In this manner the contest continued with a varied success, and without much loss.
The Siouxes had succeeded in forcing themselves into a thick growth of rank grass, where the horses of their enemies could not enter, or where, when entered, they were worse than useless.
It became necessary to dislodge the Tetons from this cover, or the object of the combat must be abandoned.
Several desperate efforts had been repulsed, and the disheartened Pawnees were beginning to think of a retreat, when the well-known war-cry of Hard-Heart was heard at hand, and at the next instant the chief appeared in their centre, flourishing the scalp of the Great Sioux, as a banner that would lead to victory.
He was greeted by a shout of delight, and followed into the cover, with an impetuosity that, for the moment, drove all before it.
But the bloody trophy in the hand of the partisan served as an incentive to the attacked, as well as to the assailants.
Mahtoree had left many a daring brave behind him in his band, and the orator, who in the debates of that day had manifested such pacific thoughts, now exhibited the most generous self-devotion, in order to wrest the memorial of a man he had never loved, from the hands of the avowed enemies of his people.
The result was in favour of numbers.
After a severe struggle, in which the finest displays of personal intrepidity were exhibited by all the chiefs, the Pawnees were compelled to retire upon the open bottom, closely pressed by the Siouxes, who failed not to seize each foot of ground ceded by their enemies.
Had the Tetons stayed their efforts on the margin of the grass, it is probable that the honour of the day would have been theirs, notwithstanding the irretrievable loss they had sustained in the death of Mahtoree.
But the more reckless braves of the band were guilty of an indiscretion, that entirely changed the fortunes of the fight, and suddenly stripped them of their hard-earned advantages.
A Pawnee chief had sunk under the numerous wounds he had received, and he fell, a target for a dozen arrows, in the very last group of his retiring party.
Regardless alike of inflicting further injury on their foes, and of the temerity of the act, the Sioux braves bounded forward with a whoop, each man burning with the wish to reap the high renown of striking the body of the dead.
They were met by Hard-Heart and a chosen knot of warriors, all of whom were just as stoutly bent on saving the honour of their nation, from so foul a stain.
The struggle was hand to hand, and blood began to flow more freely.
As the Pawnees retired with the body, the Siouxes pressed upon their footsteps, and at length the whole of the latter broke out of the cover with a common yell, and threatened to bear down all opposition by sheer physical superiority.
The fate of Hard-Heart and his companions, all of whom would have died rather than relinquish their object, would have been quickly sealed, but for a powerful and unlooked-for interposition in their favour.
A shout was heard from a little brake on the left, and a volley from the fatal western rifle immediately succeeded.
Some five or six Siouxes leaped forward in the death agony, and every arm among them was as suddenly suspended, as if the lightning had flashed from the clouds to aid the cause of the Loups.
Then came Ishmael and his stout sons in open view, bearing down upon their late treacherous allies, with looks and voices that proclaimed the character of the succour.
The shock was too much for the fortitude of the Tetons.
Several of their bravest chiefs had already fallen, and those that remained were instantly abandoned by the whole of the inferior herd.
A few of the most desperate braves still lingered nigh the fatal symbol of their honour, and there nobly met their deaths, under the blows of the re-encouraged Pawnees.
A second discharge from the rifles of the squatter and his party completed the victory.
The Siouxes were now to be seen flying to more distant covers, with the same eagerness and desperation as, a few moments before, they had been plunging into the fight.
The triumphant Pawnees bounded forward in chase, like so many high-blooded and well-trained hounds.
On every side were heard the cries of victory, or the yell of revenge.
A few of the fugitives endeavoured to bear away the bodies of their fallen warriors, but the hot pursuit quickly compelled them to abandon the slain, in order to preserve the living.
Among all the struggles, which were made on that occasion, to guard the honour of the Siouxes from the stain which their peculiar opinions attached to the possession of the scalp of a fallen brave, but one solitary instance of success occurred.
The opposition of a particular chief to the hostile proceedings in the councils of that morning has been already seen.
But, after having raised his voice in vain, in support of peace, his arm was not backward in doing its duty in the war.
His prowess has been mentioned; and it was chiefly by his courage and example, that the Tetons sustained themselves in the heroic manner they did, when the death of Mahtoree was known.
This warrior, who, in the figurative language of his people, was called “the Swooping Eagle,” had been the last to abandon the hopes of victory.
When he found that the support of the dreaded rifle had robbed his band of the hard-earned advantages, he sullenly retired amid a shower of missiles, to the secret spot where he had hid his horse, in the mazes of the highest grass.
Here he found a new and an entirely unexpected competitor, ready to dispute with him for the possession of the beast.
It was Bohrecheena, the aged friend of Mahtoree; he whose voice had been given in opposition to his own wiser opinions, transfixed with an arrow, and evidently suffering under the pangs of approaching death.
“I have been on my last war-path,” said the grim old warrior, when he found that the real owner of the animal had come to claim his property; “shall a Pawnee carry the white hairs of a Sioux into his village, to be a scorn to his women and children?”
The other grasped his hand, answering to the appeal with the stern look of inflexible resolution.
With this silent pledge, he assisted the wounded man to mount.
So soon as he had led the horse to the margin of the cover, he threw himself also on its back, and securing his companion to his belt, he issued on the open plain, trusting entirely to the well-known speed of the beast for their mutual safety.
The Pawnees were not long in catching a view of these new objects, and several turned their steeds to pursue.
The race continued for a mile without a murmur from the sufferer, though in addition to the agony of his body, he had the pain of seeing his enemies approach at every leap of their horses.
“Stop,” he said, raising a feeble arm to check the speed of his companion; “the Eagle of my tribe must spread his wings wider.
Let him carry the white hairs of an old warrior into the burnt-wood village!”
Few words were necessary, between men who were governed by the same feelings of glory, and who were so well trained in the principles of their romantic honour.
The Swooping Eagle threw himself from the back of the horse, and assisted the other to alight.
The old man raised his tottering frame to its knees, and first casting a glance upward at the countenance of his countryman, as if to bid him adieu, he stretched out his neck to the blow he himself invited.
A few strokes of the tomahawk, with a circling gash of the knife, sufficed to sever the head from the less valued trunk.
The Teton mounted again, just in season to escape a flight of arrows which came from his eager and disappointed pursuers.
Flourishing the grim and bloody visage, he darted away from the spot with a shout of triumph, and was seen scouring the plains, as if he were actually borne along on the wings of the powerful bird from whose qualities he had received his flattering name.