides. Major Powell had fourteen of such vehicles, and he drew them up in the form of an oval, as the men busied themselves in cutting down the neighboring forest trees. The wheels were removed from all but two, which were placed at either end of the barricade. It was thus a formidable obstacle to an Indian attack.
On August the second Indians were seen approaching the fort in great numbers. Red Cloud had made his plan of attack, and had decided to annihilate the little detachment under Major Powell (twenty-eight in all) before he set upon Fort Phil Kearney. Although his warriors dashed forward with extreme speed, they were seen long before they reached the wagon-box corral. On they galloped—three thousand of them—and, as they appeared above the rolling hills, the sun glistened upon their shining rifle barrels and painted faces. Chanting a wild war song, and brandishing spears and rifles aloft, they came down upon Powell's little force like an overwhelming wave of the sea. Yelping with savage delight at the thought of an easy victory, they sent forward a party of two hundred red men to stampede the mules which were used in the wagons. The herders stood them off for some time, but, seeing that it was useless to fight against such odds, retreated towards Powell's corral. Immediately a large force of painted braves hastened to cut them off.
But Powell dashed out from the wagon boxes to their rescue. With him were only fifteen men, but they shot so accurately into the mass of Indians that the redskins turned to drive them away. The herders, meanwhile, made their escape towards the fort, and, after a stiff brush with another detachment of Red Cloud's army, managed to reach the safety of the log stockade. Powell retreated to his wagon boxes, and there, with his paltry twenty-eight, prepared for the onslaught of Red Cloud's three thousand. There were greater odds here than when Roman Nose charged upon the defenders of Beecher's Island, and the whites were to distinguish themselves as splendidly as did the Rough Riders of "Sandy" Forsyth.
"Lie down!" shouted Powell to his men. "Throw blankets over the tops of the wagons to screen yourselves! Bore loopholes through the sides of the wagons with the augurs, if you need more room to fight. And, for your lives, don't fire until the savages are close upon us!" So saying, he stationed himself at the end of the corral, rifle in hand, and awaited the onslaught of the painted followers of Red Cloud. As he ceased speaking, three civilians and one old frontiersman, a dead shot, succeeded in joining his party. Thus the numbers were increased to thirty-two.
Powell was seven miles from the fort, and the chances were that he would be relieved. This gave him some satisfaction, as he saw Red Cloud busily giving directions to his warriors, and massing them for a charge upon the corral. The redskins were determined to ride clean over the soldiers and end the battle with one, swift blow. Remembering their success with Fetterman, they doubtless felt that the fate of the thirty-two would be the same. Their women and children were with them, and, massed upon a number of hills, eagerly watched their relatives as they formed in line of battle. Five hundred Sioux warriors, magnificently mounted, suddenly detached themselves from the three thousand, and, urging on their multi-colored steeds with blows and wild cheers, started head-on for the corral.
On, on, they charged. Slowly went the ponies at first, but gradually their speed was increased, until they were galloping with great swiftness upon the silent wagon boxes. A cloud of alkali dust surrounded the yelling band, while, in their rear, Red Cloud gathered together his main force to rush into any opening which the five hundred might make. They went on, on, on, until it seemed as if they would be right among the wagons, when, with a deafening roar, a frightful and overwhelming fire was poured into their very faces. A rain of bullets ploughed into the mass of redskins. Ponies rolled over each other in great confusion. Painted warriors fell headlong upon the turf. All were mixed together in a wild and tangled mass of maddened bronchos and screaming Sioux.
As each of Powell's men had several rifles, the fire from the wagon boxes was steady, persistent, and continuous. Checked, but not halted, the redskins rode up to the very edge of the corral and shot over the tops of the wagons at the garrison. But not one leaped into the enclosure. Dividing like a great billow of the sea, what was left of the five hundred swept around the hollow oval in a vain endeavor to find an opening. But, as they rushed onward in a mad and desperate gallop, a withering fire was directed into their very backs, so that many fell helpless to the ground within striking distance of the sides of the wagon boxes. So close were the Sioux that often one bullet from a frontiersman would kill two redskins. The rifles of Powell's men were hot from rapid use, and revolvers finished the defense of the gallant thirty-two, as the Indians rode back to their disgruntled companions.
Disgusted with the failure of this attack, Red Cloud consulted with his chieftains, and determined upon another method of procedure. Seven hundred Indians were formed into a skirmish party, and were told to creep as near the corral as they could and to pour a heavy fire into the wagons. The rest—about two thousand warriors—were gathered upon a hill and placed in several long lines. They were to overwhelm the men under Powell, and to deal with them as they had with Fetterman,—the disobedient. Let us see how they fared.