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Poem
II.
It was several days before trouble came,
the quiet seemed at odds with all the news,
the papers told of a nation enraged,
with loud cries for the Sioux to meet their doom.

Myron was out feeding hay to the horses
all bunched up in the corral and barn now
when the air was split by a piercing shriek,
'twas a war cry, much too close and too loud.

Myron quickly looked up from the pitchfork
saw a warrior charging with his lance,
before Myron even had time to think
he cast the pitchfork hard out of his hands.

It struck hard against the surprised warrior,
broke his sternum, and threw him from the horse,
gunshots broke out, Myron looked up a saw
a circling band of two dozen more!

He broke into a run for the cabin,
nearby his father-in-law did the same,
a shot struck Harold right deep in his thigh,
Harold scream out and limped for the door, lame.

Myron grabbed him, jerked him quickly inside,
Mary and Larissa closed the shutters,
then opened gun-ports he’d cut in the wall,
as the sound of pounding horses unnerved.

Myron broke out all of his firearms,
two Winchesters, a Sharps, and scatter-gun,
along with a pistol for him and Harold,
with ammo for each and every one.

Outside the war-cries just grew ever closer
waves of bullets struck the cabin in turn,
said Myron,”We can’t let them get too close
or this whole house they are likely to burn!”

And so the knelt setting about their task
Larissa let loose with the shot-gun fast,
a horse screamed in pain and all heard the sound
of a heavy body falling to Earth.

Then Myron and Harold pumped out quick shots
with their rifles at any who did pass,
the first shots were slow, and failed to hit home,
and they both learned to lead their foes, fast.

They heard a shout, and then came another,
two more warriors shot off of their mounts,
then the sound of hooves faded just a bit,
and they returned to their circling around.

Myron saw through the slot when they fell back
and spotted one with an eagle head-dress,
Crazy Horse’s lieutenant, the Diving Bird,
who’d left the messenger in such duress.

He sat aloft on a painted pony,
directing men with a sweep of his hand,
a proud and fierce-looking warrior soul,
determined to fight hard for his land.

But Myron had sweat for his patch of dirt
he wasn’t the sort that could accept retreat,
if he had to kill Diving Bird himself
he’d do so before admitting defeat...

CONTINUES IN PART III.
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