The Prairie Flower: A Tale of the Indian Border

by Gustave Aimard

"Forwards!" the old Chief said.

They rushed out. The situation was most critical. Major Melville, taking advantage of the intoxication of his keepers, had broken out of his prison at the head of some twenty Americans, and boldly charged the Redskins, while the hunters outside tried to scale the barricades.

The Indians of the prairie, ignorant of Red Wolf's death, and believing they were carrying out his plans, advanced, in a compact body, on the fort, with the intention of carrying it. Natah Otann had to contend against the enemies without and those within; but he did not despair; his energy seemed to increase with peril; he was everywhere at once; encouraging some, rebuking others, and imparting some of his own nerve to all. At his voice, many of his warriors sprang up, and joined him; then the battle was organized, and became regular.

Still the hunters, excited by the Count and Bright-eye, redoubled their efforts; climbing on each other's backs, they reached the top of the palisades, which they wished to scale. The Americans, though themselves surprised, when they expected to surprise their enemies, fought with indescribable fury, returning instantly to the attack in spite of the bullets that decimated them, and seemed resolved to fall to the last man, rather than give way an inch.

During the two hours that night still lasted, the fight was maintained without any decided advantage on either side; but when the sun appeared on the horizon, matters changed at once. In the darkness it was impossible for the Indians to recognize the enemies against whom they were fighting; but so soon as the gloom was dissipated, they saw, combating in the first rank of their enemies, and pitilessly cutting down the Redskins, the man on whom they counted most, whom their chiefs and medicine men had announced to them as their leader to victory, who would render them invincible. Then they hesitated, disorder broke out among them, and, in spite of the efforts made by Chiefs, they gave way.

The Count, having at his side Bright-eye, the squatter and his son, and Ivon, made a frightful butchery of the Indians; he was avenging himself for the treachery of which they had made him their victim, and, at each stroke, cut them down like corn ripe for the sickle. The Count at length reached the gate of the fort; but there he came in contact with a band of picked warriors, commanded by White Buffalo, who was effecting his retreat in good order, and without turning his back, closely pursued by Major Melville, who was already almost master of the interior of the fortress. There was a moment, we will not say of hesitation, but of truce between the hostile bands; each of them understood that the fate of the battle depended on the defeat of the other.

Suddenly Natah Otann made his appearance, mad with grief and rage; brandishing in one hand his totem, he guided with his knees a magnificent steed, with which he had already ridden several times into the thickest of the enemies' ranks, in the vain hope of reanimating the courage of his men, and turning the current of the action. Horse and rider were bathed in blood and perspiration; the shadow of death already brooded over the Chiefs contracted face; but his forehead still shone with enthusiasm. His eyes seemed to flash forth lightning, and his hand wielded an axe, the very handle of which dripped gore. Some twenty devoted warriors followed him, wounded like himself, but resolved, like him, not to survive defeat.

On reaching the front of the American line, Natah Otann stopped; his eyebrows were contracted, a nervous smile played round his lips; and, rising in his stirrups, he bent a fascinating glance around.

"Blackfeet, my brothers," he shouted, in a strident voice, "as you know not how to conquer, learn at least from me how to die!"

And burying his spurs in the flanks of his steed, which shrieked with pain, he rushed on the Americans, followed by a few warriors who had sworn not to abandon him. This weak band, devoted to death, was engulfed in the ranks of the hunters, when it entirely disappeared; for a few minutes there was a sullen contest, a horrible butchery, an ebb and flow of courage impossible to describe, a Titanic struggle of fifteen half naked men against three hundred; gradually the agitation ceased, the calm returned, and the ranks of the hunters were reformed. The Blackfeet heroes were dead, but they had a sanguinary funeral, for one hundred and twenty Americans had fallen, burying their enemies under their corpses.