THE BATTLE OF POISON-SPIDER CREEK
Rube Carter, who was the only person in Falling Water's army who had
actually seen the approaching enemy, and who knew beyond a doubt how
greatly the Sioux outnumbered the Crows, had the impression that Kiddie
must now decide either to beat a hasty retreat, and thus avoid the
battle, or else advance and suffer an inevitable defeat.
There was a hurried council of war, in which Kiddie appeared to hold
the ruling influence; but Rube did not know the result of the
conference. Neither did he pretend to have an opinion of his own, as
to what the Crows had best do. He was satisfied to watch Kiddie. But
it was with relief that he presently saw all three of Falling Water's
divisions retiring over the level prairie ground, which they had
recently quitted, beside Poison Spider Creek.
He supposed that they were returning to defend their wigwams. But they
were not making for the fording place by which they had previously
crossed the creek.
When the creek was reached there was a halt, and a large section of the
army disappeared into ambush, while the remainder rearranged their
ranks and examined their ponies and their weapons.
Rube was perplexed. Were they going to engage the enemy after all?
Scouts who had been sent out returned with the report that the enemy
was quickly advancing through a gap in the foothills. They would soon
appear in sight.
Leaving his reserves in ambush, Kiddie now led his own division slowly
forward across the plain, the armies of Falling Water and Short Nose
forming his right and left wings, well in his rear.
He had covered hardly half the distance between the creek and the near
foothills when the Sioux appeared, emerging like a huge serpent through
the gap. They were riding in single file, across the Crows' line of
march, clearly with the purpose of surrounding them and cutting them
off from the ford. They continued in a straight, unbending column, but
were still beyond range, when suddenly the Crows halted, turned right
about face, and retired once again in the direction of the creek,
apparently unwilling to engage so formidable an enemy.
For the first time in his experience Rube Carter suspected Kiddie of
cowardice, or at least of indecision. If he were not meaning to fight,
why had he not retreated earlier, while there was time to escape?
To the Sioux, as well as to Rube Carter, it must have appeared that
Falling Water was owning himself defeated before even a blow had been
struck.
Kiddie, however, was but following out his own plan of campaign. He
was manoeuvring his forces for position. While appearing to be in
retreat, he was keeping his divisions in perfect order, and at the same
time alluring the Sioux towards that part of the plain which he had
chosen for his battle ground. His reserves had already secured
possession of the ford, and they were ready to join in the battle if
their support should be needed.
The crucial moment came when the leading warriors of the Sioux' long
column were level with the rear of Kiddie's division.
Then, as by a pre-arranged plan of action, the Crows wheeled round to a
new position, the three divisions joining and forming an unbroken
semi-circle confronting the Sioux, and completely heading them off from
the ford to which they had been advancing.
So quickly and so accurately was the manoeuvre performed, that the
Sioux might well have been astounded. The result of it was that the
Crows had concentrated the whole of their strength against less than
half the forces of their enemy, whose files from the centre back to the
rear were wholly out of action.
Urging their ponies to the full gallop, the Crows charged down upon the
Sioux like a hurricane, assailing them with bullets and arrows as they
swept into close contact.
The Sioux were not prepared for this sudden change of front, but they
made the best of the situation by a quick turn, which brought them face
to face with the attacking hordes, while the rear of their long column,
issuing from the gap in the hills, broke off from the centre, with the
purpose of surrounding the Crows' third division.
Falling Water's army might thus have been adroitly caught between two
fires, had it not been for Kiddie's forethought in sending his reserves
to the support of his right wing. It accordingly followed that, while
numerically the inferior force, the Crows continued to hold the great
advantage they had gained by concentrating their strength upon a weak
point at the most fitting moment.
Rube Carter saw but little of the battle. He was not called upon to
engage in the actual fighting. Instead, he acted as a messenger, or
dispatch rider.
Just as the turning movement was being made, Kiddie sent him to the
rear to order the reserves to break cover, and advance across the plain
to the support of Short Nose. This order he delivered by means of
signs and gestures, which were well understood and very promptly obeyed.
Rube then rode back to a spot where Kiddie had told him to wait, and it
was from here that he watched as much as could be seen of the progress
of the battle.
When the two conflicting sides were apart, he could realize the meaning
of all they did. He saw the Crows advancing to surround the van of
their enemy; he saw the Sioux turn sharply to confront them. And then,
with a loud thudding of horses' hoofs, the two contending armies rushed
one at the other in a rising cloud of prairie dust.
There was a crackle of rifle fire, mingled with thrilling war-cries and
wild, barbaric yells. Arrows flew from side to side, making a visible
arch between.
As the rifle fire lessened at close quarters the yells and shouts grew
louder and fiercer. And now Rube lost all power of distinguishing one
side from the other, for it was all one vast mass of horses and men,
swaying this way and that in wild confusion.
It seemed to Rube that even the horses were fighting, for they were
rearing and plunging, kicking and biting, as they forced themselves
through the crowd. Many of them fell, many were riderless. Some of
them had two or even three Indians mounted on their backs, wielding
their clubs and tomahawks.
Through the dust and powder-smoke Rube could see that the ground was
thickly strewn with killed and wounded horses and men. There were wide
gaps in what had been the ranks, but no order was kept, and the
combatants broke off into dense groups. Here and there a chief or
important warrior would draw off his section, rallying and forming them
into line for a new attack, again to become mixed up in a grand
scrimmage.
Rube could distinguish the chiefs by their feathered war bonnets, and
amongst them he thought he recognized the young chief Broken Feather
riding to and fro in the rear of his warriors as if urging them to new
movements or increased effort.
Kiddie was not so easily to be distinguished, as he wore only a very
simple head-dress, but Rube, knowing him by his piebald prairie pony,
saw him once or twice in the forefront of the battle, and again leading
a retirement to take up a fresh position on the field where the
fighting was most severe.
Then for a long time there was no sign of Kiddie, and Rube began to
fear that he had been killed or seriously wounded. So much did this
fear oppress him that he resolved to risk his own safety by riding
forward to make a search. He knew that Kiddie's main object in posting
him here where he waited was to keep him out of danger. But what if
Kiddie himself were in danger, or badly wounded, and needed help?
Rube Carter had often said that what he wanted more than anything else
was to be of vital help to Kiddie in some situation of great peril, and
the idea that such a situation was now at hand so took possession of
him that caution and obedience alike were put aside. With the
impulsive recklessness of boyhood, he started off to search for Kiddie
in the very midst of the fighting. He had only the very vaguest notion
of where Kiddie might be. He was aiming at getting to the place where
he had last seen him riding at the head of a large company of the Crows
to encounter an equally large company of the Sioux. The fighting at
this point had now ceased, and the ground was covered with dead and
dying horses and fallen warriors.
Rube did not reflect that his mount was a trained Indian war-horse,
accustomed to the excitement of battle, and when he tugged and pulled
at the halter rein to make the pony stop and let him dismount to go on
foot amongst the wounded, the animal tossed its mane and galloped on
and on to join a troop of its fellows charging across the battle front.
All Rube's efforts to keep out of the actual fighting were useless.
Wholly against his will he was carried into it. Arrows and spears were
flying about his head; bullets hummed past him; he saw tomahawks raised
aloft to strike at him.
Suddenly the horse immediately in front of him staggered and rolled
over. Rube's own mount reared and swerved to clear the obstacle. His
knees lost their grip, and he was thrown to the ground.
The long halter rope, wound round his wrist, almost wrenched out his
arm. He was dragged for a little distance, but his hand was open, and
the loops of the lariat uncoiled themselves as the horse plunged
onward, leaving him behind.
The fighting continued round about him for a while, but the Crows
pressed their enemies back and back until none remained excepting those
who had lost their horses; and these, instead of following the battle
on foot, went among the killed and wounded collecting scalp locks.
Some of the braves seized riderless ponies, leapt on their backs, and
galloped off to join the throng. Rube also looked round in search of a
pony that might carry him back to the rear. There was one not many
yards away, tugging at the halter that held it.
Rube rose to his knees, only to realize that in his fall he had injured
his hip, and could not even crawl. How, then, could he hope to mount a
strange horse without help?
He was still on his knees, trying to rise to his feet, when something
like the sting of a whip struck his right cheek and ear. He put up his
hand to his face, and drew it away wet and stained. The warm crimson
moisture trickled down his neck, and dripped from his chin. He opened
and shut his mouth.
"Gee!" he exclaimed ruefully. "Seems I'm wounded. Jaw ain't put outer
gear, though. Might ha' bin worse--heaps worse."
"Lie down flat, Rube! Lie down flat!"
It was Kiddie's voice. Rube instinctively obeyed the command, without
even looking round to see where the voice had come from. But as he
prostrated himself, he glanced forward and saw quite near to him a
young Sioux chief mounted on a fine black horse, and wearing a
magnificent feathered war-bonnet.
It was Broken Feather.
The chief was aiming with his revolver at a mark beyond where Rube lay.
He pressed the trigger; but the chambers were empty, the cartridges all
spent; and when no shot followed, he gripped the gun by its muzzle end,
flung back his arm, and threw the weapon from him with all his force.
Rube had turned his head to look back over his shoulder, and now, just
at the moment when the weapon was thrown, he saw Kiddie stretch out his
hand and adroitly catch it, as he might have caught a cricket ball.
Kiddie, still riding the same lank, piebald prairie pony; still unhurt
in the battle; still cool and self-contained.
"So it's you--you--that have been leading these Crows against me?"
snarled Broken Feather, with an angry scowl.
"Well," returned Kiddie, dropping the chief's revolver and drawing back
his hand under his blanket; "you may take it that way if you choose.
It seems I'm here. Anyhow, I guess you're pretty well beaten this
time."
Broken Feather had seized the haft of his tomahawk, and was holding his
bridle rein ready to make a desperate charge forward to a hand to hand
encounter.
But Kiddie had foreseen his intention.
"Steady, there, steady!" he cried, quickly withdrawing his hand and
levelling his fully-loaded six-shooter at a point between Broken
Feather's eyes. "Put up your hands! You can't get at me before my
bullet reaches you, see?"
For many moments Broken Feather stared at the shining ring of steel in
front of Kiddie's steadily held hand. He saw Kiddie's finger twitching
against the trigger, and knew for a certainty that Kiddie would not
hesitate to shoot if his command were disobeyed.
"Put up your hands," Kiddie reiterated.
Broken Feather's tomahawk was now hanging by its thong from his wrist.
Slowly and very reluctantly he raised his two empty hands above his
head.
"Right," Kiddie nodded, lowering his weapon, but still keeping it
turned in the same direction. "You've saved your precious life. And
now you'd best call off your warriors before there's any more blood
spilt. D'you understand? Put an end to this needless battle, and quit
right away, with what's left of your army. You're tryin' to fly a bit
too high, my man. But you're not made big enough. Give up tryin'. Go
back to your reservation, and try to live a decent, honourable life of
peace and usefulness."
Broken Feather drew down his hands, and folded his arms across his
chest, sitting very upright astride of his horse.
"I have not asked advice from you, Lord St. Olave," he said.
"It isn't advice I'm giving you," returned Kiddie. "It's a command.
Draw off your warriors right now, and quit, while you have the chance."
He again raised his weapon, and urged his pony a few steps nearer. But
Broken Feather did not wait. Seizing his bridle, he pulled his mustang
round and galloped away.
Kiddie then advanced to where Rube Carter was lying. He dismounted.
"Why did you let him off like that, Kiddie?" Rube asked, one hand up to
his wounded cheek. "You might have shot him easy. Why don't you go
after him?"
"What?" said Kiddie, going down on his knees; "and leave you here,
without help? Not likely. My! you do look pretty, with all that blood
about your face. Take away your hand, and let's have a look at where
you're hurt. What's become of your pony?"
"Dunno," Rube answered feebly. "I was thrown, an' he ran off on his
own. I've hurt my hip some. Don't think I c'n walk. Wound on my
cheek ain't much, is it, Kiddie?"
"Nothing serious," Kiddie told him, taking out his pocket case. "A
strip or two of stickin' plaster 'll fix it up till we get home.
Bullet went very near your eye, though. Say, how d'you happen to be
here? I expected to find you away back there, where I told you to
wait. Got tired of waitin', I guess."
"Don't blame me, Kiddie; I didn't think you really wanted me ter stop
thar. An' when the fightin' was at its worst, I got anxious about you;
figured as you might be badly wounded an' needin' help, or--or even
that you might be killed. So I came along ter search for you, see?"
"Yes, Rube, I see," nodded Kiddie. "And instead of you finding me, it
was I who found you, eh? Well, I'm real sorry to disappoint you, but
it can't be helped."
"No; but it's allus the same," Rube regretted. "It's allus you that
helps me. How many times have you saved my life since we come out on
this yer trip? I never get half a chance to save yours. Never!"
"Keep your face still, can't you?" ordered Kiddie. "How d'you expect
me ter fix up this cut on your cheek if you keep on waggin' your jaw?"
He was not long over the operation of getting a pad of lint on the
wound and binding a rough bandage round Rube's head. Then he stood up.
"Now let me give you a leg up on to my pony," he said.
"What about yourself?" objected Rube. "Ain't yer goin' to do any more
fightin'? The battle ain't finished yet."
"Fightin'?" repeated Kiddie. "Oh, no; not now. I'm going to take you
back to the rear. Besides, it wouldn't be at all gentlemanly if I were
to continue fightin' after having told Broken Feather that he must put
an end to it all."
He stopped and lifted Rube bodily from the ground, planting him
securely astride the piebald pony, which he led away across ground that
was thickly strewn with dead and wounded Indians and horses. Rube's
injured hip was exceedingly painful; every movement of the pony gave
him a new twinge; but he bore the pain stoically, not wishing to let
Kiddie know how much he was hurt.
Near the fording place they came to a halt. Rube was left lying on a
blanket while Kiddie, re-mounting the piebald, rode back to the
battlefield to put a stop to all scalping and mutilating and looting,
to attend to the wounded, and to draw off the Crows as Broken Feather
had drawn off the Sioux.
Amongst the dead and wounded Crows he discovered Simon Sprott kneeling
at the side of the chief Falling Water, whose body had been pierced by
a dozen arrows.
"Poor old Falling Water's done in, Little Cayuse," Simon announced.
"He's gone right away to the Happy Hunting Grounds. But I guess he'd a
big thought for you just before he started on the Long Trail. Asked me
to thank you for leading the Crows to victory, he did."