A stalwart warrior of the Sioux nation was lying before his tepee, busily sharpening his hatchet upon a stone, when a cloud of dust upon the horizon warned him of the approach of a rider. He looked up languidly, as a calico pony approached at breakneck speed, and, when a half-naked warrior threw himself upon the ground and advanced to speak with him, he scarcely deigned to notice the visitor.

"Mahapiya-luta," said the dismounted warrior, "I have news for you. Great news."

"Ugh," said he with the hatchet. "Let us have it, Soboya."

"The palefaces are upon the waters which sound with the music of bells. There are many of them with horses with long ears, and boxes which run on wheels. They are cutting down the pine trees and are building a big house. The squaws of the paleface warriors are with them, and the pappooses. They have iron pieces on wheels which speak with the voice of thunder, and instruments which, when placed to their mouths, sound forth in tones of sweetness. Yea, they are many and they are in the heart of our best hunting grounds."

Mahapiya-luta had leaped from the turf, as the other was speaking, and in his eyes shone a fierce and sinister lustre.

"How many are there?" he asked.

The courier looked puzzled for an instant, and then held up both hands with a sweeping motion.

"There are as many as ponies in yonder herd," said he. "The palefaces are as thick as trees along the side of the mountain behind our camp. But we are greater by ten times. Yes, we can sweep them off the face of our land."

"And we will," shouted Mahapiya-luta, who was known to the whites as Red Cloud. "Did I not tell the Great White Eagle (General Carrington) so, in the council at the house, called Laramie by the palefaces? Did I not say that if he and his Long Swords stole the country of our fathers without asking my permission that we would take their scalps? Did I not tell him that the fireboat which walks on mountains (locomotive) could not come into our hunting grounds and scare off all the game? Show me the place where the palefaces have camped, O Soboya, and we will drive them from the soil."

"Come with me," answered Soboya, "and you can see for yourself that what I say to you is the truth."

On a plateau between two branches of the Piney Creek—a branch of the Powder River in Wyoming—a camp and stockade had been established, on the thirteenth of July, 1866. Four miles away was the magnificent Big Horn Range of Mountains, with a towering snow peak, called Cloud Peak, jutting nine thousand feet into the azure sky. It was a lonely place—the farthest post of United States regulars in the wilderness—but as General Carrington, its commander, looked about him upon the wide plateau decked with beautiful flowers, and green with waving grass, he smiled grimly at the scene of natural beauty. The mountains and hills were covered with pines of restful green, the waters of the creek and its tributary rivulets were as pure as crystal. Trout leaped in the tiny pools and cataracts. Antelope grazed upon the wide sweep of the plains, while deep-rutted trails showed where the bison had recently passed by. "It is a glorious situation," said Carrington to himself, "but the Indians will not let us enjoy it as we should. Well, they will find us ready and prepared. I, for one, am glad to be here."

As the soldiers fell to work to erect the stockade and buildings of this new fortification, called Fort Phil Kearney, they were not long in realizing that the redskins did not intend to leave them alone. Picket posts were established upon the surrounding hills, which overlooked the Bozeman trail and approaches from both the East and the West. Three times they were attacked by the hostiles. Upon the third of these, a warrior in warpaint and feathers rode far out beyond his yelping followers, and, shaking his clenched fist at the soldiers who were bringing up a howitzer, called out:

"Red Cloud has told you to leave the hunting grounds of the Sioux. If you remain here, you will all be killed. Red Cloud has spoken."

A jeer of derision greeted this insult, and a case-shot was immediately exploded among the clusters of red men. They scattered like chaff before the wind. The soldiers cheered their departure, and, turning towards the fort, withdrew in close order, with their faces towards the evil-looking adherents of the Sioux chieftain.

This was not the last attack upon General Carrington's frontiersmen, by any means, for many who ventured from the fort were ambuscaded. The wood trains which went out to fetch logs from a saw mill, some miles away, were constantly attacked. There was fighting all the time. Many stragglers who had ventured out alone were cut off and killed. A few were scalped, and crawling back to the stockade, were rescued by their now terrified companions, who were constantly warned not to leave the protection of the log fortress. From the first of August, until the close of the year, the Indians killed one hundred and fifty-four persons, wounded twenty more, and captured nearly seven hundred horses, mules, and cattle. Every train which passed over the Bozeman trail was attacked, and there were fifty-one demonstrations against the fort by Red Cloud and his followers. Men grew used to war and the sound of spitting bullets and flying arrows.

Among the officers of the fort was a Captain Fetterman, who had had less experience in the country than the other officers, and who was always anxious for a fight. On the twenty-first of December a wood train was sent out to gather a supply of timber for the fort, and, at eleven o'clock in the morning, the lookout on a hill near-by signalled that it had been attacked by the Indians in force, about a mile and a half from the fort. A relief party of eighty-one men was immediately sent out to the aid of the beleagured whites, and the command was entrusted to Fetterman. He boasted that with this troop he could ride through the entire Sioux nation.

As the soldiers left the post, General Carrington gave specific orders that they were not to pursue the Indians across a trail which was visible from the fort. "You shall relieve the wood train, drive back the Indians, but on no account pursue them beyond the Lodge Trail Ridge," said the careful commander at the moment of departure, and in a loud voice. "All right," called Fetterman, "I shall be sure to obey your orders." With a smile on his face, he rode out into the open, taking a direction which would lead him to the rear of the Indians who were menacing the wood train.

Red Cloud was in command of the savage horde upon the plains, and, when he heard that Fetterman's command was approaching, he directed his braves to retreat down the valley. The wood train immediately broke corral, and, as the redskins went away, made for the fort. Fetterman and his men rode after the red men, and, entirely disregarding the orders from General Carrington, followed the fleeing braves down a ravine. This was exactly what Red Cloud had wished, and, taunting the oncoming soldiers with jeers and insults, he had soon drawn them into an ambuscade. Suddenly the bluecoats found themselves surrounded. Too late they turned about to retreat to the protection of Fort Phil Kearney. In their rear a vast and overwhelming mass of Indians galloped upon them, driving them into a circle for defense, and shooting them down by scores. The whites fought gamely and well, but it was of little avail. They were soon overwhelmed by the great numbers of the Sioux, as well armed as they were themselves, and led by Red Cloud in person. Soon not a single soldier was alive, and the air resounded with the wild warwhoops of the victorious savages.

At the fort the heavy firing of the battle was heard about twelve o'clock. Carrington instantly dispatched fifty-four men to the relief of Fetterman and his doomed command, who had disappeared from view behind the sloping hills. The men went forward on the run. Carrington, himself, mounted the observatory tower, fieldglasses in hand, and anxiously scanned the distant hills. He was fearful of the result of the expedition, but dared say nothing to his officers and men, or to the women and children who had husbands and fathers in Fetterman's detachment. Late in the afternoon the relief party returned with terrible tidings of an awful disaster.

When they had reached the end of the ridge nearest the fort, they saw evidences of a great battle. Forty-nine men were lying behind a pile of rocks, in a space only about six feet square. They had been killed by arrows and spears, and not by bullets. Fetterman was found prostrate behind a hillock with another officer by his side. As their heads were burned and filled with powder around the wounds, it was evident that they had committed suicide when they found that it was all up with them. On every side were signs of the fiercest kind of hand-to-hand fighting. Behind a pile of stones were two civilians who had been armed with modern six-shot rifles, and as many Indian ponies lay near by, it was evident that they had put up a stout defense. Ghastly and mutilated remains, shot full of arrows and stripped naked, were on every side. Red Cloud and his braves had had a terrible victory.

By this defeat and slaughter of Fetterman's command, Red Cloud gained so much fame that he was chosen to be the leading war chief of the Sioux. Thousands of painted warriors enrolled themselves with his band, and he soon found himself in control of numbers of daring spirits who were constantly on the lookout for another battle with the Government troops. Travel on the Bozeman trail was given up entirely. Letters from the soldiers which got through the prowling Indians to the East often had in them the words: "We are in constant fear of our lives. This may be my last letter. The Indians fairly swarm about the fort." Men of the garrison who had moved West for adventure's sake had found all that could satisfy the most delicate palate. Danger was always present.

As winter passed and the warm breath of summer blew across the prairie, Red Cloud was persuaded by his warlike followers to make another attack upon the whites. The painted braves were weary of cutting off stragglers and attacking stagecoaches; they wanted another stand-up fight. Half of the Sioux were armed with rifles which they had obtained from white traders, and some had repeaters. There were about three thousand of these red warriors, and they were not cowards, although they had a healthy respect for the white troops. Under cover of frequent skirmishes, Red Cloud collected his adherents within striking distance of the fort, and by the first of August he was prepared to have a desperate encounter with those who had dared to trespass upon the land of his fathers.

Woodcutting was still going on in the vicinity of this stockade in the far wilderness, and, under the leadership of Major James Powell, numerous soldiers protected those engaged in this task. The wagons used by the woodcutters were furnished by the quartermaster's department. In order to afford as much protection as possible to their occupants in case of an onslaught by the Sioux, loopholes were cut in the sides. Major Powell had fourteen of such vehicles, and he drew them up in the form of an oval, as the men busied themselves in cutting down the neighboring forest trees. The wheels were removed from all but two, which were placed at either end of the barricade. It was thus a formidable obstacle to an Indian attack.

On August the second Indians were seen approaching the fort in great numbers. Red Cloud had made his plan of attack, and had decided to annihilate the little detachment under Major Powell (twenty-eight in all) before he set upon Fort Phil Kearney. Although his warriors dashed forward with extreme speed, they were seen long before they reached the wagon-box corral. On they galloped—three thousand of them—and, as they appeared above the rolling hills, the sun glistened upon their shining rifle barrels and painted faces. Chanting a wild war song, and brandishing spears and rifles aloft, they came down upon Powell's little force like an overwhelming wave of the sea. Yelping with savage delight at the thought of an easy victory, they sent forward a party of two hundred red men to stampede the mules which were used in the wagons. The herders stood them off for some time, but, seeing that it was useless to fight against such odds, retreated towards Powell's corral. Immediately a large force of painted braves hastened to cut them off.

But Powell dashed out from the wagon boxes to their rescue. With him were only fifteen men, but they shot so accurately into the mass of Indians that the redskins turned to drive them away. The herders, meanwhile, made their escape towards the fort, and, after a stiff brush with another detachment of Red Cloud's army, managed to reach the safety of the log stockade. Powell retreated to his wagon boxes, and there, with his paltry twenty-eight, prepared for the onslaught of Red Cloud's three thousand. There were greater odds here than when Roman Nose charged upon the defenders of Beecher's Island, and the whites were to distinguish themselves as splendidly as did the Rough Riders of "Sandy" Forsyth.

"Lie down!" shouted Powell to his men. "Throw blankets over the tops of the wagons to screen yourselves! Bore loopholes through the sides of the wagons with the augurs, if you need more room to fight. And, for your lives, don't fire until the savages are close upon us!" So saying, he stationed himself at the end of the corral, rifle in hand, and awaited the onslaught of the painted followers of Red Cloud. As he ceased speaking, three civilians and one old frontiersman, a dead shot, succeeded in joining his party. Thus the numbers were increased to thirty-two.

Powell was seven miles from the fort, and the chances were that he would be relieved. This gave him some satisfaction, as he saw Red Cloud busily giving directions to his warriors, and massing them for a charge upon the corral. The redskins were determined to ride clean over the soldiers and end the battle with one, swift blow. Remembering their success with Fetterman, they doubtless felt that the fate of the thirty-two would be the same. Their women and children were with them, and, massed upon a number of hills, eagerly watched their relatives as they formed in line of battle. Five hundred Sioux warriors, magnificently mounted, suddenly detached themselves from the three thousand, and, urging on their multi-colored steeds with blows and wild cheers, started head-on for the corral.

On, on, they charged. Slowly went the ponies at first, but gradually their speed was increased, until they were galloping with great swiftness upon the silent wagon boxes. A cloud of alkali dust surrounded the yelling band, while, in their rear, Red Cloud gathered together his main force to rush into any opening which the five hundred might make. They went on, on, on, until it seemed as if they would be right among the wagons, when, with a deafening roar, a frightful and overwhelming fire was poured into their very faces. A rain of bullets ploughed into the mass of redskins. Ponies rolled over each other in great confusion. Painted warriors fell headlong upon the turf. All were mixed together in a wild and tangled mass of maddened bronchos and screaming Sioux.

As each of Powell's men had several rifles, the fire from the wagon boxes was steady, persistent, and continuous. Checked, but not halted, the redskins rode up to the very edge of the corral and shot over the tops of the wagons at the garrison. But not one leaped into the enclosure. Dividing like a great billow of the sea, what was left of the five hundred swept around the hollow oval in a vain endeavor to find an opening. But, as they rushed onward in a mad and desperate gallop, a withering fire was directed into their very backs, so that many fell helpless to the ground within striking distance of the sides of the wagon boxes. So close were the Sioux that often one bullet from a frontiersman would kill two redskins. The rifles of Powell's men were hot from rapid use, and revolvers finished the defense of the gallant thirty-two, as the Indians rode back to their disgruntled companions.

Disgusted with the failure of this attack, Red Cloud consulted with his chieftains, and determined upon another method of procedure. Seven hundred Indians were formed into a skirmish party, and were told to creep as near the corral as they could and to pour a heavy fire into the wagons. The rest—about two thousand warriors—were gathered upon a hill and placed in several long lines. They were to overwhelm the men under Powell, and to deal with them as they had with Fetterman,—the disobedient. Let us see how they fared.

After the skirmishers had poured a hot fire into the silent wagon boxes, which literally tore the tops to pieces, the two thousand began a mad gallop towards the corral. Again there was an awful silence, until they reached a distance of ninety yards or so from the defenders of the wooden oval. The thirty-two had been reduced to twenty-eight, but their spirits had not suffered. As the stalwart braves came onward in splendid war bonnets and beaded war shirts, it was a sight which would have made many a man quail. Several had shields of buffalo hide upon their left arms, which were brightly painted and decorated with fantastic designs. Led by the nephew of Red Cloud, they dashed forward in a wide semicircle, chanting wild war songs, calling upon the Great Spirit to aid them, and brandishing their weapons aloft. It was a clear day. The sun shone brightly upon them, and made good targets for the silent and watchful men from Fort Phil Kearney.

They advanced in a wild, uneven column, when

Crash!

A volley poured into their faces, knocking the nephew of the great Red Cloud to the turf, and sending down full twenty warriors among their plunging bronchos. Still they came on, and

Crash! Crash!

A still more deadly mass of lead ploughed gaps in the line. They did not falter, but swept forward with fierce cries of anger and disdain. Ponies screamed in agony and broke from the mass of maddened braves whenever their riders fell prostrate to the turf. The Sioux were now within twenty yards. It was a terribly critical situation. Should they leap over the wooden barrier, it would be all over with Powell's valiant band. But

Crash! Crash! Crash!

The Sioux were so close that the troopers rose to their knees, in their excitement, and threw their augurs, revolvers, and knives into the faces of the Indians. It was like the charge of Grover's brigade on Stonewall Jackson's men behind the railroad cut at Second Bull Run. The white men did anything to keep off the foe. They were desperate.

Crash! Crash! Crash!

Others were keeping up the fire. The Indians wavered. They broke. They began to ride away. A fierce cheer rent the air from the brave twenty-eight, and, upon a hillock a half mile away, Red Cloud, like Napoleon at Waterloo, bitterly bewailed this sudden and appalling reverse. He thought that he saw the end of his power as head war chief of the bloodthirsty Sioux.

With desperation the Indians now formed for another attack. The ground around the corral was literally piled with heaps of the slain. In spite of this they charged six times upon the defenders of the wagon-box corral. For three hours there was continuous fighting and stubborn resistance. Finally, as Red Cloud's warriors apparently formed for a last, desperate onrush a shell burst in the midst of the Indian skirmishers, and, through the trees away off to the left, the gallant defenders of the wooden fortification saw the blue uniforms of approaching soldiers. They were saved!

Cheer upon cheer rent the air, as, at the head of one hundred men, Major Smith galloped into view. The herders, woodsmen, and scouts who had escaped from their camps in the morning had reached the fort with the news of Powell's danger. Thus, all who could be spared from the stockade had been sent, with a howitzer, to rescue the brave defenders of the wagon-box corral. Red Cloud's warriors retreated in sullen silence, carrying off their dead, as is their custom. Had they again turned upon the whites, when they were in the open, there is no doubt that they could have nearly annihilated Smith's little body of rescuers, because of their overwhelming numbers.

When Powell's rangers reached the protection of Fort Phil Kearney, many were half crazy with the excitement and nervous strain of the fight. Several never completely recovered from the terrible experience through which they had just passed, and Powell, himself, was an invalid for three years. Never had white men displayed greater hardihood, courage, and fighting prowess against overwhelming masses of redskins; and the fact that nearly half of the total Indian force were either killed or dangerously wounded (as was afterwards learned from Red Cloud himself) bears full witness to the accurate marksmanship of the whites.

A treaty was made with all the Sioux within six months, and Fort Phil Kearney was abandoned to its fate. The troops were withdrawn. The followers of Red Cloud immediately burned the wooden stockade to the ground. Red Cloud, himself, never afterwards participated in an important action with the soldiers, although elected to the position of head chief of the Sioux. The prestige which he had lost at the wagon-box fight returned after the abandonment of Fort Phil Kearney, and he was always admired and respected by his red followers. In the war of 1876, General Mackenzie surprised his camp before he had an opportunity to go upon the warpath, which, to say the least, was most fortunate for those who wished to have peace upon the frontier.

The Sioux leader lived to be nearly ninety years of age, and, when questioned upon his feelings about the defeat by Powell's men, would say: "It was a big fight. The long swords fought as I had never seen them before. My warriors were as thick as blades of grass. I went in with many. I lost over half. The long swords shot true to the mark. My warriors never fought again."