Trumpeter Fred: A Story of the Plains

CHAPTER IX.

LURKING FOES

CHURCH was over. The bugler had just sounded mess call, and the soldiers in their neat "undress" uniform were just going in to dinner, when a man on a "cow pony" – one of those wiry, active little steeds so much in use around the cattle-herd – came full speed into the garrison and threw himself from the saddle at Major Edwards' gate. It was the telegraph operator at the railway station. In his hands were two brown envelopes, and Major Edwards, as he stepped forward to meet him, saw in his face the tell-tale look of a bearer of bad news.

"I've no idea whose horse that is, major. There were a half dozen of 'em in front of a saloon there in town, and I jumped on the first I saw. These have just come – one from Laramie, one from Omaha. I dropped everything at the office to fetch them to you."

Edwards tore open first one and then the other. The first read:

"Couriers in front of Captain Wallace report large war parties along the Platte, and some across, raiding the Sidney road. Four teamsters killed, scalped, and mutilated three miles south of river. Bodies found. Warn back everybody attempting to go that way."

The second was from the office of the department commander himself:

"Indians in force south of Platte, on Sidney road. If Colonel Gaines and Captain Cross have started, send couriers at once to recall them."

The major's face was dark with dismay.

"They have been gone nearly four hours," he exclaimed. "Even if I had swift riders ready, who could catch them in time?"

"I've been a trooper all my life, sir," came sudden answer. "Give me a horse and carbine and let me go."

The major might have known 'twas Sergeant Waller.

True to his word, and arranging with the officers of the court-martial to return in case his further testimony was required, Captain Charlton set forth at daybreak on Saturday, intending to push straight through to Red Cloud as fast as mules could drag or horses bear him. To the Niobrara crossing the road was hard and smooth, when once they cleared the sandy wastes of the Platte bottom. He had a capital team, a light ambulance, and a little squad of seasoned troopers to go with him as escort. It was a drive of nearly ninety miles, but he proposed resting his animals an hour at the Niobrara, another hour at sunset; feeding and watering carefully each time, and so keeping on to the old Agency until he reached his troop late at night.

No danger was to be apprehended until the party got beyond the Rawhide, and not very much until they were across the Niobrara, but Charlton and his half a dozen troopers had been over each inch of the ground time and again, and very little did they dread the Sioux.

After midday the little party had halted close beside the spot where Blunt's detachment had made their bivouac so short a time before. Here were the ashes of their cook-fires and the countless hoof-prints of the horses. Here, too, was the trail in double file, leading away northward across the prairie – a short cut to the Red Cloud road. Charlton followed it with his keen eyes, and noted with a smile how straight a line its young leader must have made for the "dip" in the grassy ridge a mile away, through which ran the hard, beaten track. Blunt prided himself on these little points of soldiership, as the captain well remembered, and when charged with guiding at the head of a column, was pretty sure to fix his eyes on some distant landmark and steer for that, with little regard for what might be going on at the rear.

The ambulance mules, tethered about the tongue, were busily crunching their liberal measure of oats. Each cavalry horse, too, buried his nose deep in the shimmering pile his rider had carefully poured for him upon the dry side of the saddle-blanket. The men were contentedly eating their hard-tack and bacon and drinking their coffee from huge tin cups with the relish of old frontiersmen. One trooper, a few yards away out on the prairie, kept vigilant watch. Pondering deeply over the strange and unaccountable charge that had been laid at his young trumpeter's door, the captain was slowly pacing down the bank, puffing away at the briar root pipe that was the constant companion of his scouting days. Suddenly he heard the sentry call, and, turning, saw him pointing to the ground at his feet.

"What is it, Horton?" he asked, going over toward him.

"Pony tracks, sir. The Indians have been nosing around here since our men left."

There were the prints of some half a dozen little unshod hoofs dotting the sandy hollows in the low ground near the stream, and easily traceable among the clumps of buffalo grass beyond. Charlton could see where they had gathered in one spot, as though their riders were then in consultation, and then scattered once more along the bank. Two hundred yards away stood the lonely log cabin, all that was left of what had been the ranch, and following the trail, the captain presently found himself nearing it. Two tracks seemed to lead straight thither, and before he reached it were joined by several more. Close to the abandoned hut the ground was worn smooth and hard; yet in the hollows were accumulations of dust blown from the roadway up the stream. Around here the pony tracks were thick, and just within the gaping doorway were footprints in the dust – some of spurred bootheels and broad soles, one still more recent of Sioux moccasins. Through the solid log walls two small square windows had been cut and narrow slits for rifles, in the days when the occupants had frequent occasion to defend their prairie castle. The opening to the subterranean "keep" was yawning under the eastern wall, its wooden cover having long since been broken up for fuel. Charlton stood for a moment within the blackened and dusty doorway, and glanced curiously around him.

Except for the new footprints it looked very much as it did when he had first taken occasion to inspect the interior, earlier in the summer. There was nothing left that anyone could carry away, and he wondered why the Indians should have troubled themselves to dismount and prowl about. An Indian hates a house on general principles, and enters one only when he expects to make something by it. Those recent boot-prints, nearly effaced by the moccasins, were doubtless those of some of Blunt's party. Curiosity had prompted some time-killing trooper to stroll out here and take a look at the place. The sunshine streaming in at the open doorway made a brilliant oblong square upon the earthen floor and lighted up the grimy interior. The steps cut down to the dark "dugout" were crumbling away, and it was impossible to see more than a few feet into the passage leading to the underground fortress, where as a final resort in an Indian siege the little garrison could take refuge. A lantern or a candle would show the way, but Charlton had neither. Taking out his match-case, however, he bent down, struck a light, and peered in. Somebody had done the same thing within the last day or two, for there were the stub ends of two matches just like his in the dust at the bottom of the steps, and there, too – yes, he lighted another match and studied it carefully – there was the print of cavalry boots going in and coming out again. Whoever was his predecessor, he had more curiosity than the captain. Charlton had seen prairie "dugout" forts before, and did not care to waste time now.

CHAPTER X.

IN SUSPENSE

RETURNING to the open sunshine he made the circuit of the house, and on the north side stopped and studied with an interest he had not felt before. A stout post was still standing on that side, and to the post a cavalry horse had been tethered within two days, and stood there long enough to paw and trample the gravel all around it. Charlton was cavalryman enough to read in every sign that the steed had been most unwillingly detained. In evident impatience he had twisted twice and again around that stubborn bullet-scarred stump, and the troop commander could almost see him, pawing vigorously, tugging at his "halter-shank," and plunging about his hated but relentless jailer, and neighing loudly in hopes of calling back his departing friends. Charlton felt sure that, as the troop rode away, some one of the men had remained here some little time.

A hundred yards across the prairie was the "double file" trail of the detachment on its straight line for the ridge, and here, only a little distance out, were the hoof-prints of a troop horse both coming and going. Even more interested now, the captain went some distance out across the prairie, and still he found them. Leaving the hut and following to overtake the troop, the horse had instantly taken the gallop; the prints settled that. But what struck Captain Charlton as strange was that the other tracks, those which were made by the same horse in coming to the hut, were still to be found far out toward the northeast. It was evident, then, that the rider had not turned back from the command until it had marched some distance from the Niobrara; that he had not gone back to the bank where they had been in camp, as would have been the case had he lost or left something behind, but had come here to this abandoned hovel southeast of the trail. Now, what did that mean? One other thing the captain did not fail to note; that horse had cast a shoe.

Late as it was when he reached the camp on White River that night – after midnight, as it proved – Charlton found his young lieutenant up, and anxiously awaiting him. When the horses had all been cared for, and the two officers were alone near their tents, almost the first question asked by the captain was:

"Did you give any man permission to ride back after you left the Niobrara Friday morning?"

"No, sir," answered Blunt in some surprise. "No one asked, and every man was in his place when we made our first halt."

Immediately after reveille on Sunday morning, a good hour before the sun was high enough to peep over the tall white crags to the east of the little camp, the two officers were out at the line, superintending the grooming of the horses. Fifty men were now present for duty, and fifty active steeds were tethered there at the picket rope, nipping at each other's noses or nibbling at the rope itself, and pricking up their ears as the captain stopped to pat or to speak to one after another of his pets. Always particularly careful of his horses, Captain Charlton on this bright sunshiny morning was noting especially the condition of their feet. Every one of those two hundred hoofs were keenly scrutinized as he passed along the line. But there was nothing unusual in this – he never let a week go by without it.

"You seem to have had a number reshod within the last few hours, sergeant," he said to Graham, as he stopped at the end of the line.

"Yes, sir, I looked them all over yesterday morning. Every shoe is snug and ready now, in case we have to go out. Seven horses were reshod yesterday, and over twenty had the old shoes tacked on."

Grooming over, each trooper vaulted on to the bare back of his horse and rode in orderly column down to the running stream, and still Charlton stood there, silently watching his men and noting the condition of their steeds. Blunt was bustling about his duties, every now and then looking over at his soldierly captain. Something told him that the troop commander had made a discovery or two that had set him to thinking. He was even more silent than usual.

At seven o'clock, after a refreshing dip in a pool under the willows close at hand, the two officers were seated on their camp-stools and breakfasting at the lid of the mess chest. Over among the brown buildings of the post, half a mile away, the bugles were sounding mess call and the infantry people were waking up to the duties of the day. Down the valley, still farther to the east, the smoke was curling from the tiny fires among the Indian tepees, and scores of ponies were grazing out along the slopes, watched by little urchins in picturesque but dirty tatters. All was very still and peaceful. Even the hulking squaws and old men loafing about the Agency store-houses were silent, and patiently waiting for the coming of the clerk with his keys of office. One or two young braves rode by the camp, shrouded in their dark-blue blankets, and apparently careless of any change in the condition of affairs, yet never failing to note that there were fifty horses and soldiers ready for duty there in camp.

Their breakfast finished, Charlton said that he must go at once to the office of the post commander over in garrison, and that he might be detained some hours. "It will be well to keep the men here, Blunt, for we may be needed any moment."

And yet, as he was riding away with his orderly, Charlton stopped to listen to what Sergeant Graham had to say.

"Sergeant Dawson and Private Donovan wanted particularly to go over to the post for a few hours this morning, and so did some of the others, but I told them that the captain's orders were we should all stay at camp, we were almost sure to be wanted. They were all satisfied, sir, but Dawson and Donovan, who made quite a point of it, and I said I would carry their request to the captain." And to Blunt's surprise, as well as that of Sergeant Graham, the captain coolly nodded.

"Very well. They've both been doing hard work of late. Tell them to keep their ears open for 'boots and saddles'; otherwise they may stay until noon. After dinner, perhaps, I will give others a chance to turn."

Fifteen minutes later Captain Charlton was in consultation with the post commander, and after guard mounting they returned to the colonel's house, where a tall infantry soldier, the provost sergeant, was awaiting him.

CHAPTER XI.

HEMMED IN BY SAVAGE FOES

BACK at the cavalry camp there was no little subdued chat and wonderment among the troopers. Lounging in the shade of the trees along the stream, and puffing away at their pipes, playing cards, as soldiers will, and poking fun at one another in rough, good-natured ways, the men were yet full of the one absorbing theme – Fred Waller's most unaccountable disappearance and the loss of so much of their hard-earned money.

"I would have bet any amount," said Corporal Wright, "that when the old man" – the captain is always the "old man" to his troops – "got back he would ride over Sergeant Dawson roughshod for letting Waller slip away on his guard; but I listened to him this morning and he talked to him just like a Dutch uncle. I tell you Dawson felt a heap better after it was over. He said the captain never blamed him at all."

Noon came, so did an orderly telling Mr. Blunt that the captain wished to see him over at the telegraph office, and to order the horses fed at once. Forty-eight big portions of oats were poured from the sacks forthwith. Dawson and Donovan were not yet back.

"Leave theirs out," said Sergeant Graham, "they'll be back presently. This means business again, and no mistake. Where's the trouble now, I wonder?"

Shall we look and see? Far to the south, far beyond the bold bluffs of the White River, far beyond the swift waters of the Niobrara, – "L'Eau qui Court" of the old French trapper, – far across the swirling flood of the North Platte, and dotting the northward slopes, swarms of naked, brilliantly painted red warriors in their long, trailing war bonnets of eagle's feathers are darting about on nimble ponies, or, crouching prone along the ridges, are eagerly watching a dust-cloud coming northward on the Sidney road. Behind them, between them and the Platte, are the weltering mutilated bodies of half a dozen herders and teamsters, and the smoking ruins of their big freight-wagons. Like the tiger's taste of blood, the savage triumph in the death of their hapless foes has tempted them far beyond their accustomed limits. Knowing the cavalry to be scouting only north of the Platte, they have made a wide detour and swooped around to this danger-haunted road, eagerly watching for the coming of other white men, who, like the last, should be ignorant of their presence and too few in number to cope with such a foe. Here along the ridge north of the little "Branch" of the Platte, half a hundred young warriors crouch and wait. Farther back, equally vigilant, other bands are hiding among the breaks and ravines near the river, while their scouts keep vigilant watch for the coming of cavalry. Forrest's Grays and Wallace's Sorrels cannot be more than a day's ride away, and will be hurrying for the road the moment they know that the Indians have slipped around them. Wallace, up the Platte, has already heard.

It is three o'clock this hot, still Sunday afternoon, and they have been six hours out from Sidney, driving swiftly and steadily northward, when, as they reach the summit of a high ridge and stop to breathe their panting team, Colonel Gaines takes a long look through his field glass. Just in front is the shallow valley of the little stream now called the "Pumpkinseed" though pumpkins were unheard-of features in the landscape of fifteen years ago.

Off to their right front, several miles away, lie the low, broad bottom lands of the Platte. Across the Pumpkinseed, a mile distant, another ridge, like the one on which they halted, only not so high; to the westward a tumbling sea of prairie upland – all buttes, ridges, ravines, coulées – but not a living soul is anywhere in sight. Far as his practiced eye can sweep the horizon and the broad lowlands of the Platte not a sign of living, moving object can Colonel Gaines detect. Turning around, he trains his glass upon the tortuous road they had been following, and along which the dust is slowly settling in their wake. Something seems to attract his gaze, for he holds the binocle steadily toward the south. Naturally Captain Cross and the two soldiers follow with their eyes; the third infantryman has dismounted, and is readjusting the girths of his saddle.

"What is it?" asks Cross.

"I can't make out," is the reply, "Something is kicking up a dust there, some miles behind us. A horseman, I should say, though I've seen nobody. Wait a few minutes. He's down in a swale now, whoever it is."

Everybody turns to look and listen. Those were days when such a thing as a single horseman following in pursuit had a meaning that is lacking now.

Three, four minutes they wait in silence; then the colonel suddenly exclaims:

"I have him – a mere dot yet!"

Presently he lowers his glasses, and dusts the lenses with his handkerchief. His face is graver.

"Whoever that is, he is riding for all he is worth," he says. "I half believe he wants to catch us."

Another long look. Utter silence in the party. A mule in the wheel team gives an impatient shake of his entire system, and chains, tugs, and swing-bars all rattle noisily.

"Quiet there, you fool!" growls the driver angrily, and with a threatening sweep of his long whip-lash. Then the silence becomes intense again, and every man strains his eyes over the prairie slopes shimmering in the heat of the July sun. Suddenly an exclamation bursts from two or three pairs of bearded lips. Far away, but in plain sight in that rare atmosphere, a speck of a horseman darts into view over a distant ridge, sweeps down the slope at full gallop, and plunges out of sight again in a low dip of the rolling surface.

"No man rides like that unless there is mischief abroad," mutters Cross, as he swings out of the wagon to the ground. "Give me my rifle, Murray."

Then, sudden as thunderclap from summer sky, with wild, shrill clamor, with thunder of hoofs, and sputter of rapid shots; with yell and taunt and hideous war cry, from the very ground itself, from behind every little ridge; up from the ravines, down from the prairie buttes; hurling upon them in mad, raging race, there flashes into sight of their startled eyes a horde of painted savages.

"The Sioux! The Sioux!" yells the driver, as he leaps from his box.

"Hang on to your mules!" shouts Cross. "Down with you, men! Fire slow! They'll veer when they get in closer. Now!"

Bang! goes Cross' piece. Bang! bang! the rifles of the nearest soldiers. The mules plunge wildly, and are tangled in an instant in the traces. Over goes the wagon with a crash. Bang goes Gaines' big Springfield as he coolly spreads himself on the ground. An Indian pony stumbles and hurls his rider on the turf, and Cross gives an exultant cheer. Yet all the same he knows full well that now it is life or death. The little party is hemmed in by a host of savage foes.

CHAPTER XII.

MYSTERIOUS HOOF-PRINTS

IT was Saturday night that, from far up the Platte, the news came to Captain Wallace of the dash made by the Sioux for the Sidney road. For two days previous he had been hunting Indians upstream toward the Rawhide, and had found a perfect network of pony tracks and had had some very distant glimpses of flitting warriors. His scouts had told him that the Sioux and Cheyennes were swarming over the country to the northwest of him, and that none had appeared to the east. It was his business, therefore, to move against them, and move he did, trusting that Forrest and the Grays would be alert along the southern verge of the reservations that no formidable parties could slip southward in his absence.

But this was simply part and parcel of the Indian scheme. Having lured him two days' march away from the Sidney crossing, these enterprising warriors kept him occupied, while their confederates, making a wide detour around Forrest, slipped across the Platte and swooped down upon the poor fellows with the freight wagons. Only one of their number managed to escape, and he, madly riding westward, came upon some herdsmen who promptly joined him in his flight. They had seen the cavalry going up the north bank a day or two before, and they never drew rein until they found them. Wallace at once sent couriers westward to Fort Laramie with the news, and at break of day started downstream with his whole troop. They had not marched five miles before they came upon the hoof-prints of a single horse, and just beyond the point where these hoofprints crossed their trail, the tracks of half a dozen Indian ponies met their eager eyes. One old sergeant, reining out of column to the right, followed the shod tracks over to the river bank, and a lieutenant spurred out and joined him when he signaled with his broad-brimmed scouting hat. The rest of the troop moved stolidly ahead.

Presently the young officer overtook the column and reined in beside his captain.

"Where did they go, Park?"

"Straight into the stream, sir, and evidently to the other side. Sergeant Brooks says 'twas a troop horse with a light rider, and that he had to swim across. The river is six feet deep out there, but it was his only way of escape. The Indians couldn't have been far behind, and yet they didn't follow. Their tracks turn down the bank on this side. Brooks is following them now."

"Who on earth could have come through here at such a time? Why, the country has been running over with Indians!"