CHAPTER XXVIII

A COLONEL OF CAVALRY

JIM NABOURS, who had known but little sleep, kicked out of his blankets before sunup and stood, grimy, haggard and moody, his hands in pockets, his hat pushed back on his head. There was no familiar sight of a great sea of longhorns rising just above the level of the grasses. The Del Sol herd was gone.

All the men finished their sodden breakfast in silence. Only the hysterical sobbings of the black woman Milly made any variation from the general taciturnity. There came no word from the tight-closed tilt flaps of the _carreta_. Del Williams and Dalhart had not spoken to each other since the crossing of the Red. McMasters paid scarce more attention to any than if they had not been there.

The sun rose red above the wet grass, climbed steadily till it seemed smaller; but it did not look down upon any mass of longhorns rising from the bedding ground. There was no long procession heading out for the north. The men of Del Sol were without an occupation.

Moody and unhappy, they sat in their bivouac, waiting. It was McMasters who spoke, suddenly pointing to the south.

“Look, Jim,” said he, as he came in and touched Nabours on the shoulder. “That’s not Indians—that’s cavalry!”

In five minutes proof was complete. There came into view, company front, at a stiff trot, guidon fluttering bravely, two troops of the hard-bitten United States cavalry, then stationed variously on the Plains. An officer rode in advance. As he came closer there showed near him the headdress of an Indian warrior, whether guide, scout or captive, none could say.

In the sudden relief from their long strain, and under the influence of this spectacle of riding men, always inspiriting, the men of Del Sol rose and gave a ragged shout of welcome to the Yellow Legs. The leader rode straight on in without any salute or reply; a grim, grizzled man of forty years or more, in the Western uniform of our Army when it was at its best. He dismounted stiffly, came up with military stiffness, stood on one leg stiffly, looking for the leader. He kept with him his Indian companion. The Del Sol men now saw that it was the Comanche chieftain, Yellow Hand, the partisan of yesterday’s affair.

“Good morning, men,” said the cavalry leader. “I am Colonel Griswold, from the Sill cantonment down below. What’re you doing here in the Nations?”

“Good morning,” said Jim Nabours, stepping forward. “We are shore glad to see you colonel. Well, we ain’t doing a hell of a lot of anything right now. Yesterday we was a-driving thirty-six hundred and fifty-nine fours and mixed stuff north to Alberlene. That was afore we met yore friend there. We was just a-strolling through.”

“Well, this old thief was just a-strolling through. I was following him. Last night I saw they had some fresh beef hides as well as buffalo in their camp. One thing led to another. I took your trail.

“They rather busted up your herd, eh? Well, I brought Yellow Hand along on the chance that he might be useful.

“Where do you men come from?” he continued. “Don’t you know that driving cattle across the Indian Nations is the foolishest thing in the world?”

“It looks thataway now, colonel,” assented Jim Nabours. “We come from Caldwell County, Texas, five hunderd miles south of here.”

“You’re not trading with the tribes in any way?”

“No, sir, we don’t want no truck with them.”

“Got no whisky along?”

“Good God, no!” replied Nabours soulfully. “I wisht we had.”

“H’m,” said the army officer, looking toward the fire. “You got any coffee left?”

“Some. Set in,” said the foreman simply.

So invited, Sandy Griswold, seasoned colonel of cavalrymen, made himself at home, a tin of coffee in his hand. His eye took in the arrangement of the scant equipment of these cattle drovers. He noted the giant carts, their covers drawn tight. He noted also when the flaps of the nearest cart cover parted, and some one—at first he thought it was a young man—began to climb down from the lofty seat via the cart tongue.

“Hello, what’s that?” said Sandy Griswold suddenly. “That’s no man—that’s a woman!”

“Shore she is,” said Jim Nabours. “She owns the cows. She’s going through to Aberlene.”

By now Taisie Lockart, in blue shirt and checkered trousers, boots and wide hat—her only apparel—was approaching the men. The officer arose, hat in hand. Jim Nabours made such clumsy introduction as he could. The soldier’s eyes were running over the trim, straight, round figure of this astonishing apparition. He saw the great club of bound bright hair, the easy lines of young womanhood; the poise and grace of as fine a specimen of young womanhood, indeed, as any land might well produce. He knew at the first glance that here was a young lady. She was with this party but not of it. Her first words affirmed his first conviction.

“But why are you here?” he repeated in wonderment. “You don’t belong here. This is a man’s job. Didn’t you know the risk you’d run?”

“None of us knew very much about it, sir,” rejoined Taisie Lockhart. “We are beginning now to see.”

She spread out her hands, indicating the absence of her herd.

“Sit down here by me, please, young lady.” Hat in hand, he made a place for her. “Which one of these men did you say was your husband?”

The bright blood flooded Taisie’s cheeks. Her trail boss answered for her.

“She won’t be married none till we get to Aberlene,” said Jim explicitly. “But that ain’t nobody’s fault but her own.”

Sandy Griswold laughed uproariously.

“By jove!” said he. “It’s an awful thing to be old and lame and married—married before you were a day old, my dear. If I wasn’t, I swear I’d marry you now, before you’re a day older! What’s the matter with all these young fellers?”

His keen blue eye under its shaggy brows swept the company of the Del Sol men, but found no mate for her. His eye lingered for just a time on a tall young man who stood quite apart.

“Come now,” he resumed, turning to the girl from whose fresh beauty—which was beauty even in daylight, and even in the morning—his eyes did not willingly wander long, “tell me all about things. You don’t belong in here, but of course I have got to help you out. I wouldn’t fret too much. If I had not come along old Yellow Hand here would have put you on your uppers. As it is, we’ll put him on his. We’ll all go back down the trail together with my bullies yonder. We’ll hold a big rodeo down there and see what the buffalo and the Comanches have left for you. Very foolish of you, my dear; very foolish, indeed. But we’ll see what can be done.”

“How could we ever pay you?” said Taisie Lockhart, turning upon him fully now the gaze of her disconcerting eyes.

“You’ve more than paid me now, my dear girl,” said the old warrior. “Lockhart, you said your name was? What was your father’s name?”

“His name was Burleson Lockhart, sir. He was colonel of the Ninth Volunteers in the war. We came from Alabama, once. But my father did not believe in the secession, though he fought with Texas.”

“Why, I knew him! His regiment and mine were opposed, in Tennessee!” His voice dropped. “But the men said you were an orphan. Your father did not get back from the war?”

Sudden memory caused her to drop her face in her hands. Once more her foreman spoke for her.

“Her pap was killed on the Missouri border, after the war, by the Federal bushwackers up there. He was driving cows up thataway. Them Yankee people in Austin have done robbed this girl of everything she had. We was driving these cows to see if we couldn’t make a little stake for her oncet more.”

Sandy Griswold sat silent for a time. At last he spoke quietly to the tall girl who sat on a bed roll beside him.

“Well, now!” he said. “Well now, we’ll see what can be done. You don’t belong here, but I’d be no sort of a soldier if I didn’t see you through.”

Now, as though by providential plan, had arrived unity of purpose and cheerfulness of spirit, an hour earlier unpredictable. Colonel Sandy Griswold was no man to delay action. In a half hour the camp was broken, and the entire party, preceded by the troopers, was retracing the way south to the scene of yesterday’s disaster. The commanding officer rode by Taisie Lockhart’s cart. The ferret eyes of the sullen Comanche saw now what had been hidden in the _carreta_. Between the cavalry commander and these wild savages there existed a distinct understanding of some sort, resting on fear of the troopers’ carbines.

“I’m going to put the whole band to work for you,” said Griswold, and called his interpreter.

The Del Sol men found themselves before long enriched by the recruitment of a couple of dozen laughing young Indian braves—all of them unarmed—who for the mere excitement of the thing were ready to assist in the rounding up of the scattered cattle and horses. A strangely mixed round-up band they made, half of them grim and silent, the other half wildly whooping, when they started off down the trail which lay written on the grassy soil.

As all of them knew, a buffalo stampede was the worst possible run on the range. But fortune partially favored the harassed drovers. It soon was evident that the buffalo had avoided the fringe of timber which lay ahead, had kept on running into the wind, as was their custom—alone of all cud chewing game. The domestic cattle had plunged into the thickets and split up in the edge of shallow timbered draws, and the wind meant less to them. This partially combed out the cattle from the buffalo. Inside of three miles the riders began to pick up groups and strings of the cattle in the long dragnet which they swept through one cover after another.

“By golly!” exclaimed Jim Nabours suddenly, after they had ridden an hour or two. “I’ll bet a thousand dollars there’s old Alamo! If he’s there, there’ll be more!”

It was true. A gaunt yellow head crowned with wide horns stared at them over the thicket tops. Old Alamo, self-appointed leader of the herd, had concluded he had gone far enough—indeed, he was willing to fight to establish that fact now. But the sweep of the riders driving in the groups of cattle induced him to change his mind.

There never were better riders than the Comanches, and they were hunters as well. The round-up was sport for them. The wild band helped the trail boss to pick up one string after another of the scattered herd, horses mingled with them. One body after another of the gathering Nabours turned back to the old encampment where the run had begun. Especially, he set the Indians to rounding up the horse band, a task in which they took the most extreme delight. The joined forces combed out the entire country to the southeast for perhaps more than ten or fifteen miles by evening. All day long, under this or that party of riders, the stream of reclaimed cattle and horses continued, until even Jim Nabours ceased to grumble at the product of the day.

That night and yet another night Griswold held his camp, which included that of the drovers, some two miles apart from the Comanche village; but his subalterns day and night had out troops who held the Comanches under control. There was no outbreak. The fearless Comanches, feasting full, laughed and chattered like children. When Nabours reported to Griswold that he was content to end the rodeo, the tally showed that the Del Sol herd, cut down as it had been by the unprecedented losses, still numbered three thousand and ninety-six head of cattle; and sixty good riding horses remained in the remuda. They were pioneers. The term “per cent of loss” was then unknown on the trail. Later, such losses would have meant ruin.

“What cows is left,” said Nabours, “I’ll leave for to stock the Chickasaw range. As for the lost horses, I reckon these here Comanches will take care of that after we are gone. To-morrow I’d like to start on north. We ain’t got anything too much to eat but beef, and we mustn’t waste no time.”

“All right,” said Griswold. “We’ll all pull north together in the morning. My supply wagons are up and I’ll trade you flour and bacon and dried apples for fresh beef. I’m tired of buffalo. I’ll see you, anyhow, as far as the Washita crossing.

“I’m going to take Yellow Hand along with me,” he added. “All these Comanches have got plenty of meat now, and they’ll stand hitched until he comes back. I have told them that if they start any funny business I’m going to shoot Yellow Hand in front of the whole village.

“Send that man over to my tent,” he said to Nabours. He pointed to McMasters, whose work he had seen. “I want to talk to him, since I know who he is. If he is a Texas sheriff and a captain of Texas Rangers he and I have got to have a little conversation about Comanches.”

They two sat late that night in front of Griswold’s tent, talking by the little fire. When they parted the soldier gave the young Ranger a strong clasp of the hand. What they had said no one but themselves knew.

And now, when the pink dawn of the prairie again came above the dewy grasses, there might be seen once more the sea of wide horns, in the old comfortable morning picture of the trail; the trail of days now gone by forever.