All the world admires a brave man, whether he be of red, black, or yellow complexion. All the world respects the leader of a gallant cavalry charge, whether it be successful or not. The British leader of the heroic 600 has been celebrated in both prose and poetry. The gallant Von Bredow of the Franco-Prussian War; the fearless Custer; the impetuous Farnsworth of Gettysburg fame, have all had their stories told by scores of writers; but here is the story of an Indian who led as fierce a gallop as that of the courageous British squadrons at Balaklava, and it is a tale which should live as long as that of any of the other heroes of sabre, spur, and cuirass, whose names adorn the most exciting pages of history. All honor to Roman Nose, the intrepid leader of the Cheyennes, whose mad gallop across the alkali wastes of the Arikaree Valley in the spring of 1868 has had but little recognition by writers of stirring deeds and desperate attacks!

Two years before the conflict between the followers of Roman Nose and the soldiers of the United States Government, a council was held near Fort Ellsworth. Kansas, between General Palmer and the head men of the Cheyenne tribe of Indians. The conquest of the American continent had begun. The steel rails of the Pacific Railway were being laid across the hunting grounds of the red men, and they, considering and believing the ground to be their own, had come to protest against this invasion of their soil.

As the General in command of the post listened to the words of the chiefs, suddenly a noble-looking Indian stood up and advanced in a solemn and majestic manner to the centre of the chamber in which the council was held. It was Roman Nose: one of the finest specimens of the untamed savage. His physique was superb. A large head, with strongly marked features, lighted by a pair of fierce black eyes, a large mouth with thin lips, through which gleamed rows of strong, white teeth; a Roman nose, with delicate nostrils like those of a thoroughbred race-horse, first attracted attention; while a broad chest, with symmetrical limbs, on which the muscles on the bronze of the skin stood out like twisted wire, were some of the marked characteristics of this splendid American savage. Clad in buckskin leggins and moccasins, elaborately embroidered with beads and feathers, with a single eagle feather in his scalp-lock, and a rare robe of white buffalo, beautifully tanned and as soft as cashmere, thrown over his shoulders—he stood forth—the mighty war chief of the Cheyennes—and said in measured tones:

"We will not have the wagons which make a noise (steam engines) in the hunting grounds of the buffalo. If the palefaces come farther into our land, there will be scalps of your brethren in the wigwams of the Cheyennes. I have spoken."

But, in spite of what the noble-looking chieftain had said, the white settlers continued to push into the sacred precincts of the Cheyennes, to take up homes there, and to treat the red men as if they had neither right nor title to the soil. The Indians were soon upon the warpath. Under Roman Nose and Black Kettle, they swept through western Kansas like a whirlwind of vindictive ferocity. They fought the gangs of workmen engaged in the duty of laying the rails for the hated Kansas Pacific Railroad; attacked the isolated homesteads of the adventurous squatters; ruthlessly slaughtered men, women and children, and ran off cattle, sheep, and horses. From June to December, 1868, they murdered one hundred and fifty-four white settlers and freighters; captured between thirty and forty women and children; burned and sacked twenty-four farmhouses; and attacked several stagecoaches and wagon trains. Great excitement existed along the border settlements of Kansas and Colorado. Appeals were made to the authorities of the general government to give protection against the terrible Cheyennes, or else allow the people to take matters into their own hands and revenge themselves against their hereditary enemies. General Sheridan, then in command of that military department, was fully alive to the responsibilities of his position, and, in his usual decisive manner, set about the task of crippling the wild riders of the plains.

In order to punish these bloodthirsty Cheyennes, the celebrated Sheridan had not the necessary number of troops. Congress, however, had authorized the employment of detachments of frontier scouts to be recruited from the daring spirits always to be met with upon the border. So the General was only too ready to listen to the request of one of his young officers, Major George A. Forsyth, who asked him to grant him permission to raise a body of scouts, independent of the regular army. After listening quietly to what Forsyth had to say, Sheridan remarked:

"I have determined to organize a scouting party of fifty men from among the frontiersmen living here on the border. There is no law that will permit me to enlist them, and I can only employ them as scouts through the quartermaster's department. I will offer them a dollar a day, and thirty-five cents a day for the use of their horses, which will, I think, bring good material. Of course, the government will equip them, and they will draw soldier's rations. If you care for the command, you can have it, and I will give you Lieutenant Fred Beecher, of the Third Infantry, for your second in command."

"Thank you, General," was Forsyth's answer. "I accept the command with pleasure."

"I thought you would," said Sheridan, smiling. "And yet I hesitated to offer it. Understand if I had anything better, you should have it."

"I am glad to get this," was the reply of the gallant Major.

There was little difficulty in obtaining capable men for the new command. There were hundreds of Civil War veterans upon the frontier, while many a plainsman was only too ready to have an opportunity of getting even with the wild riders of the West. In fact, men had to be turned away, so eagerly did recruits flock to the standard of the Original Rough Rider. In two days, Forsyth—who had been with Sheridan in his famous ride from Winchester to Cedar Creek—had enrolled thirty men at Fort Harker. Sixty miles westward was Fort Hayes, where twenty more were obtained two days later, so that in five days from the time that Forsyth had been given the command, he was marching into the Indian country at the head of as brave a body of plainsmen as ever swung a rifle across their shoulders. They were looking for trouble, and they found it.

Roman Nose and his Cheyennes were known to be somewhere near the Republican River, northwest of Fort Hayes, and, as the little troop scouted northwards, there were frequent indications of large camps of Indians which had been abandoned only a few days before the arrival of the command. On the morning of September 10th., a small war party of savages attacked a train near Sheridan, a tiny railroad town some eighty miles beyond Fort Wallace, another fort where Forsyth had stopped to rest his men. They had killed two teamsters and had run off a few cattle.

Immediately Forsyth's Rough Riders were upon the trail of these Indians, and followed it until darkness put an end to all pursuit. Next morning the chase was continued, the trail grew continually larger, and finally developed into a broad, well-beaten road, leading up the Arickaree fork of the Republican River. It was evident that a large number of Indians was ahead, but Forsyth had come out to fight, not to run away, so he pressed hard after the retreating band. As darkness fell on the evening of the eighth day from Fort Wallace, the command was halted and went into camp near a little sandy island in the river: a mere sandspit of earth formed by the shallow stream as it divided and then came together again about a hundred yards from the place of parting. The water was only about eight feet wide and two or three inches deep.

During the last three days of the march, game had been very scarce, which convinced the soldiers that the Indians, whose trail they were following, had scoured the country with their hunting parties, and had driven off every kind of wild animal. Provisions were getting low. The day following would see the command nearly out of supplies of all kinds. But Forsyth was called "Sandy," because of his grit and nerve, and he determined to push on after the redskins until he found them, and to fight them even if he could not whip them, in order that they might realize that the Government was in earnest when it said that the marauders of the peaceful settlements were to be punished.

The first flush of dawn was reddening the sky next morning, when Forsyth, who was awake, suddenly caught sight of something moving stealthily by upon the horizon. At the same moment the sentry saw it, and cocking their rifles, the two soldiers gazed intently into the dim distance. Suddenly the soft thud of galloping hoofs came to their ears, and, peering just above the crest of rising ground between themselves and the horizon, they caught sight of the waving feathers upon the scalp-locks of three mounted warriors. In an instant their rifles spoke in unison, and with the cry of "Indians! Turn out! Indians!" they ran back to the camp. In a second it was in confusion. Men jumped to their feet and seized their rifles, as with a loud shouting, beating of Indian drums, and rattling of dried hides, about a dozen redskins galloped down upon the camp in the apparent endeavor to stampede the horses. Crack! crack! sounded the well-aimed rifles of the scouts, and, as the Indians sheered off, carrying with them three of the pack mules, one of their number dropped to the turf.

"Saddle up! Saddle up, quickly, men!" was the next order, and, in a very few moments, the horses were saddled and bridled, while every man stood ready to mount. Daylight had begun to appear by now, so that one could see objects within a few hundred yards; when suddenly an old-time scout, who stood next to Forsyth, put his hand upon his shoulder, and cried: "Oh, heavens, General! Look at the Indians!"

Forsyth's heart sank to his boots as his eye followed the direction of the scout's outstretched hand. For the ground seemed literally to sprout Indians. They apparently jumped from the sod itself, and over the rolling hills, out of the thickets, from the bed of the stream, along the opposite bank, and out of the long grass upon every side, hundreds of redskins—with shrill cries of vindictive hatred—rushed down upon the fifty scouts, standing immobile at their horses' heads. "Fire!" shouted Forsyth, when a few of the red men came quite close, and, as the sharp crack of the rifles spat at the yelping braves, several ponies went down. The Indians fell back, out of range, and a few moments were given to the cool-headed United States officer to perfect plans for a retreat.

After a moment's hesitation he shouted his orders: "Lead your horses to the little island. Form a circle fronting outwards! Throw yourselves upon the ground and intrench yourselves as rapidly as you can!"

No sooner had he ceased speaking than, in almost a solid mass, the scouts retreated to the island, keeping up a vigorous fusillade upon the surrounding Indians. On the left, down the stream, a way to escape lay open through the little gorge up which the command had marched, but Forsyth knew enough of Indian tactics to realize that the savages would line these bluffs with warriors. Once upon the island, and they would have to attack over open ground. Intrenched in this position, the soldiers had an even chance of standing off this overwhelming mass of Indians, who, realizing that they had the white men in their power, rode around the brave little army with yells of derision, and shot at them repeatedly as they broke into a run in order to get to the chosen position. A steady and galling fire poured in upon the scouts from the reeds and long grass. Horses fell to the earth on all sides. One man was killed, several were badly wounded. Enfuriated at their blunder in not seizing the island before the whites had a chance to reach it, the various chiefs rode rapidly around, just out of rifle range, and yelled to their dismounted warriors to close in on all sides. The steady crack of rifles sounded everywhere; the horses reared and plunged at their tethers; men cursed and groaned; the Indians howled savagely, and above the frightful mÊlÉe could be heard the calm commands of Forsyth:

"Steady, men! Steady, now! Aim low. Don't throw away a shot!"

At this thrilling moment, and as the men with tin-cups, pocketknives, and tin dishes, were shovelling up enough of the gravelly soil to form a rude protection, one of the plainsmen shouted:

"Don't let's stay here and be shot down like dogs! Will any man try for the opposite bank with me?"

"I will," cried out a man upon the other side of the circle.

"Stay where you are, men. It's your only chance!" called Forsyth, as he stood in the centre of the command, revolver in hand. "I'll shoot down any man who attempts to leave the island."

"And so will I," shouted McCall, the first sergeant.

"Get down to your work, men! Don't shoot unless you can see something to hit. Don't throw away your ammunition, for your lives may depend on how we husband it!" again cried Forsyth. And, as there was a temporary lull in the fight—many Indians having fallen to the rear of their line, badly wounded—the scouts grew cool and determined, vigorously dug into the sand with their knives and plates, and soon had a good-sized barricade thrown up. Indian women and children now covered the bluffs back of the valley, on the north side of the stream, and their shouts and wailing showed that many a redskin warrior had been sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

Meanwhile one stalwart warrior of magnificent physique and noble countenance carefully watched the circle of scouts from a hillock down the winding course of the Arickaree. It was Roman Nose—head chief of the Cheyennes—his face painted in alternate lines of red and black; his body naked, save for a red scarf about his waist; his head crowned with a magnificent war bonnet, from which, just above the temples and curving slightly forward, stood up two short, black buffalo horns. A long tail of eagles' feathers and herons' plumes waved gracefully from the back of his head, while a beautiful chestnut pony, held by a single deer thong, pawed the earth beneath the supple frame of the chieftain.

For days this intelligent war chief had seen and watched Forsyth's scouts as they followed the trail of his warriors. A few miles beyond, he had prepared an ambuscade for them, so, if they had not camped where they were, they would all have been undoubtedly annihilated. There were Northern Cheyennes, Oglala and BrulÉ Sioux, a few Arapahoes, and a number of dog, or renegade soldiers composing this savage army. In all there were almost one thousand warriors, accompanied by their squaws and children, who were eager to see the annihilation of the white men and the triumph of their brothers, husbands, and fathers. Just think of it! One thousand to fifty, and those fifty without food, without horses, and hemmed in upon a tiny island which could be easily reached, across only a few inches of water! But such a fifty had not been seen since the time of the Greeks who held the pass at Thermopylae. Listen, and hear how they made one of the most desperate stands of history!

Roman Nose was furious with anger, because he had told his men to occupy the island, and they had not done so. But he was confident that he could soon crush the white men, even as members of his tribe had annihilated Fetterman's command, a few years before, near Fort Phil Kearney, in Wyoming. Summoning his leading chiefs to him, he pointed out to them the proper position to place the warriors in, so as to get the best possible line of fire upon the entrenched camp; and, explaining to them that, while a number of them kept the whites at bay, fully five hundred should assemble around the bend in the river and prepare for a cavalry charge, he himself trotted his horse down the bed of the stream, well beyond the view of the defenders of the little island.

The clear atmosphere of a bright September day gave just the proper light for accurate rifle fire. A steady rain of bullets fell against the sides of the little mounds which the Rough Riders of '68 had erected, but the scouts only returned the shots when they saw an opportunity to effectively use their cartridges. Many a badly wounded brave could be seen crawling over the plain to a place of safety, while the wails and shrieks of the women on the bluffs sounded harshly discordant above the rattle of small arms. The horses were groaning in the agonies of death, and, as the last animal fell to the ground, one of the savages cried out in English: "There goes the last horse anyhow!" which proved that some white renegade was in the ranks of the Sioux, Arapahoes, and Cheyennes. Forsyth, who had been walking about among his men giving directions and commands, now lay down behind a gravel mound, and, as he did so, a shot hit him in the fore part of the thigh, and ranging upward, made it impossible for him to stand upon his feet. "Are you alive!" shouted several of the men, knowing that he was dangerously injured. "Yes, I'm all right," called out their commander cheerfully, but, as he spoke, the fire from several Indians who had crawled up upon the lower end of the island made him lie down close to the gravelly soil. Three of the plainsmen saw the flash of one of the rifles from the centre of a little bush, and, taking accurate aim, sent a bullet crashing into the skull of the Indian brave. A wild, half-smothered shriek welled up from the sagebrush, showing that another redskin had gone to the land of the hereafter.

But Forsyth was now struck again, the bullet shattering his leg bone about midway between the knee and the ankle. A few moments later he rashly exposed his head, and one of the Sioux riflemen immediately drew a bead upon it and sent a bullet through the top of his soft felt hat, which fortunately had a high crown, so it glanced off, ripped through the skin of his head and fractured his skull. In spite of these grievous wounds, the brave soldier kept both his nerve and his courage, and, seizing a rifle, took a shot at some Indians who dashed up on horseback within rifle range. The Doctor, who had been closely watching them, took a quick shot at the foremost, and, as he dropped from his pony's back, cried out: "That rascally redskin will not trouble us again." Immediately afterwards a dull thud told Forsyth that someone near by had been hit, and, turning around, he saw the Doctor fall upon the sand, saying: "I'm done for this time." A bullet had entered his forehead just above the eye, and the wound was a mortal one. He never spoke another rational word, and lingered for three days before dying.

At this moment, trotting up the bed of the river, appeared the wild cavalry of Roman Nose, five hundred in all, and in about eight ranks of sixty front, extended order. Before them all, upon a magnificent chestnut horse, rode Roman Nose himself; his Springfield rifle grasped in his right hand, and naked, save for his war-bonnet, silken scarf, moccasins and cartridge belt. A bugle rang out from somewhere in their midst, a bugle which had been either captured or stolen from the whites, and which some renegade, or half-breed, knew how to use; and to the shrilling note of this instrument, the savage horde came on.

From the hair of the Indians fluttered eagle feathers and plumes of the white herons, which are sometimes seen along the rivers of the great West. Their faces were painted black, with red and yellow stripes running horizontally. They were naked, save for moccasins and cartridge belts; while each held a rifle in his hand, and had a tomahawk and knife stuck into his belt, for close, hand-to-hand work. Their ponies were of every color, shade, and description, but were fat and in good condition, for the bunch grass was plentiful in the country watered by the branches of the Republican. Some had lariats of buffalo thongs wound around them, while each was held by a single strand looped around the under lip. Roman Nose was about five paces in front of the centre of the line, while slightly in advance of the left of the oncoming column was the medicine man, an equally brave, but older chieftain. Savage cries of encouragement sounded from the bluffs, where the women and children were standing by thousands, to watch the annihilation of the whites, and, as they echoed across the rolling prairie, Roman Nose waved his hand to them assuringly. Then turning towards the breastworks upon the island, he shook his clinched fist in savage defiance at the enemies of his country, and raising himself to his full height, struck the palm of his hand across his mouth as he uttered a wild, piercing battle cry. Each warrior answered it; even those lying in ambush near the river's edge took up the blood-curdling slogan.

When Wellington saw Ney's cuirassiers debouching from the huts upon the hill of La Belle Alliance, he gave the order to form in hollow squares, and said: "Reserve your fire until you can do damage, and make every shot count. Never give in to the cavalry, lads. What will they think of this in England?" With cool, Anglo-Saxon courage the men of the North met the furious charge of the soldiers of France without wincing. Eight attacks failed to break the devoted squares at Waterloo. It was this that saved the day for England and her allies. Here, thousands of miles away, were men of the same birth and breeding as those who stemmed the onslaught upon the plateau of Mount St. Jean, and, although they were to be charged by enemies that outnumbered them tenfold, they prepared for the fray with the same bulldog determination which actuated the redcoats at Waterloo. "The Indians are going to charge us," called out Lieutenant Beecher. "You are right," was Forsyth's reply. "Let the men get ready. Six shots in each rifle magazine, and one in the barrel. Have the revolvers loaded and ready, and never, under any circumstances, fire at the Indians until I give the word of command! We can break their line. Of that I am certain. Only steady, men, steady, and do not waste a single shot!"

As he ceased speaking, the gallant leader propped himself up in his rifle pit, placed his rifle and revolver before him, and calmly waited for the onrush of the followers of Roman Nose. And with a wild, earsplitting yell they came on. A withering fire poured in from the redskins in ambush, so that, for eight or ten seconds it fairly rained bullets. Then came a sudden lull, as the gallant five hundred thundered up the ravine towards the defenders of the island. They came nearer, nearer. Now they were within a hundred yards, and the expressions on their painted faces could be plainly seen. It was the time for action,—a moment which Forsyth fully realized.

Sitting up in his rifle pit as well as he was able, and leaning backwards upon his elbows, the grim and determined officer shouted, "Now!"

Instantly the scouts scrambled to their knees, with their rifles at their shoulders. Each man looked carefully along the barrel of his piece, and then a ringing volley sounded above the wild yelping of the painted followers of Roman Nose: the courageous.

Crash!

On came the red warriors, screeching like a pack of timber wolves in the season of greatest hunger.

Crash!

In the centre of the line, a dozen ponies went down. Their riders fell headlong upon the turf, but the rest did not falter. The Indians were now but sixty yards from the breastworks.

Crash!

The ponies seemed to be falling over one another. In heaps, both redskins and horses lurched headlong into the clear waters of the Arickaree. Shrieks, groans, and savage yelping were mingled with the shrill wails of the women and children who were witness to this, one of the most glorious charges in history.

Crash!

Great gaps began to show in the ranks, as the Indians came within fifty yards of the island of death. On the extreme left the medicine man reeled on his pony's back and fell headlong into the stream, while his followers galloped madly over his prostrate form. Roman Nose, with a loud yell of defiance, swung his Springfield rifle over his head, as he galloped furiously to the edge of the island. He reached the very end of it, when

Crash!

The courageous Indian leader—the Custer of the Cheyennes—staggered and reeled. He toppled over. He went down amidst the thunder of unshod hoofs, and prostrate upon the sand he lay, while his intrepid warriors leaped their foaming horses across his bleeding form. But on, on, they came, while the cool-headed plainsmen took careful and deliberate aim.

Crash!

The Indians were now galloping upon the firm soil of the island. They were within twenty yards of their enemies. They began to stagger. They hesitated. They faltered.

Crash!

The seventh volley of lead swept through their broken ranks, and, throwing themselves upon the off side of their horses, with horrible cries of disappointed rage, the great wave of painted warriors broke, divided, and scattered in every direction. With a ringing cheer, the scouts jumped to their feet, and, seizing their revolvers, poured volley after volley into the retreating and demoralized ranks of the running foe. The great charge of Roman Nose was over; the impetuous warrior lay dead upon the field of battle; and his wild, naked followers, crazed with anger and disappointment, collected in groups, just out of rifle range, and shook their fists vindictively at Forsyth's devoted band; who, again sinking to their rifle pits, made haste to load for the attack which they knew would shortly come. The charge of the five hundred had been as futile as the wild gallop of the six hundred British hussars at Balaklava.

This was not all of the battle, but it was all of Roman Nose. Twice again the Indians attempted to charge the island, but they were easily driven away. Two scouts, meanwhile, had crawled through their lines from Forsyth's command, had successfully escaped the watchful eyes of the Indians, and carried news of the desperate situation to the United States troops at Fort Wallace, Kansas, some hundred miles away. Colonel Carpenter, with seventy men of the Tenth Cavalry, seventeen scouts, and an ambulance, immediately marched to the rescue of the gallant Rough Riders. On the morning of the ninth day of the siege of the island, one of the weary men on watch suddenly sprang to his feet, shouting:

"There are moving men on the hills." Everyone who was strong enough, and not sufficiently starved out from eating mule and horse meat, jumped up in an instant.

"By Heavens! There's an ambulance!" cried Grover, the oldest scout. The Rough Riders of '68 were rescued at last.

When Carpenter's men were looking for the besieged command of Sandy Forsyth, one of the troopers noticed something white in a small valley through which he was scouting. Calling one of his companions to him, they galloped up to it, and found it to be a beautiful wigwam made of freshly tanned, white buffalo skins. As one of them entered, he saw, upon a brush heap, a human figure, wrapped in buffalo robes. Stripping off the covering, his eyes fell upon the body of a splendid specimen of Indian manhood. Over six feet in height, the savage had a stern and royal look, a majestic brow, a firm and placid mouth, a magnificently modelled torso, and limbs like whipcord. Rich garments had clothed him, and heavily ornamented weapons were carefully placed near by. In his breast was a deep, gaping wound from a bullet which had pierced his heart.

"It is Roman Nose," said one of the scouts. "See the face. It is that of a hero."

On the return from the rescue of Forsyth, the men stopped at the lonely tepee in the valley. The arms and equipment were appropriated, as the legitimate spoils of war, but the famed war chief was allowed to sleep on undisturbed. With a regard for his great bravery, the frontiersmen did not move the body of the courageous warrior from its bed of boughs. Thus, alone, unguarded, and unwatched, the remains of the invincible Cheyenne were left to the vultures and lurking gray wolves: the scavengers of the wide, untouched and illimitable plains.