Part 5

“There’s Pawnee Killer!” exclaimed Ned, excited as he peered. “See him? The man with the yellow shield, on the spotted horse.”

General Custer heard the words, and reined back a moment.

“The scouts all say that he won’t tell you anything about your sister,” warned the general. “It’s very likely he doesn’t know. But we’ll find her. Maybe not this week, or next, but sometime; we’re on the right track to do so.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Ned, earnestly.

The chiefs’ party had turned and were riding along with the commanding officer’s staff; their painted ponies pranced nimbly; blankets and fringes shook in the breeze.

Night was falling, the march had covered twenty-one long miles, and the infantry soldiers were well weary. So within nine miles of the Indian village the column went into camp, upon the banks of the Pawnee Fork.

Not till then did Ned have opportunity to get near Pawnee Killer. He was not afraid of the chief, now; for did he not carry a six-shooter revolver and wear a sabre, and besides, was he not a soldier, in the uniform of the United States army? However, he felt sure that Pawnee Killer would recognize him. And at last, in the dusk, as Pawnee Killer, blanket wrapped, was stalking by, Ned hailed him, in Sioux, with a short:

“How, kola?” (Hello, friend?)

Pawnee Killer halted, glanced aside.

“How?” he said.

“You know me, Pawnee Killer?”

“No;” and Pawnee Killer would pass on.

“Wait. Where’s my sister?”

Pawnee Killer impatiently shook his head. Not a muscle of his dark face changed. How Ned hated him, at that moment: hated him, for the wrongs received—for memory of slain father and mother, and hard camp life of himself and his sister. He scarcely could keep his fingers off his revolver, could young Ned, standing there returning glare for glare.

“Heap fool. White boy heap fool,” grunted Pawnee Killer, contemptuously, and drawing closer about him his blanket, he stalked on. Ned sprang a step after him; then stopped short. He must not be hasty. He must wait. General Custer had promised him, and he, Ned, was only one victim among many. Yes, he would wait, and depend upon the general.

Before taps it was understood throughout the camp (for gossip traveled fast, especially when California Joe was about to carry news among the fires) that Pawnee Killer and White Horse were to spend the night as guests of General Hancock; and that in the morning all the chiefs of the village should assemble in the camp for the council. Therefore early in the morning—but not until after he had heartily breakfasted—Pawnee Killer rode out, to bring, he said, the other chiefs.

The camp waited.

Nine o’clock, or when the sun was three hours high, was the hour set for the council. Nine o’clock came and passed, but Pawnee Killer and the other chiefs did not come. Then it was that a new chief arrived, riding briskly in from the direction of the village. Bull Bear was his name, according to California Joe; a Cheyenne.

Met by Wild Bill, he was conducted straight to General Hancock’s headquarters, and another of the many talks was held. California Joe, loafing near the Custer tent, where stood on duty Ned the orderly bugler of the Seventh Cavalry, laughed in his shaggy whiskers.

“Those thar Injuns never mean to meet the soldiers in ary council whatsomever,” he asserted. “Fust thing we know, they’ll all be gone, skedaddled. An’ I’ll bet my ol’ mule agin a pound o’ baccy that the women an’ children are leavin’ already. If we want to ketch that village, we got to get thar mighty quick.”

Evidently this was General Hancock’s opinion. He had been trifled with long enough. Bull Bear, with a stolid but well-fed expression, rode away as had Pawnee Killer and other chiefs. And presently General Custer, striding quickly back from the conference, bade, in satisfied tone, to Adjutant Moylan: “We’re off. Strike the tents.”

The infantry bugles were ringing the “General,” and Ned hastened to join for the cavalry. Down came the tents. And with “Boots and Saddles” and “To Horse” the Seventh Cavalry was prepared for the march or for battle.

Again the expedition was put in motion, and went clanking and creaking and rumbling across country, ascending along the Pawnee Fork as if this time bound right through to the village.

Now the formation indicated that General Hancock, likewise, was prepared for peace or war. The infantry took the advance, with the artillery and engineers close behind, the river protecting the left flank, and the cavalry protecting the right. The scouts rode ahead, for they were the eyes of the column. And well did the doughty General Hancock use caution; when only a few miles had been covered, back came galloping Wild Bill, with hand high, as signal to halt. At the same moment, almost, rounding a turn in the route the heads of the columns emerged into a wondrous, startling sight.

The vista opened out, with never a tree or a shrub to break it, until it was cut sharp by a motionless battle-line. There they sat, upon their ponies, bay, black, white, and spotted—half a thousand Indian warriors, all panoplied for fight. Shields shone white, yellow, and red; lances floated crimson tufts; great war-bonnets of feather crests brightly tinted almost covered the riders; war-paint streaked face and body and pony; and the glitter of rifle and revolver showed that the array was armed like the white men.

Midway between the two parties were the scouts, in extended order. The Delawares had dropped their blankets from their shoulders and naked to the waist they sat alert and restless, eager to fight. Fall Leaf held aloft his rifle and shook it tauntingly.

Up and down the line of mounted warriors were riding the war chiefs gesturing and talking, as if keeping their men in order. But General Hancock had not been idle. Instantly his aides had spurred to right and to left, bearing his commands. The infantry and artillery bugles pealed shrill; and on came the aide to instruct the cavalry. Pulling his yellow moustache, General Custer waited impatiently.

Arriving, the aide (he was a young lieutenant) reined his horse to its haunches, and saluted.

“The commanding general sends his compliments, sir, and directs that the cavalry form line of battle on the right.”

“Troops right front into line. Two troops in reserve,” spoke the general, instantly, to his adjutant, Lieutenant Moylan; and he nodded at Ned to blow the call. His blue eyes were flaming; he looked happy. Away spurred Lieutenant Moylan, down the column of fours, bearing the orders. Bugle after bugle took up the strain. Out to right trotted the fours, extending the cavalry front, by troop after troop, until six were on the line. Two composed a second line, as a reserve.

The infantry also had double-quicked into company front, and company after company had come upon the battle line. Into the center had wheeled at a gallop the artillery, and had unlimbered.

“Companies—load!”

With rattle and thud the long Springfield breech-loaders remodeled from the muzzle-loaders of the Civil War came to a “load,” and prepared for the “aim, fire.”

“Draw—sabres!” The general’s voice rang high.

With rasp of steel six hundred sabres flashed in the morning sun.

VI

THE ABANDONED INDIAN VILLAGE

Recalled by one of the aides, the scouts had slowly ridden back, the Delawares especially being reluctant to leave the fore. As they passed, General Custer called out, to Wild Bill:

“Is it a fight, Bill?”

“Looks peculiar,” answered Wild Bill, jogging on. He was not a man of many words. But California Joe neglected no opportunity to talk, and obligingly pausing, in front of the cavalry, from his mule he took up the conversation.

“If we do fight it’s goin’ to be the gol-durndest fracas ever you got into. Those Injuns seem to think they can whip the hull Yewnited States army. An Injun’ll beat a white man runnin’, every time, so I ’spect our best holt is fittin’; but marcy on us, look at ’em! Thar ain’t ’nough of us to go half round. It’s a big thing, I tell ’ee, an’ if we lick those varmints we got to get up an’ dust. Mebbe it won’t be fittin’; mebbe it’ll be jest wipin’ ’em out. But they got a powerful lot o’ weepons, furnished ’em by the Injun department to kill soldiers with. See those rifles, will ye? They’ll outshoot these hyar sawed-off carbines o’ yourn. Well, reckon I’ll jine the infantry,” and still maundering on California Joe leisurely rode through an interval, and posted himself elsewhere. His voice, amiably addressing all around him, never ceased; but nobody longer paid attention to him. The crisis was too acute, when two such lines, of the red and of the white, in battle array faced one another.

The plains back of the Indians’ line was dotted with more Indians, in bunches, like reserves, and in little squads, as if for courier duty. The chiefs had faced about, watchful of the soldiers’ line; and for a moment intense silence reigned. Each line eyed the other, waiting for the first movement.

General Hancock, accompanied by Guerrier the interpreter, and Wild Bill the chief of scouts, and by several officers of his staff, boldly rode forward, halting when midway. Guerrier called with a loud voice, in Cheyenne, and made sign, for a conference. Thereupon out from the ranks of the Indians rode a party of chiefs, holding aloft, on a lance butt, a white rag. At a signal from General Hancock, and the start of an aide, General Custer advanced to take part in the interview.

California Joe, poking forward again, coolly took his place before the cavalry line, and proceeded to talk, as usual.

“Now thar’ll be more palaver,” he announced, to all hearers, “an’ meanwhile the village is packin’ up an’ skadoodlin’. Know those ’er chiefs? The big feller with the flag o’ truce is Roman Nose, Cheyenne—an’ he ain’t no slouch, boys, either. T’others o’ the Cheyennes are Bull Bear, White Horse, Gray Beard an’ Medicine Wolf; rest are Sioux, bein’ that rascal Pawnee Killer, Bad Wound, Left Hand, Little Bear, Little Bull, an’ Tall Bear That Walks Under the Ground. Shakin’ hands, are they? Wall, reckon we don’t fight to-day. Mebbe next time. Guess I’ll go see. Giddap!” And away cantered California Joe, backward in nothing, to overhear the conference.

The talk appeared to be satisfactory, for presently the chiefs returned to their line, and the staff officers dispersed upon various errands. General Custer rejoined his command. The Indian line had wheeled about, and was riding away in a jostling, disorderly mass. The first orders issued up and down the battle front of the whites indicated that the march was to be resumed.

Now in column again, the expedition followed the warriors.

General Hancock seemed tired of the delays. No halt was made, little was said (except by California Joe, who ambled along as he pleased, discoursing right and left, and to himself); the scouts, in compact body, and the general and staff, led; the troops plodded behind; and at last, toward sunset, in a curve of the stream, before, appeared the crossed poles of many white lodges, welling evening smoke.

“Thar’s yore village,” yelled California Joe, to the cavalry which he evidently had adopted. “Three hundred lodges, half Cheyenne, half Sioux. Fine place, too, ain’t it? Plenty wood an’ water an’ grass, an’ those thar bluffs on north an’ west to fend off the wind. Trust an Injun to make a good camp.”

An aide came galloping to General Custer.

“The compliments of the commanding general, sir, and he directs that the cavalry go into camp on the right, half a mile before reaching the village. Guards will be posted to prevent any communication between the soldiers and the village. It is the general’s desire that the Indians shall not be annoyed by visitors.”

“Huh!” grunted California Joe. “Now, if that ain’t the most _con_-siderate gen’ral I ever see. Mustn’t annoy the pore Injun, hey? Wall, I’ll be horn-swoggled!”

Little occurred, in camp, during the evening, except that Roman Nose (who indeed was a fine-looking Indian, tall and powerful, broad-chested, and beak-nosed), Grey Bear and Medicine Wolf of the Cheyennes came in, and soon two of them left, mounted on cavalry horses. From the conversation between the general and Lieutenant Moylan, Ned learned that the squaws and children had run from the village, because they feared so many white soldiers; or, at least, thus had claimed the chiefs; and now two of the chiefs had been sent to overtake them and bring them back.

The night settled crisp and dark, with the moon hidden by drifting clouds. Not a sound issued from the direction of the Indian village, where dimly gleamed the white skin lodges of the Cheyennes and the Sioux. Ned blew “Tattoo,” and “Taps” for lights out; and the cavalry camp as well as the infantry and artillery camp, went to bed. General Custer’s tent had been pitched by itself, near to General Hancock’s. The little “pup” tent of Ned was beside the tent of the adjutant, Lieutenant Moylan. And all was still.

Ned had been sound asleep, in his blankets, when suddenly he was wakened by a voice, speaking low but distinct.

“Moylan! Moylan! Oh, Moylan!”

“What is it?” and Lieutenant Moylan stirred.

“It’s I—Custer. Open up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lieutenant Moylan hastily arose, and fumbled at the flaps, untying them. Ned peered out, the dim figure of General Custer was just visible.

“Don’t make a light,” he said. “The regiment is ordered to move out, at once. Guerrier has come in from the village and reports all the warriors saddling to leave in a hurry. The general wants us to surround the village and nip that movement in the bud. The best way will be for us to notify the company commanders, one at a time, and they can tell the first sergeants. You take one battalion and I’ll take the other. Fletcher will follow me. No noise, mind. Have the men saddle up and fall in without bugle signals or any other signals, if possible. Sabres held to prevent clanking.”

The general was not kept waiting long, where he stood by the tent flaps; speedily Lieutenant Moylan was treading with silent, hasty foot, in the one direction, and Ned was following his leader in the other.

Amidst the serried canvases occurred a resurrection as the captains sought the first sergeants, and the first sergeants passed rapidly from tent to tent, whispering through to the men. With astonishingly little confusion or noise the horses were saddled, the companies were mounted, and all was ready.

A slight bustle from the remainder of the camp indicated that the infantry and artillery also had been awakened and were being put under arms.

This was exciting; and as off they rode, at a walk, in long column, through the still night, Ned, behind the general and Adjutant Moylan and Guerrier the interpreter, thrilled with it. They were going to surround the Indian village; and there might be a fight.

Every sabre was tucked between leg and saddle-flap, so that it would not clink. All in silence proceeded the shadowy column. Orders were given in a whisper, and by whisper passed from troop to troop. The moon was almost full, but luckily the clouds concealed it constantly. In the distance before flickered the red light of a camp fire, at the village; it was made the guide.

The column swung in an oblique change of direction, to strike the village from above. This was a good move, for if the Indians tried to escape, they would be forced to run right into the infantry, at the camp.

“Do you think they suspect we’re coming, Guerrier?” in low tone asked the general.

“I do not think so,” answered Guerrier.

“We’ll have to watch sharp for an ambuscade, Moylan,” prompted the general. “Our visit may not please the red gentlemen.”

Now the column was near. The moon peeped out between clouds, and then could be seen the glimmer of the white buffalo-hide lodges amidst the grove of willows and cottonwoods by the river.

“Have each rear troop deploy, in succession, as skirmishers, forming a continuous line facing inward, around the village,” ordered the general, to the adjutant. “But quietly, remember.” And back rode Lieutenant Moylan, carrying the instructions.

Skillfully the great circle was formed; for when, suddenly, out from the clouds burst the moon, shining like a light-house on an island of the sky, it revealed the cavalrymen sitting motionless on their motionless horses, in a great fringe; and in the center was the ghostly village. Just a little breeze sighed softly through the cottonwoods, while the stream flowing through grove and village murmured music.

A horseman rode from down the line. It was the regimental surgeon, Dr. Coates—a jolly man, always eager for adventure.

“By thunder! Believe they’re all asleep yet,” he whispered, excited.

“What do you think, Guerrier?” queried the general, ill at ease.

“Can’t tell. Maybe,” answered the half-breed, peering from his pony.

“Well, we can go in and see. I’d like to know whether we’ve captured a deserted village, after all.”

“Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,” quoted the doctor, who was given to saying such things.

“Nothing very sweet about an Indian village, doctor,” retorted the general. “I’ll just take you along, to prove it. Tell the officers to have their troops wait at a ready, Moylan, while we take a nearer look. Come back at once. I want you with me.”

The adjutant quickly started the word down the circle, and returned.

“We’d better all go in,” bade the general, dismounting. “The bugler, too. I may need him. Leave your horses here.”

Quickly Ned swung from Buckie. Quickly swung from their horses also the doctor, and the lieutenant, and Guerrier the interpreter. They left the animals in charge of an orderly, and trudged forward afoot.

The general and Guerrier led. The moonlight made walking easy, and staring hard at the tents, step by step they advanced, across the open space separating the cavalry circle from the village in the middle. Nothing happened. As before, silence, broken only by the slight breeze and the tinkling water, reigned.

Guerrier called out loudly, in Cheyenne. Instantly a dog barked, and another, and another, until a furious angry chorus rent the quiet moonlight.

“Many dogs,” he said. “So I think they still there. Dogs would go, too.”

“Call again.”

He did so. The doctor had nervously drawn his revolver.

“Then why don’t they answer?”

“Guess they wait, in the trees; and when we get nearer, maybe they shoot. No like this.”

“That’s a comforting idea,” blurted the general. “But we’ve gone too far to back out with honor now. Let’s investigate those first lodges.”

He drew his revolver. Lieutenant Moylan drew his, and Ned imitated. The butt of the heavy Colt’s six-shooter felt good to his hand. Once more they stole forward, this time more cautiously. Ned’s heart beat with a thumpity-thumpity; but he was not afraid, where the general led.

The general dropped to hands and knees, as example to the others, and thus crept to the nearest of the little bunch of lodges. Occasionally he stopped, and listened; and then stopped and listened all, holding their breaths. Still from the trees sped no arrow, belched no sudden shot, pealed no shrill, exultant voice; and from the lodges issued not a sound.

“I believe every soul has fled,” spoke the general, more in ordinary tone, and somewhat as if relieved. He arose to stooping posture. Guerrier advanced quickly to the first of the lodges, pulled aside the mat that closed the entrance, and stepped within. One after another they followed. The lodge was empty of inmate.

The familiar odor of Indian—of smoked skins and kinnikinnick or the leaf and tobacco mixture used by the Indian in pipes, of dogs and of grease, smote Ned’s nostrils. Yes, he had been saturated with it, himself, in his days of captivity. A fire was still burning low in the center of the lodge, shedding a faint light, so that they could see about them. And gaze about them they did, the doctor the most curiously of all. Things had been left as if the owners had just stepped out. Soft buffalo robes covered the ground; the robe beds were in place, with the head rolls for pillows; the parfleches or boxes of hard bull-hide were carefully stowed away along the edges of the tent, as customary, and they were full of Indian handiwork. Paint-bags, hide ropes, moccasins—everything was there, awaiting use. And over the smouldering fire was hanging a kettle, which gently simmered with a steam that smelled extremely good.

This attracted the inquisitive doctor’s nose and eye, and he proceeded to investigate.

“Great Scott!” he said. “What is it—soup? Where’s a ladle, or spoon, or something? Here; I’ve found one. You fellows dragged me out without any lunch. I’m hungry. Wait. I’ve always wanted to try Indian cooking. It ought to be first class.” He probed about in the kettle, and with his horn spoon extracted a chunk the size of his fist. “What do you suppose this is,” he queried, holding it up and turning it about. “Um-m! Delicious smell.”

“Taste it,” bade the general.

“I will.” And the doctor did. He smacked his lips. “Excellent! Excellent!” he exclaimed, and munched it down with great satisfaction. “Must be buffalo, cooked by a new process.”

“Here’s Guerrier,” spoke the lieutenant. “He’ll know.”

Guerrier had vanished, on further tour of inspection; now he re-entered.

“What’s this meat, Guerrier?” asked the doctor, eagerly. “Try it. Take my spoon.”

Guerrier willingly enough plunged the spoon into the kettle, and hooked a piece the largest yet. He set his teeth into it.

“Why, it’s dog, of course,” he informed, eating away.

“Dog!” gasped the doctor. “Thunder and Mars! Ugh! Why didn’t somebody say so?” And out he rushed.

Ned had suspected the same, but he had not been asked. Now chuckled and swayed the general and the lieutenant, smothering their glee.

“Let’s look further,” quoth the general. “There may be other surprises. Any sign of the Indians about, Guerrier?”

“No. Village deserted,” answered Guerrier.

They emerged from the lodge, into the moonlight, and rummaged here and there. Guerrier disappeared again.

“In my opinion,” remarked the general, “that half-breed knew of this all along. He was supposed to report to headquarters the first token that the village was being abandoned. Instead, he waited, to let the Indians clear out, then he reported. You know, his wife was in the village; and so he wanted to make her safe.”

“Humph!” grunted the doctor and the lieutenant.

The general went poking about; so did the others. One lodge did not have any fire; its interior was dark, when the general stuck his head in; and picking up a splinter of wood he lighted it, for a torch. Then in he boldly went—only to call back, handing the splinter forth again.

“Light this, will you, doctor? It blew out on me.”

The doctor hastened away, to light the splinter at a lodge fire, and Ned waited for him. The general must have been moving in the dark, inside, for Ned heard a quick exclamation from him, and he thought that next he caught a strange voice, addressing the general in Indian. It was a low, quavering voice; and he was not certain. He clutched his revolver, listening, poised for action. Nothing more was said beyond the lodge doorway; but the doctor seemed gone a very long time. At last here he came, bearing the light.

“Is that you, doctor?” spoke the general, quickly. “Watch sharp, when you enter, and be ready for trouble. Cock your revolver. There’s an Indian in this place. I stepped on him, and I hear him.”

Through the doorway burst the doughty doctor, torch in one hand, cocked revolver in the other. After him pressed Ned, revolver thrust forward, eyes wide, heart thumping, but resolved, he, to play the man.

The general was standing at the far side, his hunting-knife bared—for in the dark his revolver would have been of little use. And there, between him and the door, was the Indian—but perhaps not an Indian. It was a little girl, lying wrapped in buffalo robe, on the floor.