SIOUX!
The record of this part of my life comes to me sometimes as a series of
vivid pictures. I can see this picture now--the wide gray of the flat
valley, edged with green at the coulee mouths; the sandy spots where the
wind had worked at the foot of the banks; the dotted islands out in the
shimmering, shallow river. I can see again, under the clear, sweet,
quiet sky, the picture of those painted men--their waving lances, their
swaying bodies as they reached for the quivers across their shoulders. I
can see the loose ropes trailing at the horses' noses, and see the light
leaning forward of the red and yellow and ghastly white-striped and
black-stained bodies, and the barred black of the war paint on their
faces. I feel again, so much almost that my body swings in unison, the
gathering stride of the ponies cutting the dust into clouds. I see the
color and the swiftness of it all, and feel its thrill, the strength and
tenseness of it all. And again I feel, as though it were to-day, the
high, keen, pleasant resolution which came to me. We had women with us.
Whether this young woman was now to die or not, none of us men would see
it happen.
They came on, massed as I have said, to within about two hundred and
fifty yards, then swung out around us, their horse line rippling up over
the broken ground apparently as easily as it had gone on the level floor
of the valley. Still we made no volley fire. I rejoiced to see the cool
pallor of Belknap's face, and saw him brave and angry to the core. Our
plainsmen, too, were grim, though eager; and our little band of cavalry,
hired fighters, rose above that station and became not mongrel private
soldiers, but Anglo-Saxons each. They lay or knelt or stood back of the
wagon line, imperturbable as wooden men, and waited for the order to
fire, though meantime two of them dropped, hit by chance bullets from
the wavering line of horsemen that now encircled us.
"Tell us when to fire, Auberry," I heard Belknap say, for he had
practically given over the situation to the old plainsman. At last I
heard the voice of Auberry, changed from that of an old man into the
quick, clear accents of youth, sounding hard and clear. "Ready now! Each
fellow pick his own man, and kill him, d'ye hear, _kill_ him!"
We had no further tactics. Our fire began to patter and crackle. Our
troopers were armed with the worthless old Spencer carbines, and I doubt
if these did much execution; but there were some good old Hawkin rifles
and old big-bored Yagers and more modern Sharps' rifles and other
buffalo guns of one sort or another with us, among the plainsmen and
teamsters; and when these spoke there came breaks in the flaunting line
that sought to hedge us. The Sioux dropped behind their horses' bodies,
firing as they rode, some with rifles, more with bows and arrows. Most
of our work was done as they topped the rough ground close on our left,
and we saw here a half-dozen bodies lying limp, flat and ragged, though
presently other riders came and dragged them away.
The bow and arrow is no match for the rifle behind barricades; but when
the Sioux got behind us they saw that our barricade was open in the
rear, and at this they whooped and rode in closer. At a hundred yards
their arrows fell extraordinarily close to the mark, and time and again
they spiked our mules and horses with these hissing shafts that quivered
where they struck. They came near breaking our rear in this way, for our
men fell into confusion, the horses and mules plunging and trying to
break away. There were now men leaning on their elbows, blood dripping
from their mouths. There were cries, sounding far away, inconsequent to
us still standing. The whir of many arrows came, and we could hear them
chuck into the woodwork of the wagons, into the leather of saddle and
harness, and now and again into something that gave out a softer,
different sound.
I was crowding a ball down my rifle with its hickory rod when I felt a
shove at my arm and heard a voice at my ear. "Git out of the way,
man--how can I see how to shoot if you bob your head acrost my sights
all the time?"
There stood old Mandy McGovern, her long brown rifle half raised, her
finger lying sophisticatedly along the trigger guard, that she might not
touch the hair trigger. She was as cool as any man in the line, and as
deadly. As I finished reloading, I saw her hard, gray face drop as she
crooked her elbow and settled to the sights--saw her swing as though she
were following a running deer; and then at the crack of her piece I saw
a Sioux drop out of his high-peaked saddle. Mandy turned to the rear.
"Git in here, git in here, son!" I heard her cry. And to my wonder now I
saw the long, lean figure of Andrew Jackson McGovern come forward, a
carbine clutched in his hand, while from his mouth came some sort of
eerie screech of incipient courage, which seemed to give wondrous
comfort to his fierce dam. At about this moment one of the Sioux,
mortally wounded by our fire, turned his horse and ran straight toward
us hard as he could go. He knew that he must die, and this was his
way--ah, those red men knew how to die. He got within forty yards,
reeling and swaying, but still trying to fit an arrow to the string, and
as none of us would fire on him now, seeing that he was dying, for a
moment it looked as though he would ride directly into us, and perhaps
do some harm. Then I heard the boom of the boy's carbine, and almost at
the instant, whether by accident or not I could not tell, I saw the red
man drop out of the forks of his saddle and roll on the ground with his
arms spread out.
Perhaps never was metamorphosis more complete than that which now took
place. Shaking off detaining hands, Andrew Jackson sprang from our line,
ran up to the fallen foe and in a frenzy of rage began to belabor and
kick his body, winding up by catching him by the hair and actually
dragging him some paces toward our firing line! An expression of
absolute beatitude spread over the countenance of Mandy McGovern. She
called out as though he were a young dog at his first fight. "Whoopee!
Git to him, boy, git to him! Take him, boy! Whoopee!"
We got Andrew Jackson back into the ranks. His mother stepped to him and
took him by the hand, as though for the first time she recognized him as
a man.
"Now, boy, _that's_ somethin' _like_." Presently she turned to me. "Some
says it's in the Paw," she remarked. "I reckon it's some in the Maw; an'
a leetle in the trainin'."
Cut up badly by our fire, the Sioux scattered and hugged the shelter of
the river bank, beyond which they rode along the sand or in the shallow
water, scrambling up the bank after they had gotten out of fire. Our men
were firing less, frequently at the last of the line, who came swiftly
down from the bluff and charged across behind us, sending in a
scattering flight of arrows as they rode.
I looked about me now at the interior of our barricade. I saw Ellen
Meriwether on her knees, lifting the shoulders of a wounded man who lay
back, his hair dropping from his forehead, now gone bluish gray. She
pulled him to the shelter of a wagon, where there had been drawn four
others of the wounded. I saw tears falling from her eyes--saw the same
pity on her face which I had noted once before when a wounded creature
lay in her hands. I had been proud of Mandy McGovern. I was proud of
Ellen Meriwether now. They were two generations of our women, the women
of America, whom may God ever have in his keeping.
I say I had turned my head; but almost as I did so I felt a sudden jar
as though some one had taken a board and struck me over the head with
all his might. Then, as I slowly became aware, my head was utterly and
entirely detached from my body, and went sailing off, deliberately, in
front of me. I could see it going distinctly, and yet, oddly enough, I
could also see a sudden change come on the face of the girl who was
stooping before me, and who at the moment raised her eyes.
"It is strange," thought I, "but my head, thus detached, is going to
pass directly above her, right there!"
Then I ceased to take interest in anything, and sank back into the arms
of that from which we come, calmly taking bold of the hand of Mystery.