THE WAR CRY.
Night, serenely beautiful, with its silver moon lighting up the bold
scenery upon every hand, came again to the Black Hills, and the shadow
of the mountains fell upon the miners’ fort, where all seemed lost in
deep repose. But the silence resting there was a treacherous one, for
within those stockade walls were half a hundred brave men resting upon
their arms and awaiting the coming of their foes, who, all knew, were
to hurl themselves against them that night.
Since the day before, when he had left the valley retreat with Red
Hand, Buffalo Bill had been constantly on the move, scouting about the
hills, and his reconnoissance had discovered the plan of attack decided
upon by the Indians.
According to promise, Pearl had met him in the gorge, and told him
that from the ledge she had witnessed the coming of Kansas King, and
heard all that had passed between him and her father, who had told the
outlaw chief that the night following he would come to his camp with
five hundred warriors, and that they would together move on the miners’
stronghold.
Kansas King had agreed to Gray Chief’s plans, and then took his
departure, apparently satisfied with the good faith of his allies. As
for the old hermit, he laughed in his sleeve at the way he had fooled
the outlaw, for it was his intention that very night to hurl his whole
force upon the robber camp, and, after a general massacre, to divide
his warriors into two parties and at once attack the two paleface
encampments.
As soon as he learned the plans of the Indians, and also heard from
Pearl about the arrival of the cavalry in the Black Hills, Buffalo Bill
at once set out on his return to the stronghold.
Whether Kansas King suspected the hermit chief of bad faith, or
determined to strike a blow himself against the settlements, is not
known; but certain it is, that, as soon as darkness set in, he moved
his men at once toward the Ramsey stockade, and after a gallant charge
up to the walls, discovered that the occupants had deserted the place.
Chagrined at this discovery, the outlaw chief rode with all dispatch
toward the stronghold of the miners, and arrived there about the time
that Gray Chief and his red warriors reached the camping ground of the
robbers, to find that they had fled.
With rage at the move of Kansas King, the Indians at once set out
for the Ramsey settlement, gloating over their anticipated revel in
blood. Again were they doomed to disappointment, and in fear that their
enemies had escaped them they rode rapidly for the stronghold of the
miners.
Before they arrived, however, they heard the rattle of firearms. Then
it flashed across the hermit chief that Kansas King had outwitted him
and was determined to alone take the plunder from the miners and reduce
their stronghold to ashes.
The firing grew louder, and then the fort came in sight, the flashes of
the rifles lighting up the dark mountainside. As the band of warriors
pressed on, Kansas King suddenly confronted the hermit chief, and,
with coolness, said:
“Well, old man, you procrastinated too much, so I have begun the fight!”
Both men felt that the other was playing some deep game; yet they were
anxious to receive aid, the one from the other. The outlaws had already
suffered severely, and at a glance the hermit chief and White Slayer
felt that the stronghold would not be easily taken.
So the outlaws and the Sioux concluded to fight together against the
miners. The Indians were thrown into position, and the battle at once
raged in all its fierceness. In vain the outlaws, under their reckless
young leader, hurled themselves against the stockade walls; in vain the
warriors resorted to every cunning artifice known to them.
The brave little garrison poured in constantly a galling fire upon
their enemies, and many an outlaw and Indian bit the dust.
“Come, this will never do. We must charge in column with our whole
force and throw ourselves over the walls. I will lead,” cried Kansas
King, almost wild with fury at the stubborn resistance of the gallant
defenders.
“It is the only chance, I see. Here, White Slayer, form your men for a
bold rush,” replied the stern old hermit chief.
Then, with demoniacal yells, the mad column of outlaws and redskins
started upon the charge. Like hail the leaden bullets fell in their
midst, and terrible was the havoc; but on they pressed--Kansas King,
the hermit chief, and White Slayer at their head.
On, still on, until the dark column reached the stockade. Springing
upon the shoulders of the braves, the daring White Slayer was the next
instant upon the top of the wall, his wild war whoop echoing defiance
and triumph.
But suddenly behind the Indians came a ringing order in trumpet tones:
“Troopers to the rescue--charge!”
Then was heard the hearty cheer of regular soldiers, a rattling of
sabers, a heavy tramping of many hoofs, and upon the rear of the
attacking force rushed a squadron of cavalry, half a hundred strong,
and at their head rode Captain Edwin Archer.
The sight that followed was a scene of terrible carnage, for in wild
dismay the Indians and outlaws fled, the battle lost to them at the
moment they believed victory their own. As the stampede became general,
two men mounted their horses and dashed rapidly away up the gorge.
But upon their tracks rode two other men who had dashed out of the
stronghold in hot pursuit. The two who were flying in advance for their
lives were the hermit chief and Kansas King, both bitterly cursing
their misfortune.
The two men who had ridden from the stronghold in pursuit were Red Hand
and Buffalo Bill. On flew the two chiefs up the dark gorge, and like
bloodhounds on the trail rode Red Hand and the famous scout.
Up the valley, over the ridges, through the cañon, up to the base of
the hill, whereon stood the hermit’s cabin, rushed the riders. Here the
two fugitives sprang from their horses and darted up the steep ascent.
But close behind them was Red Hand and Buffalo Bill. At last the ledge
was reached, and upon it the hermit turned at bay, for he saw that Red
Hand was close behind him. Like an enraged beast, the hermit chief
cried:
“Tracked to my lair at last--at last; but, Vincent Vernon, you shall
die!”
With gleaming knife, the old hermit sprang forward, but Red Hand,
with a cry of rage, as though he recognized the man before him, and
had some bitter injury of the past to avenge, met him with a terrible
earnestness--met him to hurl him back from him with a strength that was
marvelous, and with one plunge of his blade sent its keen point deep
into the broad bosom of his foe.
One stifled cry, and the hermit chief fell back his full length upon
the hard rock, just as Kansas King, who had found the door of the cabin
barred against him, turned also at bay, to be met by a blow from the
pistol butt of Buffalo Bill, which felled him, stunned, to the earth.