BLACK WOLF'S BATTLE
And then from the northwest, with vast clamor and shoutings and much wild horsemanship, came the reinforcements from the foothills of the Sagamore, where yesterday had stood the guarded wood camp; and then, five to six hundred yards away, in broad circle, their swift ponies at full gallop, scores of young warriors, all in war paint and finery, dashed and darted to and fro, some of them brandishing at the tips of their lances ragged, dangling objects limp and dripping. Black Wolf's story might indeed be true. Far away westward from the fort, as was the agency from the southwest, there had been no timely warning, no chance to send for aid. Overwhelmed at dawn by hundreds against their dozens, the guard had probably died fighting, and the wolves and lynxes by this time were scenting their breakfast and scurrying to the scene of butchery. The savage display had its effect on the little garrison, but—not just what was expected. Black Wolf's young braves might well have had a "walk-over" at the wood camp, pounced in a red torrent upon the unsuspecting party, and, with little loss to themselves, massacred all the hated palefaces. That sort of fighting the Indian most loves—that in which he can do and not suffer. Now came a different proposition. From chief down to little children the Indians well knew that thirty soldiers behind barricades were not to be "rushed," though a thousand essayed it, without many a warrior biting the dust; and that sort of fighting, said the Indian, is fool-fighting—lacks sense or science. Bravely and desperately as he will battle against odds when once in a hole, he will not battle at all, no matter how great his numbers, if by strategy he can "win out" another way. What Black Wolf and his warriors had hoped was so to weaken the nerve of the defenders that they would listen to his promise that their lives be spared, agree to the Indian terms, leave the demanded victims, their arms and horses and start out afoot for the fort; then, as was intimated, once fairly out on the open prairie, they could be butchered at leisure, and if the young chief could not be captured alive to furnish sport for the squaws and children of the braves he had defrauded and abused, at least they could have his scalp to hang in the lodge when once again peace was declared. Meantime the warriors, women and children,—all,—they could be off to the Big Horn before the troops at the fort would get word of the battle. Who, indeed, was to tell, with the lightning wire severed, and the whole party slain?
But the warriors wasted their time. Three hours spent in trying to scare were three hours lost to the redman. It was just about eight by the agency clock that in one magnificent dash, half a thousand strong, the legion came sweeping, chanting, and shouting down the slopes to the south, rode in solemn phalanx until almost within rifle range, then, bursting asunder like some huge human case-shot, scattered its wild horsemen in mad career all over the open prairie, and in a minute thereafter, amid the thunder of hoofs, half deadened by the rising pall of dust, twenty-score in number, the yelling braves were circling the agency, firing swiftly on the run.
Never a shot did they receive in reply. "Hold your fire till they come in closer, and you get the word!" growled the sergeants. Never a match did the besieged apply, for there was still no attempt to charge. It was young Ray's first tussle with the Sioux, but many a time as a boy at his father's knee had he begged for the stories of the old battles of the —th, and listened with quickened heartbeat and panting breath. He knew just how they would circle and charge, shout and shoot,—just what to look for and how to meet it,—and there were only two things about the defense that gave him the faintest worry.
East of the storehouse, barely fifty yards away, was the agent's modest little home, a shelter to the warriors should they decide to turn loose their ponies and collect two hundred strong behind it, ready for a rush in force upon his doors and windows the moment a similar force could be ready behind the shop and stable buildings at the corral. They probably could not force an entrance even then. They would surely lose many warriors in the attempt. But what they could do would be to rush upon the storehouse, crouch low at the walls and under the floor of the porch, where the rifles of the besieged could not reach them, and then start fire all at once in a dozen places, crawl back under cover of the smoke, and so burn out the defenders. Much as the mounted warrior hates to fight afoot, this was too obvious an opportunity, and presently Ray saw indication that something was coming. No time, therefore, had he or his people for further compunction.
"The shops, first," said he. "Start them at once. Open the corral gates and—get back," were his orders to the young corporal who stood ready to carry his message. "Our horses will make a break for home. The Indians will catch most of them, perhaps, but not all. Between them and the smoke the fort will see that something's up, and—you all know the colonel."
And so it happened that, just as the squadron, already alarmed, was spattering through the shallows of the Minneconjou, a black column of smoke was sighted far away to the southwest, sailing aloft for the heavens, and now every southward window, the roofs of many a building, the tower over the post Exchange, the cross-trees of the flagstaff, the crests of neighboring bluffs,—all had their occupants, staring through field-glasses or the unaided eye for any sign of the far-distant detachment under Ray—for any symptom of any check or signal from the swift advance of the squadron under the gaunt, semi-invalided major.
Barely three miles out, trotting in parallel columns of fours, the right troop was seen to swerve to the west, and presently in a far-away clump of willows in a deep ravine, found something, apparently, that gave them just a moment's pause. "A human being," said the lookouts with the best glasses, "and they're sending him in." True. Someone dismounted and helped something into a saddle. A sergeant and trooper came presently ambling homeward, leading between them a limp and drooping form. Many people could not wait. They ran out to the bluffs, and were not amazed, nor were they too well pleased, to find the lone watcher at the willows to be none other than that strange creature Blenke—Blenke in a state bordering on exhaustion. Straight to the colonel they led him, where that officer sat in saddle in front of his battalions and ready for a move. He was just about ordering the senior major to follow on the trail of the cavalry, when, followed by curious eyes innumerable, the sergeant with his prize came riding through the west gate.
"Private Blenke, sir," said he, saluting. "He can best tell his own story," and with trembling lips and mournful eyes Blenke began. Things looked so ominous the night before that it was evident the Indians meant mischief. Sergeant French, commanding the guard, decided that the colonel ought to be warned. Somebody would have to try to sneak through the prowling, truculent warriors, make his way to the post, and tell of their plight. The sergeant would order no man to risk his life in the attempt. He called for volunteers, and, modestly Blenke said, at last he felt it a duty to dare it. He found every rod of the valley beset by foes. He found it impossible eastward or northward to pass them even in the dark. He finally made his way out to the southward and, in wide circuit, dodging and skulking when night riders came hurrying to and fro, he at last managed by daybreak to get in view of the flagstaff, only to find dozens of Indians watching the post and skulking between him and the desired refuge. At last—but Stone shut him off:
"Take two companies, major," he ordered, "march for the wood camp and see what you can find. You know what to do."