ously adorned with paint, their long
scalp-locks braided and trimmed with plumes and quills. They were the
very acme of grandeur in a warfare as splendid as it was barbaric. And
I, who live to write these lines, account myself most fortunate that I
saw it all.

They were arrayed in battle lines riding sixty abreast. It was a man of
genius who formed that military movement that day. On they came in
orderly ranks but with terrific speed, straight down the slope, across
the level, and on to the island, as if by their huge weight and terrible
momentum they would trample it into the very level dust of the earth,
that the winds of heaven might scatter it broadcast on the Arickaree
waters. Till the day of my death I shall hear the hoof-beats of that
cavalry charge.

Down through the centuries the great commanders have left us their
stories of prowess, and we have kept their portraits to adorn our
stately halls of fame; and in our historic shrines we have preserved
their records--Cyrus, Alexander, Leonidas at Thermopylae, Hannibal
crossing the Alps, Charles Martel at Tours, the white-plumed Henry of
Navarre leading his soldiers in the battle of Ivry, Cromwell with his
Ironsides--godly men who chanted hymns while they fought--Napoleon's
grand finale at Waterloo, with his three thousand steeds mingling the
sound of hoof-beats with the clang of cuirasses and the clash of sabres;
Pickett's grand sweep at Gettysburg, and Hooker's charge up Lookout
Mountain.

But who shall paint the picture of that terrific struggle on that
September day, or write the tale of that swirl of Indian warriors, a
thousand strong, as they swept down in their barbaric fury upon the
handful of Anglo-Saxon soldiers crouching there in the sand-pits
awaiting their onslaught? It was the old, old story retold that day on
the Colorado plains by the sunlit waters of the Arickaree--the white
man's civilization against the untamed life of the wilderness. And for
that struggle there is only one outcome.

Before the advancing foe, in front of the very centre of the foremost
line, was their leader, Roman Nose, chief warrior of the Cheyennes. He
was riding a great, clean-limbed horse, his left hand grasping its mane.
His right hand was raised aloft, directing his forces. If ever the
moulds of Nature turned out physical perfection, she realized her ideal
in that superb Cheyenne. He stood six feet and three inches in his
moccasins. He was built like a giant, with a mu