Some of the men who were not good shots were told off to do nothing but load rifles, of which there were so many that each man had two or three beside him, one man making use of no less than eight. Four civilians succeeded in joining the party in the corral—a welcome addition, indeed, bringing the total number up to thirty-two officers and men. Among this quartet was an old frontiersman who had spent most of his life hunting in the Indian country, and who had been in innumerable fights, renowned for his expertness in the use of the rifle—a dead-shot. This was the man to whom the eight guns were allotted. Powell, rifle in hand, stationed himself at one end of the corral; Jenness, similarly armed, was posted at the other, each officer watching one of the openings covered by the complete wagons, which were loaded with supplies so they could not be run off easily by hand.
While all these preparations were being rapidly made, although without confusion or alarm, the surrounding country was filling with a countless multitude of Indians. It was impossible at the time to estimate the number of them, although it was ascertained that more than three thousand warriors were present and engaged. Red Cloud himself was in command, and with him were the great chiefs of the great tribes of the Sioux, who were all represented—Unkpapas, Miniconjous, Oglalas, Brulés, and Sans Arcs, besides hundreds of Cheyennes.
So confident of success were they that, contrary to their ordinary practices, they had brought with them their women and children to assist in carrying back the plunder. These, massed out of range on the farthest hills, constituted an audience for the terrible drama about to be played in the amphitheater beneath them.
We can well imagine the thoughts of that little band of thirty-two, surrounded by a force that outnumbered them one hundred to one. Their minds must have gone back to that winter day, some seven months before, when twice their number had gone down to defeat and destruction under the attack of two-thirds of their present foemen. It is probable that not one of them ever expected to escape alive. The chances that they could successfully withstand an attack from so overwhelming a number of foes of such extraordinary bravery were of the smallest. But not a man flinched, not a man faltered. They looked to their weapons, settled themselves comfortably in the wagon beds, thought of Fetterman and their comrades, and prayed that the attack might begin and begin at once. There were no heroics, no speeches made. Powell quietly remarked that they had to fight for their lives now, which was patent to all; and he directed that no man, for any reason, should open fire until he gave the order.
Some little time was spent by the Indians in making preparations, and then a force of about five hundred Indians, magnificently mounted on the best war ponies and armed with rifles, carbines, or muskets, detached themselves from the main body and started toward the little corral lying like a black dot on the open plain. They intended to ride over the soldiers and end the battle with one swift blow. Slowly at first, but gradually increasing their pace until their ponies were on a dead run, they dashed gallantly toward the corral, while the main body of the savages, at some distance in their rear, prepared to take advantage of any opening that might be made in the defenses. It was a brilliant charge, splendidly delivered.
Such was the discipline of Powell’s men that not a shot was fired as the Indians, yelling and whooping madly, came rushing on. There was something terribly ominous about the absolute silence of that little fortification. The galloping men were within one hundred yards now, now fifty. At that instant Powell spoke to his men. The inclosure was sheeted with flame. Out of the smoke and fire a rain of bullets was poured upon the astonished savages. The firing was not as usual—one volley, then another, and then silence; but it was a steady, persistent, continued stream, which mowed them down in scores. The advance was thrown into confusion, checked but not halted, its impetus being too great; and then the force divided and swept around the corral, looking for a weak spot for a possible entrance. At the same moment a furious fire was poured into it by the warriors, whose position on their horses’ backs gave them sufficient elevation to enable them to fire over the wagon beds upon the garrison. Then they circled about the corral in a mad gallop, seeking some undefended point upon which to concentrate and break through, but in vain. The little inclosure was literally ringed in fire. Nothing could stand against it. So close were they that one bullet sometimes pierced two Indians.[[21]]
CHARGE OF RED CLOUD ON THE CORRAL AT PINEY ISLAND
Drawing by R. Farrington Elwell
Having lost terribly, and having failed to make any impression whatever, the Indians broke and gave way. They rushed pell-mell from the spot in frantic confusion till they got out of range of the deadly storm that swept the plain. All around the corral lay dead and dying Indians, mingled with killed and wounded horses kicking and screaming with pain, the Indians stoically enduring all their sufferings and making no outcry. In front of the corral, where the first force of the charge had been spent, horses and men were stretched out as if they had been cut down by a gigantic mowing-machine. The defenders of the corral had suffered in their turn. Lieutenant Jenness, brave and earnest in defense, had exposed himself to give a necessary command and had received a bullet in his brain. One of the private soldiers had been killed and two severely wounded. The thirty-two had been reduced to twenty-eight. At that rate, since there were so few to suffer, the end appeared inevitable. The spirit of the little band, however, remained undaunted. Fortunately for them, the Indians had met with so terrible a repulse that all they thought of for the time being was to get out of range. The vicinity of the corral was thus at once abandoned.