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<SPAN name="chap53"></SPAN> <h3>Chapter Fifty Three.</h3> <h4>The War-Cry.</h4> <p>The war-cry “How-ow-owgh-aloo-oo!” uttered loudly from a hundred throats, comes pealing down the valley. Its fiendish notes, coupled with the demon-like forms that give utterance, to them, are well calculated to quail the stoutest heart. Ours are not without fear. Though we know that the danger is not immediate, there is a significance in the tones of that wild slogan. They express more than the usual hostility of red to white—they breathe a spirit of vengeance. The gestures of menace—the brandished spears, and bended bows—the war-clubs waving in the air—are all signs of the excited anger of the Indians. Blood has been spilled—perhaps the blood of some of their chosen warriors—and ours will be sought to a certainty. We perceive no signs of a pacific intent—no semblance that would lead us to hope for mercy. The foe is bent on our destruction. He rushes forward to kill!</p> <p>I have said that the danger was not immediate. I did not conceive it so. My conception was based upon experience. I had met the prairie Indians before—in the south; but north or south, I knew that their tactics were the same. It is a mistake to suppose that these savages rush recklessly upon death. Only when their enemy is far inferior to them in numbers—or otherwise an under-match—will they advance boldly to the fight. They will do this in an attack upon Mexicans, whose prowess they despise; or sometimes in a conflict with their own kind—when stimulated by warrior pride, and the promptings of the tribal vendetta. On other occasions, they are sufficiently careful of their skins—more especially in an encounter with the white trappers, or even travellers who tenter the prairies from the east. Of all other weapons, they dread the long rifle of the hunter. It is only after stratagem has failed—when <i>do or die</i> becomes a necessity—that the horse-Indian can bring himself to charge forward upon the glistening barrel. The mere hope of plunder will not tempt even the boldest of red-skinned robbers within the circle of a rifle’s range. They all know from experience the deadliness of its aim.</p> <p>Most probably plunder had been their motive for attacking the train; but their victims could only have been some straggling unfortunates, too confident in their security. These had not succumbed without a struggle. The death of all of them proved this: since not a prisoner appeared to have been taken. Further evidence of it was seen upon the sward; for as the crowd scattered, I observed through, the glass several corpses that were not those of white men. The robbers, though victorious, had suffered severely: hence the vengeful yells with which they were charging down upon us. With all their menace both of signs and sounds, I had no fear of their charging; up the mound, nor yet to its base. There were fifty yards around it within range of our guns; and the first who should venture within this circle would not be likely to go forth from it alive.</p> <p>“Not a shot is to be fired, till you are sure of hitting! Do not one of you pull trigger, till you have sighted your man!” This was the order passed around. On the skill of my comrades I could confide—on Sure-shot with all the certainty which his <i>soubriquet</i> expressed; and I had seen enough of the young hunter, to know how he handled his rifle. About the Irishman alone was there a doubt—only of his coolness and his aim—of his courage there was none. In this, the infantry was perhaps equal to any of us.</p> <p>The words of caution had scarcely parted from my lips, when the enemy came galloping up. Their yelling grew louder as they advanced; and its echoes, ringing from the rocks, appeared to double the number of their wild vociferations. We could only hear one another by calling out at the top of our voices. But we had little to say. The time for talking had expired: that of action had arrived. On come the whooping; savages, horrid to behold: their faces, arms, and bodies frightfully painted, each after his own device, and all as hideous as savage conception can suggest. The visages of bears, wolves, and other fierce animals, are depicted on their breasts and shields—with the still more horrid emblems of the death’s head, the cross-bones, and the red-hand. Even their horses are covered with similar devices—stained upon their skins in ochre, charcoal, and vermilion! The sight is too fearful to be fantastic. On they come, uttering their wild “Howgh-owgh-aloo!” brandishing their various weapons, and making their shields of <i>parflèche</i> rattle by repeated strokes against their clubs and spears—on comes the angry avalanche!</p> <p>They are within a hundred yards of the butte. For a moment we are in doubt. If they charge up the declivity, we are lost men. We may shoot down the foremost; but they are twenty to one. In a hand-to-hand struggle, we shall be overwhelmed—killed or captured—in less than sixty seconds of time!</p> <p>“Hold your fire!” I cried, seeing my comrades lie with their cheeks against their guns; “not yet! only two at a time—but not yet! Ha! as I expected.”</p> <p>And just as I had expected, the wild ruck came to a halt—those in the lead drawing up their horses, as suddenly as if they had arrived upon the edge of a precipice! They had come to a stand just in the nick of time. Had they advanced but five paces further, at least two of their number would have tumbled out of their saddles. Sure-shot and I had each selected our man, and agreed upon the signal to fire. The others were ready to follow. All four barrels resting over the rampart had caught the eyes of the Indians. A glance at the glistening tubes was sufficient. True to their old tactics, it was the sight of these that had halted them!</p> <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />

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