Part 11

California Joe wagged his head slowly, as he inhaled through his frosted brick-red whiskers.

“No, I don’t, gen’ral. Nor Corbin neither. An’ we got first-class smellers, too, though jest at this moment they’re froze stiff.”

“Very well,” responded the general. “We’ll proceed. Tell the trailers to go slow, and keep their noses and eyes open.”

More than half a mile was covered; and again the Osages had halted. This time they were triumphant, and received the general with conscious dignity. The English-speaking Osage pointed before, to the left.

“Me told you so,” he uttered, in whisper.

Sure enough. In front, one hundred yards beside the trail, at the edge of the timber, was low gleam of a camp-fire almost dead. It was only a handful of embers, and still Ned could not smell it; but there it was. Truly, those Osages had good noses.

Although through the drifting clouds of winter the moon shone brightly upon the long column waiting in the snow, from the fire no movement was made. The Indians who had built the fire must be sleeping.

“Joe, you and Little Beaver take a few of your men and scout around that camp,” whispered the general. A quaver in his voice told of his excitement. “Find out all you can. We’ll wait here.”

To the snow swung California Joe and Jack Corbin and Little Beaver and all the Osages. With click of rifle-lock they stole forward, on circuit to enter the timber above the fire and thus spy upon it. Presently they disappeared. Sat tense every officer and every soldier, peering, keen to meet any vicious volley which surely would empty saddles. For the column was a fair mark.

Was the hard, cold march of three days to be a failure? Were the Indians already on the alert? See! Now, bending low, out from the edge of the timber issued an Osage. California Joe followed close. One after another the scouts all issued, approaching the fire. They reached it, they straightened up—apparently nothing happened, and a great sigh of relief swept through the tense column, where the companies sat at their intervals.

After prying about, and examining shrewdly, the scouts returned. California Joe reported.

“Tain’t no reg’lar camp-fire,” he uttered. “The party we’re trailin’ never made it, ’cordin’ to them Osages. It’s the work of Injun herders; boys, like as not, to warm ’em while they watched the ponies. Village ought to be within two or three miles, at most.”

That was good news. The general gave the word to advance again, but more cautiously than ever. And taking Ned, as orderly, with his usual impulsiveness he rode forward accompanying the two Osage guides who had done so well.

The trail had left the stream, to cut across a big bend. The guides kept just at the head of the general’s horse. Whenever they came to a rise, one would creep forward and peer over. Seeing that the coast was clear, he would signal for the others to come on. Breathless work was this, and Ned’s heart thumped so that he feared he would be ordered to stay where he was. Now from the crest of a long brushy divide the Osage, reconnoitering, had put his hand to his brow, peering from under it. He crouched lower, and came hastily back. Something had been sighted.

“What is it?” asked the general, eagerly.

“Heaps Injuns down there,” grunted gutturally the Osage, at the saddle flaps. And he pointed ahead.

Off from his horse swung the general; he signed to Ned, and leaving their mounts in charge of the other Osage, with the first one they also stole forward.

“Drop that sabre,” whispered the general to Ned, sternly. Ned unbuckled his belt and dropped it, with the dragging scabbard. He was making too much noise.

Low in the moonlight, peeping over the top of the ridge they scanned the valley before. About half a mile beyond, upon the snow which edged the timber skirting the icy stream was a large blackish mass, like a great mass of animals.

“Buffalo!” hazarded the general, after looking long and earnestly.

The Osage said not a word.

“Why do you think Indians?” whispered the general. “Maybe buffalo.”

The Osage shook his feathered head.

“No. Me heard dog bark,” he asserted, softly.

Again they listened. The freezing air was very quiet. Ned’s heart thumped; he wished that he need not breathe. Then, clear, through the night did sound the yappy bark of a dog, from the timber near the black mass.

“That’s right,” murmured the general. “Wait! Isn’t that a bell—a pony bell? Yes. Ponies those are. Buffalo aren’t in the habit of wearing bells in this country.”

He turned quickly, and took a step, to carry the news to the column. But he stopped short. The bell had ceased, no dog barked, but high and plaintive welled through the lonely waste the cry of a baby. Ned fairly started; it sounded so like home and fireside. Of course, the Indians had their babies.

“That’s tough,” muttered the general. “Those Indians have not spared our women and children—but I wish that village held only men.”

With Ned he hurried back to the scouts while the two Osages remained on lookout over the sleeping village.

“My compliments to the adjutant, and tell him to have all the officers join me here,” he directed, to Ned. And Ned carried the message.

Speedily the word was passed, and from along the column filled with rumors the officers promptly gathered in a circle about their colonel.

“The village is ahead, about three quarters of a mile, gentlemen,” spoke cautiously the general. “Remove your sabres, and come forward with me, as quietly as possible, and from the top of that rise yonder where the two Osages are I’ll show you the lay of the land.”

This they did, gladly. From the rise they reconnoitered, in a cautious knot. The pony herd was as plain as before; still ruled the lonely night; somewhere down there the Indian village slept. They believed that they could trace a collection of tipis.

After pointing and explaining, and receiving nods of understanding, the general as quietly withdrew. All followed.

Now a council of war must be held, where the sabres had been left. California Joe listened approvingly; Little Beaver and Hard Rope anxiously, trying to comprehend the white chief’s plan. The Osages had loosened their buffalo robes, as if prepared for instant action. But that was not the scheme.

The attack was to be made at dawn, as soon as there was light enough for aiming. The village was to be surrounded, first, and charged from four sides.

Now was it after midnight; the moon was floating high. At once set out, under cover of the ridge, with troops G, H and M, about 200 men, Major Joel Elliot, on wide circuit to take station whence he might charge the village from below; set out in the other direction, with B and F troops, Colonel William Thompson, to take similar position above.

“The attack will be made promptly at daylight, gentlemen,” were the general’s last instructions. “The band will play Garryowen, and at the first note you will charge from whatever position you are in.”

The veteran Colonel Myers and his “right center” column might remain, until time to take their posts also, not so far away, on the right.

The fourth or “center” column was commanded by the general himself; but of the four companies, A, C, D and K, Captain Hamilton commanded the one squadron, Colonel West the other. And there were Lieutenant (Colonel) “Queen’s Own” Cook’s sharpshooters.

Ah, but it was cold up here, behind the ridge. The time was two o’clock, and four hours must pass before daylight. Nobody might make a fire, and orders forbade stamping of the feet or walking up and down, because such a creaking of the snow might give alarm to the village.

The men, huddled in their overcoats, stood or crouched, each holding to the lines of his horse. The officers gathered in little knots, and sitting or standing, talked low.

The general’s group was the largest: Adjutant Moylan, Lieutenant Tom Custer, Captain Hamilton, Colonel West, and others.

“It’s been a long Thanksgiving day, and a fast instead of a feast,” said Colonel West.

“Oh, we’ll have our celebration later,” quoth Lieutenant Tom. “You know the verse:

“For gold the merchant plows the main, The farmer plows the manor; But glory is the soldier’s prize, The soldier’s wealth is honor.”

“How about it, Hamilton? Are you glad you came?” asked Lieutenant Moylan.

“Perfectly. The only person I’m sorry for is poor Mathey.”

“He’s liable to miss a rousing good fight.”

“And one in which some of us are likely to get hurt. Those Indians will fight like demons, to defend their families and property.”

“Well, as for me, gentlemen, you know how I feel,” spoke young Captain Hamilton, earnestly. “I want the soldier’s death. When my hour comes, I hope that I shall be shot through the heart, in battle.”

By all the low talk, among men as among officers, the approaching battle must be regarded as a serious problem. Nobody might tell how many Indians were housed down below, on their own ground, with plenty of ammunition and food and cover; and no harder fighters could be found than the Cheyennes and the Kiowas.

The Osages, in their war-paint of red, white, black and yellow, sat under blankets and robes, in a circle, murmuring gravely as if they, too, were doubtful of the white chief’s ability. One of them was not in war-paint. His paint all was black, for mourning. The interpreter explained that this warrior had lost his squaw, to the Cheyennes, and that he could not wash off his mourning until he had taken a Cheyenne scalp.

Ned thought much upon the village. It probably would contain some white captives. Among them might be little Mary. He resolved to keep his eyes open for trace of anybody looking as she might look.

XVI

“GARRYOWEN” AND “CHARGE!”

While dragged the cold hours, some of the officers threw the capes of their cavalry greatcoats over their heads, and stretched upon the snow, slept. The general, having finished his inspection, did likewise. But the Osages did not sleep; neither did the men of the ranks, now collected closer in groups at their horses’ heads, to keep warm. The stag-hounds, Maida and Blucher, shivered and whined, and curled in a ball.

Beyond, upon the crest of the ridge, an Osage and two of the officers were keeping keen watch upon the unconscious village below.

Ned dozed; when he awakened, stiff and shivering, the moon had set, all was pitchy dark, except that far in the east just a tinge of grayness signaled the approach of dawn.

Somebody near Ned stirred, and struck a match. It was the general, who looked at his watch. The flickering light revealed his anxious face and moustache rimmed with frost. He stood, and bending over another sleeping form he said, low and earnest: “Moylan! Moylan!”

“Yes, sir.” And the adjutant also sat up, to yawn, and spring to his feet.

“It’s time we were forming. Wake the officers,” continued the general. “Is that you, trumpeter?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Ned.

“You may help us. When you come to Colonel Myers, either of you, give him my compliments and tell him to move his command out at once and take position.”

“Yes, sir.”

Many of the officers already were awake, waiting, peering, listening. All around up-towered dim figures, and cautious voices spoke in undertones. Faint jingle sounded, as the horses stirred at movement of their guardians.

Presently into the darkness filed away Colonel Myers’ column, to take position further along on the right.

The troopers of the center column were not yet mounted; the companies in column of fours bided the time when the light from the east should be stronger.

Ned, beside his horse, quivered with cold and excitement mingled. All before was grim and silent; the ridge, snowy and blotched with brush, lay against the sky-line to the south; beyond the ridge was the fated village. Not even a dog barked.

Suddenly through the columns of fours ran a murmur. Into the velvet black sky over the ridge soared slowly and stately a fire signal, of yellow glow. Instantly through Ned’s mind surged the thought that the village was alarmed, Major Elliot or Colonel Thompson had been detected, and this was a flaming arrow to spread the news adown the valley. Next would come the volleys, the shouts, and the shrieks.

“A rocket! A signal rocket!” ejaculated somebody.

“How long it hangs fire! Why doesn’t it burst?” wondered Adjutant Moylan, impatient.

Up, and up, and up, in course majestic, it floated higher, changing from yellow to red, and from red to blue, and from blue to lemon. The columns watched, breathless, eye and ear set for the downward curve or the explosion. The general spoke, in tone glad.

“It’s a star.”

“Oh!” sighed officer and men, relaxed, as passed the word.

For a star it was, now flashing white across the white and black; a morning star beautiful beyond description, in this pure, still air. It seemed like an omen of peace, but it brooded over a scene of war.

The light in the east had widened. From mouth to mouth the order to advance was given; without bugle note the columns mounted and now with creak of snow began to climb the ridge. Down from the crest came the Osage and the two officers. The village still slept, unsuspicious.

The crest was reached. Every eye sought the village below. Its pointed tipis could be described, as thick as young cedars, on both sides of the curving stream. The pony herd was restless, at the approach of day following the long, biting night.

Here upon the crest was swiftly formed the line of battle, for the charge. Right and left into line rode the troopers, for squadron front; the right held by Colonel West, the left by Captain Hamilton and the Cook sharpshooters who were to fight on foot.

“Officers and men will remove their overcoats and the men their haversacks, to be left here under guard of one man from each company,” directed the general, tersely. “We must be free in our actions. Not a shot is to be fired before the charge is sounded. Keep those dogs here, too.”

So overcoats and haversacks were dropped; and stripped to their blouses the column again waited, breathing hard.

“For—r’d—march!” The low command trickled adown the long line; and more by sight than by hearing the line obeyed. From the crest it began to descend; and if all was going well, from three other points three other lines were as cautiously closing in on the doomed village.

The general led, in the center, with Adjutant Moylan beside him, Ned behind. A few paces off to the rear of the general’s right was Colonel West, commanding the right squadron. Captain Hamilton was on the left.

“Now, men, keep cool, wait the command, fire low and not too rapidly,” Ned heard him caution, in clear, calm tone.

Sergeant-Major Kennedy of the non-commissioned staff was another man in front of the line. Ned glimpsed him on the right.

Just before the center of the line, in close formation rode the band—every man with his instrument poised, the chief musician’s cornet at his lips, prepared to burst into “Garryowen” at first signal for attack.

The foot of the hill was reached; the pony herd stared, and jostled uneasily, scenting and hearing and seeing. With crackle of snow they moved aside—and as the crackle by the cavalry mingled with the crackle by their ponies, the village slept on, suspecting naught.

Now the timber ahead was the goal; for in the timber was the main collection of the lodges. A few, above and below, had been pitched on this side of the stream; but the majority were across, where the bank was low and level.

From the pony herd to the timber fringe was further than had been expected; as with crackle and slight jingle of sabre and bit the line moved in at eager walk, every man peering, all too fast brightened the landscape. The tipis glimmered white; from the apex of some curled thin smoke; very soon would the village awake to the routine of another day. How hard they slept—warrior and squaw and child and even dog!

“Another deserted village!” whispered the general, to Adjutant Moylan.

The adjutant nodded. The general swept a glance along his line, right and left; he straightened more in the saddle, his right hand fell to the butt of his revolver, projecting from holster; evidently the time had come, and in a few moments would it be known whether this was indeed another abandoned village. Ned raised his bugle to his lips, for the “Charge”; but even while he was drawing breath, in readiness, smart and quick rang from the farther side of the village a single report of rifle! The alarm!

What a change burst upon the slumberous valley! Turned in his saddle the general; with a word his voice smote the band into action.

“Garryowen! Give it to ’em!”

No longer was there need for concealment. Quite the opposite. Shattering the icy air, pink with nearing dawn, into full cry blared the doughty band. The men cheered wildly; back from the hills beyond the fated village hastened like an echo other cheers.

“Trot—march!”

The line of squadrons, irregular as they surged through the low brush, broke into the trot. Sabres jingled, saddles creaked; carbines were at the “Advance,” butt on thigh, muzzle up; and the sharpshooters must run.

The trees were close before. The tipis were plain. Dark figures were darting among them. Dogs barked furiously. From the other side of the village pealed a rattling volley of carbines, and spread to a steady clatter.

The general stood in his stirrups; he whirled Dandy about, and swung high his cap above his yellow hair. Over the clamor of band and of cheer his voice rose exultant.

“Charge!”

This was enough. Ned glued his lips to that old bugle and from puffed cheeks forced his very soul into the wild stirring notes of the “Charge.” On right and on left the company bugles answered. Forward sprang the horses, awaiting no spur.

Ned was conscious that the band had dropped back through an interval of the squadron behind; they raced on past it; but it continued to play.

Our hearts so stout have got us fame, For soon ’tis known from whence we came; Where’er we go they dread the name Of Garryowen in glory.

More savagely cheered the men. Sergeant-Major Kennedy (fine soldier) had drawn up almost even with the general and the adjutant. They rode with revolvers held aloft, to be brought down to the deadly level. Ned blew over and over the “Charge”—the bugle in his left hand, but his revolver in his right.

Now they struck the first trees, bordering the stream and housing the sprinkling of tipis on this side. Out from the tipis were bursting men and women—the men half naked, weapons in their grasp, the women scurrying with their frightened children. They saw the galloping line of blue, and swerved for shelter of tree and stream. The Indian rifles cracked venomously into the very faces of the horses. Ned thought that he saw, with the corner of his eye, Captain Hamilton pitch sideways from his saddle. But the Custer revolver, and the revolvers of his companions jetted smoke, and with a roar the carbines of the troopers drowned every noise, almost every thought save the thought of fight.

Back were swept the Indians—warriors dodging, women and children fleeing. Driven from their white lodges, many warriors were standing waist-deep in the frozen stream; others fought from cover of the high bank; others from the trees and the brush. It was hot, fast work. Even the squaws were using rifle and bow. Some fell, like the warriors, shot down in the act of bitter defence. It could not be avoided. Ned fired right and left, but whether he hit anybody he did not know.

Now the line was well into the first collection of tipis, and at the stream. On the other side the battle was raging fiercely; and into the stream plunged the reckless squadron, their line disorganized but still resistless. Among the tipis opposite reared a single tipi of black, which must be the tipi of the chief, old Black Kettle. But old Black Kettle was lying stark, shot down by the rapidly riding Koom-la-Manche.

The battle had developed into a fight-at-will—into quick shooting among the tipis and the trees, cleaning them out. The village was quickly cleaned, but the struggle had only begun. In the village were now the troops; the Indians were outside; their whoops and their firing waxed ever more furious. The Osage scouts dashed hither-thither, answering whoop with whoop. Little Beaver’s face was convulsed like a demon’s. Sighting him, Ned almost fired upon him, but stayed his hand just in time. In the melée ’twas hard to tell friend from foe.

Driven in by the cordon of troopers, still the trapped Cheyennes made desperate rushes, to gain cover. On a sudden Ned’s eyes, roving rapidly among the tipis, were halted short by a new sight: a little white girl running! A little white girl—in fringed buckskins and in moccasins; but yet a little white girl, her long light hair floating over her shoulders. With a startled shout of “Look!” and with jab of spur, Ned dashed for her.

“Mary!” he called. “Mary! Here I am! Mary!”

But how could his voice be heard, amidst the hubbub of shot and cheer and whoop!

The fight was every man for himself, and all together to keep the Indians from breaking away. The grove was a pandemonium. Ned had dashed forward alone. He passed the first of the tipis in his path; and there came Mary, fluttering bravely, dodging hard; behind, his hand even now outstretched, his countenance scowling evilly, was a large Indian warrior. Cut Nose? Maybe. Who he was did not matter.

Again Ned shouted, and spurred Buckie. He leaned, and thrust forward his revolver, to pull trigger. The big Indian was a fair mark, at the short range; but of course the bullet must not hit Mary. Now she had stumbled on a tent peg, and was down. But Buckie was almost upon her; so was the Indian. Strung bow, with arrow fitted, was in his hand, as he ran; he was quick-witted, for at token of Ned on Buckie disputing his claim his arrow was instantly at his eye, bow-string drawn to an arc, and iron point leveled at Ned’s breast.

Ned scarcely had time to check Buckie, fling himself to one side, and pull trigger. He was conscious that the twang of the bow and the bark of his Colt’s sounded together. Then a terrific blow in the face blinded him with starry red, and sent him dizzily reeling down, down. His feet slipped from the stirrups, and he landed in a heap.

He must not stay there. His head was numb with the shock, but his mind worked frenziedly. What was happening to Mary? What would happen to himself? The great fear of the scalping-knife and of the tearing by cruel hands stung him more than did the pain now increasing. He squirmed to his knees, revolver cocked, and tried hard to see. Before his one eye the tipis swam vaguely. Was he here alone? Where were the other troopers? Was that light spot Mary? Was Cut Nose coming? Or did the big Indian lie huddled upon the trampled snow at the base of the tipi on the right, his outstretched fingers touching the little girl figure whose face was hidden in her arms!

Fast Ned crawled across, revolver ready. The big Indian did not stir; in one hand his bow was clutched splintered; under him the snow was reddening. Ned threw aside his wild-beast caution.

“Mary!” he called. “Get up. Quick.”

She raised her head, and stared, startled, blue eyes wide.

“Who are you?” she quavered.

“I’m Ned. I’m brother Ned. I’ll save you.”

“Oh, Ned!” she cried, scrambling to him. “You’re hurt! You’ve got an arrow sticking right in your head.”

Ned put up his hand, in haste to feel. His fingers met the feathered end of an arrow, jutting from his face. An excruciating pain sped through his head and down his back; and frightened, he fainted.

XVII

AFTER THE BATTLE