The incident had delayed us but for a very short while—perhaps not half a minute; but as we returned to the charging gallop, most of our party had passed us; and the foremost were already within rifle range, and opening fire upon the Arapahoes.
Chapter Seventy Eight.
The Charge.
The horsemen who had forged ahead, for a while, hindered me from seeing the enemy. The Utahs had halted, and were discharging their guns. The smoke from their shots shrouded both allies and enemies; but, from the fact of a halt having been made, I presumed the Arapahoes were making stand by the butte. It was not so. After the first round of shots, the firing ceased; and the Utahs again went charging onward.
The Arapahoes had given way, and were fleeing down the valley. There they must meet Wa-ka-ra. And this or something like it, was their intention. With the four divisions closing upon them from all sides at once, they saw there was no chance of saving themselves—except by making a desperate charge on some one singly, in the hope of causing it to yield, and thus open for them a way of escape. They had no difficulty in making choice of which they should meet. The band of Wa-ka-ra was between them and their own country. It was the direction in which they must ultimately retreat; and this decided them to take down the valley.
A slight swell in the plain, which we were at that moment crossing, gave me a view of the retreating Arapahoes. In the distance, I could see the band of Wa-ka-ra advancing towards them at full speed. In a few seconds would meet in shivering charge these mortal foes.
The Utahs of our party were urging their horses to utmost speed. Well-mounted as were myself and companions, we were unable to overtake them. Those that came from right and left had suddenly swerved from their course; and in two converging lines were sweeping down the valley to the assistance of their chief. We passed close under the edge of the butte. In the excitement of the chase, I had almost forgotten to look up—when a shrill shout recalled to my memory the captive on the cross. The cry came from the summit—from Sure-shot himself. Thank Heaven! he lived!
“Hooza! hoozay!” shouted the voice. “Heaving speed yees, whos’ever ye be! Hooza! hoozay! Arter the verming, an’ gie ’em goss! Sculp every mother’s son o’ ’em. Hooza! hoozay!”