The spirit of democracy. [volume] (Woodsfield, Ohio) 1844-1994, 1869-11-30
BY Shenandoah, Author of MOke.
ta-va-ta, the Martyred Chieftain.

On the Wichata, at the break of day,
The Cheyenne chieftain's village lay
The remnant small of mighty band,
Now scattered and torn like the rifted sand;
The wandering winds with warnings woke
The ghosts of his murdered kin, who spoke;
Fly fy! for the morn bringeth fresh dismay
From Sheridan ninety miles away.
A thousand horsemen, with weapons bright,
In the frore and frosted morning light,
Ride over the snowy-sheeted ground,
With shuddering; smoldered, sullen sound;
They have seen the tents in the nights col,
moon;
And backward rode meath the yelled moon,
Prepared to pounce, like bird of prey,
On the fated village mile away.
The Indian sire saw the countless throng,
Like the trees of the forest, many and strong;
He stood like hunted hind at bay,
Then sent this message without delay:
.'Ye are many and we are few;
Ye can drink our blood as the sun the dew,
For we have our women and children small,
A hundred and thirteen souls in all;
Ny handful of warriors are strong and brave;
They will fight my helpless people to save;
There is no fear in the chieftain's eye;
He cannot fight, for he will not lie;
He came with this pledge only yesterday
From the father ninety miles away.
No answer came In another breath
They swept to their wretched work of death,
With amaddening shout and deafening yell,
Like the dire and dreadful fiends of hell:
And babes from their mothers breasts wer
torn,
And sires were scalped in the light of morn,
The ground was crimson with their blood,
And the river reddening with its food;
Mangled forms lay bleeding and bare,
With ghostly, ghastly, sickening glare.
And one rode foremost among them all,
Urging them on with shout and call,
On foaming charger, that seemed to say:
I have brought you Custar all the way,
At the head of thousand armed men,
With orders, traced with bloody pen,
These trembling mothers and babes to slay,
From Sheridan ninety miles away.
Alas! alas, for the deeds that were done
That day at the rising of the sun!
The tongue shall falter, pen shall fail.
And lips grow white when they tell the tale
How friend and foe on the field did lie,
Ali mangled and mingled, to faint and die;
The victors, painting their faine to spread,
Gave no heed to the dying, no thought to tn
dead.
With Sheridan ninety miles away2
Their cruel and thirsty carnage Ger,
Backward the warriors ride once more;
They pilfered the lightning from the skies,
And hooded the country with flaming lies,
In these words, blazing all over the land;
ave have met hostile Indian band
Five hundred, counting women and all
An hundred warriors armed did fall:
The frontiers safe, for we gained the day,
With Sheridan ninety miles away"
There was joy in the camp of Sheridan
When his branded minions appeared again,
With their Usage allies, drunken with blood,
And the liquid hell-fre's maddening food,
Came leaping and shouting around the fire,
With the CORY scalp of the Indian sire;
Like demons they danced till the dawn Of day
And Sheridan there, not word to say.
The maiden moon took time to unfold
Her silvery bow to disc of gold,
When Sheridan rode meath her shining shield
Seeking his dead on the bloody field;
Their souls, like vapor, before his eyes
Arose, with shiYering. sad surprise,
To show where their forms were shrouded i
blood,
The prey of the wolves and the vultures foot
Fifteen days did brave Elliott lay,
And Sheridan ninety miles away.
All honor to these who, with sword or pen,
Rise up to defend the rights of men;
Who suecor the weak and battle the strong,
Sustaining the right, denouncing the wrong;
Who would fly the Indians life to save
From the ]awless murderer's conquering grave
But chiefly honor the glorious three,
The valiant sons of nation free
One far in the fiery, flaming South.
Who flew to rescue from deaths dark mouth
The hunted few of an Indian band,
When the Texan Rangers were close at hand;
And him, the special and martyred one,
Whose name now shines like the flaming sun;
And him, the youngest, whom gold could NO
buy,
The glorious "white man that would not lie."
These, these would have rushed the carnage t
stay,
Had they been thousand miles away.
X.
But for this deed, this one without name,
Columbia bendeth her forehead in shame;
And the angels of God on the plains above,
Pause awhile in their ceaseless work of love,
To gaze while one with shining pen
Erases the record of Sheridan,
And carves on the golden scroll of fame,
The story of him with the spotless name;
"Moke-ta-va-ta, who dared to die,
Rather than basely utter lie;
Whose pleading women and children were slair
In the light of morn, on the crimson'd plain,
By mounted host of merciless men,
Under orders grav'd with faithless pen,
Making this a st. Bartholomew's day,
And Sheridan ninety miles away"
Quilp intimates that he believes in tn