Ahead of Bob, Duke Faglier was sitting calmly in his saddle, aiming his rifle back toward the Indians who were chasing Bob. Bob saw a flash of light, a puff of smoke, then the rifle’s recoil before he heard the heavy roar of the discharge. He heard the ball whizzing past him and, curious, he turned to look over his shoulder. The head of one of the Indians seemed to burst open like a watermelon as the heavy ball crashed into it. A spray of red made a brief halo about the Indian’s head, then he fell from his horse.
Other rifles roared as well, and Bob saw that the Scattergoods were also firing. From ahead of him, James was riding hard to get back to join the fight.
Bob pulled up when he came alongside James, then he drew his own rifle from its saddle sheath and turned to face the Indians. He fired and had the satisfaction of seeing the Indian he aimed at go down.
James got another one, then Duke, his rifle reloaded, got his second.
The Indians were armed only with bows, and though they had the advantage of shooting arrows more rapidly than the muzzle-loading rifles could be fired, they didn’t have the range.
Although the cattle didn’t stampede, they did break into a run. That had its advantage and disadvantage. The advantage was that it forced the Indians to come to them, and it tended to keep them out of bow and arrow range while keeping them in rifle range. The disadvantage was that the wagon and the Scattergoods were very close to the edge of the herd, and should the herd stampede, the wagon might easily be overturned. That could be disastrous for Revelation. Concerned for her safety, James found himself looking toward the wagon as often as he was looking back at the Indians.
Some of the Indians pulled back from the pursuit and when he looked, James saw that they were gathering around a couple of cows that had been killed. That gave him an idea.
“Bob, Billy, shoot a cow!” James shouted.
“What?”
“Each of you shoot a cow! Duke, you keep doing what you are doing.”
Bob, Billy, and James picked out a target on the outside of the running herd. All three fired at approximately the same time, and three animals went down. Nearly half the Indians still in pursuit broke off the chase to go to the slain cattle.
Duke killed another one of the Indians still in pursuit and one of the Scattergoods killed another. The remaining Indians suddenly found the odds no longer to their liking, and they turned back.
The herd continued to run, and by the time it slowed to a trot, then to a walk, the remaining Indians were at least two miles back on the prairie, small black forms bent over somewhat larger forms lying on the ground. It was obvious they were butchering the beef that had just fallen into their hands.
“Yahoo!” Bob said. “By God, we showed them a thing or two.”
“I wonder how many of them we killed?” Billy asked.
“I think we got about eight of them,” James said. He looked over at Duke and smiled. “Half of them Duke got.”
“I’ve never seen such shooting,” Billy said. “Do all you boys up there in Missouri shoot like that?”
“We shoot a lot of squirrels,” Duke said. “If you can hit a squirrel, you can hit an Indian. Indians are much larger targets.”
The others were laughing as the Scattergoods finally worked their way out of the middle of the herd.
“What was you people doin’ shooting our own cows like that?” Matthew asked angrily.
“It stopped the Indians,” Bob replied.
“Me an’ my two brothers was shootin’ ’em down like we was killin’ flies and I figured we ’bout had ’em stopped. Then the next thing I know, I see you fellas shootin’ our own cows.”
“Like I said, it stopped the Indians,” Bob said again, more resolutely this time.
“Uh-huh. What it done was cost us a hundred and fifty dollars is what it done. And here after all the big talk about not givin’ them any cows ’cause it would show weakness.”
“We didn’t give the cows to them,” James explained. “They probably think that the cattle were killed accidentally. All they were interested in was a little beef, so I let them have some. But it came at a high enough cost to them, that I don’t think we’ll be seeing this bunch again.”
James’s assertion that they wouldn’t be seeing that bunch again proved to be premature. The Indians returned again later in that same day, then again the next day, and the day following that.
While the Indians didn’t attack in force—there were never more than a dozen or so with each attacking party—they did manage to make themselves bothersome. They were excellent horsemen, and they would ride in to bow and arrow range, clinging to the off-side of their horses, launching arrows from just above the backs of their mounts before making a hasty retreat.
While half the attacking party kept the cowboys busy, the other half would strike the herd. The braves would ride right up to the cows, keeping themselves mounted by squeezing their legs against the horses’ backs. Then, as if they were hunting buffalo, they would shoot arrows into the cows, killing from eight to ten with each attack they launched.
Mile 1,110, Sunday, August 31, 1862:
“Indians!” John shouted.
“Here come the heathen bastards again!” Luke added.
“All right, everyone get ready!” James said, and rifles were cocked and brought into position to fire.
“Wait!” Duke shouted, holding up his hand. “Wait, don’t shoot!”
“What do you mean don’t shoot?” Matthew asked. “Look at ’em, all bunched up like that. Hell, we could kill half of ’em with one volley.”
“No, wait,” James said, lowering his rifle. “Duke is right. They aren’t attacking.”
“One of them is coming toward us,” Bob said.
“Yes, but look, he’s holding his lance over his head. I think he want to parley.”
“I’ll parley with the son of a bitch,” Matthew said, taking aim. “I’m going to put a bullet right between that heathen’s eyes.”
“No, don’t shoot!” James shouted.
Disregarding James’s order, Matthew pulled the trigger. Even as he did so, however, Billy pulled his knife and placed his blade over the primer cap on Matthew’s rifle. As a result, the hammer clicked harmlessly against the knife blade.
“What the hell?” Matthew said angrily. “What did you do that for?”
“So I didn’t have to cut your throat,” Billy answered. “Now, you put that rifle back in the sheath.”
Grumbling, Matthew did as he was asked.
The approaching Indian had stopped when Matthew gave every indication that he was about to shoot, but now he resumed riding, coming closer to them. When he reached them he stopped and held up his right hand, palm open, in a symbol of greeting.
“I am Washakie of the Shoshone,” he said. “My people are at peace with the white man. I am a friend of the white man.”
“A friend, huh? You sure haven’t been acting like it these last few days,” Matthew said.
“You have been doing battle with our enemy, the Sioux,” Washakie said. He nodded. “You have fought the Sioux bravely and well, but you are safe now, for you are in Shoshone land. If the Sioux try to fight you again, we will protect you.”
“What do you want for this protection?” James asked.
“Only that you be the friend of the Shoshone, as we will be your friend.”
“And the gift of a few cows, I suppose?” Matthew asked, sarcastically.
“I have received many gifts, and I have given many gifts,” Washakie said. “But my friendship does not depend upon gifts.”
“Are you telling us you don’t want any of our cows?”
“I want cattle, yes,” Washakie replied. “But not as a gift. We wish to trade.”
“What do you have to trade?” James asked.