We were four mighty watchful men, riding through the Bighorn Basin, and we had already each had our fare share in Indian battles. Cal lead the way, as always, followed by Slim, then myself, with my faithful dog Fang trotting along side, and finally John Shane, bringing up the rear. I was perceptive enough to see the obvious sign: A broken twig, a hoof print in the muddy ground, or the cawing of a startled crow away in the woods. They were trailing us alright, or possibly fixing to dry-gulch us, but we were strung out in a long line, we had our eyes wide, our ears open, and the Sioux should have known by now, that we wouldn’t kill easy. Not with Cal’s place so close, not with safety so near, would we die easy, not at all.
The country was rolling and mild, compared to the Owl Creek and Bridger mountains, or even the Wind River Canyon. A man could run cattle in this country. It was a mite rougher than the plains of Kansas and Dakota, but it was open and wide for a hundred miles between the Bighorn range and the Absorkas, cut by rivers and streams, covered in tall timber, and occasionally obstructed by a lonesome peak. We were nearing Cal’s house, only five miles away, he figured, and we just hoped and prayed we would make it.
It was past ten o’clock in the morning, and we’d been riding since dawn. A flock of quail started from the underbrush, and then all was silent in the whole wood. I leveled my rifle in the opposite direction, Cal slid his shotgun into his hand, dangling as it was from it’s sling. John drew a pistol, as did Slim. We were ready when they came; we were ready for Indians, yes, but not this many. There must have been thirty, all mounted, coming in behind and on both sides.
“Ride,” John said, “ride like there ain’t no tomorrow, and maybe there will be.”
But even as he spoke, our retreat was cut off. Cal swore aloud. A brave rode out in front of us, followed by two more. He could have been little more than forty-five years old, yet wearing a warbonnet and warpaint, carrying the handsomest lance I ever saw, and had a brass studded rifle cradled in his left arm. He looked at Cal with recognition in his eyes.
“You are the son of the pale-face horse-thief, and the son of the Cheyanne squaw he stole from my uncle, Old Chief Smoke. I would not take the scalp of that one, your father. Such a thing would be disgrace, for he was no man. But your scalp I will hang in my wickiup.”
Cal’s eyes squinted even more than usual, his jaw set, and he answered: “Red Cloud, I been called a halfbreed all my life, but when a man disrespects my parents, that rankles me.”
He continued, with a coldness in him I had not seen before, though I knew well the mountain man could be mean as poison. “How’ll you have it? if you’r such a big man, like all the soldier boys are saying, why don’t we settle this between ourselves?” The war chief spat with contempt.
“You are weak. You wish to defend these others. I will kill you with my tomahawk, then take three more white scalps.”
“And if your medicine ain’t good?” Cal queried. “What happens to the others then, if you don't win? Will your warriors back off and let us through?” He smiled.
“If you kill me, son of a horse-thief, then you may go as far as my warriors allow you.” Cal dismounted.
“You don’t mean to go through with it, do ya?” John whispered as Cal slung his scatter gun on his saddle-horn.
“Reckon I’ve got it to do.” He stated as he pulled his duel hatchets from his belt. “I’ve had it to do for awhile, and when we’re through, you ride right through ‘em, shootin’ like fire, and runnin’ like heck. I’ll mount as you pass, and with the Good Lord's hand present, we mite just make it through.” He rolled up his sleeves, and strode forward.
“All you young bucks, back off twenty paces and stay there. I don’t want to get knifed or scalped before this is through."
Red Cloud passed the order in their own language, wanting Cal’s scalp for himself, as much as a fair fight. Then the two men closed in on each other, hunched over, each holding his weapons ready. Red Cloud held a bowie knife he must’ve swiped from some dead soldier, as well as his tomahawk.
They went head to head, knuckle-and-blade. They were both experts at close combat, but the Indian soon gained a brief advantage when he stabbed Cal through the flesh on his thigh. Cal went into a fury of speed and momentum, caused by his pain, but he was to quick, and not quite measured enough to score a decisive hit. He was so fast with those axes, swinging low, feinting one way, cutting the other, hacking and blocking. Suddenly they locked weapons, but Cal leapt up, and brought both boots into the chief’s chest, throwing him to the ground.
Red Cloud stabbed at Cal’s side, but the blade was caught on Cal’s hatchet, then knocked from his hand. They went at it again, rolling on the snowy ground, before Red Cloud slammed his tomahawk right into Cal’s head, cutting a terrible gash. Cal then wrapped his leg around the man’s body, bracing it under his other knee. He grabbed Red Cloud’s left in his own, and catching up the dropped knife, had it at his throat.
“Now!” He shouted, and we each fired on our target, and spurred our horses too a gallop as we came in shooting. We had chosen our targets as the fight went on, and the young bucks looked on. Cal threw his opponent aside, but could not quite manage to despatch him, and red Cloud would take more scalps, in the future. He clung to his saddle horn, keeping only one of his two hatchets, as blood oozed from his two wounds. I clubbed my gun, and knocked an Indian from his horse before he could react. We had taken an advantage over them, not waiting for the single combat to be resolved, yet there warent much choice for us; if Cal won, they would have gone ahead and killed us, and if he hadn’t, they would have done the same thing.
We dusted out of there like there was a canebrake a-fire, and Fang managed to keep up surprisingly well, but the Sioux were right behind us. Our horses were shod, but they also carried more weight, what with our saddles and all. John and I covered the retreat at a gallop with our six-shooters, but our pursuers fired back. Slim had some real busted luck that day, I reckon, for he was hit again with a bullet in the back. Must have just grazed him though, for he hunched over in the saddle, his face all pale and drawn, and he clung to that horse and gave him both spurs, frequent.
Cal was back in the saddle now, and lead us down into a draw, then looped left and we climbed up a steep bank then we really lit out, leaving plenty of tracks in the shallow snow, going down the other side at a dead run, and crossing about two miles of relatively open country, skirted the edge of a ridge and came back around, stopping just long enough to discharge our rifles into the pursuing men. (I had reloaded my muzzleloader as we rode, but it was extremely difficult, going at a pace of thirty miles to the hour)
After firing we turned right around, not bothering to count the hits, and galloped right under the eaves of a long stretch of sycamore and poplar woods. We trotted our horse through this, almost half a mile, and by this time we were a good ways ahead of the Indians. Cal lead us through these woods steadily and skillfully, like he knew it as well as some men know their own kitchen. We exited the thickly wooded terrain onto the banks of a creek, which I guessed to be the Meeteetse. It was about one hundred yard across, but cut into rivulets by sandbars, indicating it’s depth was not much.
We forded it, splashing through the icy water, carried down from the Bighorn range and soon to be flooded by melting snow. As we entered the wood on the far side, a burst of gunfire flew across the water. My horse was struck in the rump, and she stumbled, but there was more grit in that little bay than in all the sand in the Mississippi, and she stuck it out for another mile, before we reached the stockade.
We entered by a wide double-doored gate which was opened by a mid aged man with graying whiskers and a black wide brimmed hat, clad in buckskin, and just as we ‘lighted, a women came and through her arms around Cal.
“Where the Sam-Hill have you been, Calmar O’Reilly?! I was worried sick for you!” She was a mite teary, but she dried up when she saw us.
“Boy’s, this is my wife Bridget. You ever seen a better?” We all agreed we had certainly never, and she grew a little red.
“Stop your jaw-waggin’ an’ your braggin’, Cal, and May will tend to the horses.”
At this a young lady of about seventeen took our horses and led them to a stable at one end of the little fort. We heard a shot from the wall.
“Get Slim inside somewhere, and my horse’s been hit in the rump,” I called as I ascended the rough wooden stairs to the fighting top, “and Cal’s got a knife wound in his leg, and a hatchet wound in his skull!”
I was now behind the four foot high wall of vertical, pointed logs. The young man who had fire the shot toward the pursuers was beside me now. He had dark unkempt hair, dark complexion, like Cal, was wearing a homespun woolen shirt with the collar open in front, was wearing his gray pants tucked into cowhide boots, had a cartridge bag slung over his shoulder and was reloading a Sharps carbine.
“Howdy, friend,” He said, “My name’s Kit. You rode in with Pa?”
I answered, “Sure did. Taken up with ‘im all the way back in Laramie. The name’s Jack Hermison.”
“That fella with the black hat and gray whiskers, that’s uncle Bent, Ma’s brother, that’s my sister May what just took in your horses, and that there taking Pa inside is my Ma, and cousin Earnie is comin’ out for the shootin’ right now.”
Earnie was a boy of twelve or thirteen, and he toted a rifle out when he came, but Cal’s wife directed him to help with Slim.
The stockade was built of thick pine logs, erected vertical in a rectangle about one hundred by one hundred and fifty feet, and was about twenty feet high. There was a wide field of fire around this structure, for it was located in a wide clearing, stretching about four hundred yards in any direction from the fort itself. There was also a pasture outside in which were kept twenty to thirty head of cattle. There was a side door from the stable which opened into this pasture, and the cows had only the day before been gathered into it for safe keeping. Generally they open ranged.
We fired a volley as some of the warriors tried to approach from the woods, but scored not a single hit that I could see. We kept up the guard until dark, when Kit and I swapped out for John and Bent. Meanwhile the womenfolk kept us well supplied in beef and coffee. We switched places again at midnight, this time Cal came on as well. And so it went on, for that whole night. Cal told me the Indians were not likely to attack tonight; they would fear to be killed at night, as a warrior killed at night, they believe, will never find his rest, but will be forced to wander this world as a lonesome spirit. A very sad outlook on death, I must say. It made me appreciate my religious convictions all the more, in light of the kinds of despairing ideas that are out there.
It was nearly light out when they attacked. Riding forward from all sides, yelling and screaming like a passel o’ coyotes, it reminded me dreadfully of that Cheyenne attack on the wagons, less than a month ago, it being the eighth of April now. It seemed so much longer than that. Where were the Wells brothers now? Or Mr. Harlem, who had pulled me out of that scrape back in Topeka? Where ever they were, we had a task before us now who’s consequences would mean life or death.
My rifle came to bear on a howling painted warrior, circling the walls on horseback. I drew a careful beed on him, then squeezed off my shot, leading him ever so slightly. Kit gasped in amazement at the beautiful shot, and the target as he fell from the saddle. We poured it int ‘em alright, and they dusted it out of there, leaving two dead and one dying. John and Bent were both on the walls as well now, and our shooting from such a perfect position was too much for them.
Folks back east will talk a blue streak about the poor, degraded, bullied Indian. But the truth is, there’s nothing so fierce, ruthless, or cruel as an Indian on the Warpath. I wouldn’t think twice about shooting at a hostile Indian, because I know sure as grass is green that he wouldn’t think twice of shooting me. Cal knew this better than any, and when he fought the red man, he fought to win. And that was the expected thing, those days.
We cleaned our guns and checked our ammunition. It hadn’t been since Fort Laramie, that I had obtained more cartridges. I had about two hundred .44s, in paper, as well as about eighty or ninety of my .56-70s for my old Kentucky. This should be aplenty to last me two months on the trail, or two weeks in a steady siege. But we did not expect a siege from the Sioux warriors who had pursued us. They would give it up unless they got more men. Us, we only had six men to guard three women, including Mrs. O’Reilly, Cal’s daughter May, and sister-in-law, Bent’s wife, plus all the youngsters. Cal had two other daughters, Marra and Creek, as well as his son Rule.
We were ready all that day, and Cal was plans for an escape. Knowing that if Red Cloud were to drive him out he would not be able to resist, Cal decided he would prevent being surrounded and having the fort taken by lighting a shuck for the West, and the settlement john had told us of, which he reckoned was only about forty miles away. So the families begun to pack up, and prepare to pull out. They had two wagons, which the stowed much of their more valuable things in: Food, primarily, warm blankets, tools, extra boxes of ammunition, and some heavy chests as well, one of which was so all-fired heavy, John Kit and I, like to killed ourselves. I asked Cal what in the tarnation was in there, but he said it wasn’t common knowledge, and he liked to keep it that way.
John, he was powerful suspicious, and asked me why Cal had been out in The Dakota Black Hills for so long? I said I didn’t know he had, and wondered how John did. John, apparently, had talked a mite with Hank, who had been up there with Cal for a while last January. It all set me to wondering what exes supplies he had meant, at the cave back in the Medicine Bow. Cal certainly had visited that place mighty frequent for a man with a family and a ranch. Maybe it was just trading at the fort, but the Black Hills? Seem’ed to me I recollected Mr. Harlem mentioning them, in the context of gold. John was probably thinking along those lines as well.
But we asked no further questions. Fang had been with Penny for the first night, but I took him scouting the periphery of the clearing in which the fort was in the center. We couldn’t smell out no Injuns nearby, though we found where five or six were camped out in the woods. I could only get within about thirty yards of them, and there were probably more about somewhere, but they never saw, heard, or smelled us, we were that stealthy. Fang and I moved like wild cats in the forest, and we made our report to Cal that night.
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