Part 6

Ned stared, his breath short. For a moment he expected that he had found his sister! Then a second look told him that this little girl was black haired and swarthy skinned, not at all touching the fairness of Mary. So he relaxed, disappointed.

“Aha!” quoth the general, “I see. We won’t hurt you, my girl. I guess she’s the more alarmed of the two. Where’s Guerrier? He ought to talk to her. Fetch Guerrier, Ned.”

Forth hustled Ned, and found Guerrier. When they came back, the doctor was bending over the little girl, and petting her, while she continued to roll her shy eyes, much alarmed, and would have hid her head in her robe.

“Deserted her, the cowardly ruffians,” denounced the general. “Ask her, Guerrier.”

Guerrier spoke to her in Cheyenne; she softly answered.

“Yes,” said Guerrier. “Left her. She half white. She sick, too.”

“I thought so,” murmured the doctor.

“Find Lieutenant Moylan, bugler,” ordered the general, quickly, to Ned. “Give him my compliments and tell him to call in the troop commanders and have the village thoroughly searched. Also tell him to dispatch a courier to General Hancock, informing him that the village is abandoned.”

Ned met Lieutenant Moylan just outside, and delivered the message. However, the search revealed no other occupants save the dogs, and an aged, crippled Sioux who had been unable to travel. In the moonlight or in the lodges was there no sign as to which direction the fugitives from the village had taken.

The courier reported back to General Custer that a detachment of infantry were being sent on, to occupy the village and hold it. Dr. Coates in the meantime had tenderly ministered to the needs of the sick little girl, and of the old man. There was nothing more for the Custer cavalry to do here. With a brief statement of facts to the commander of the infantry, marching in, leaving his troops to follow the general galloped away for the camp, Ned, orderly bugler, and Adjutant Moylan, following hard. But their horses were no match for Phil Sheridan; and, as usual, the general beat.

By the manner in which he rode, evidently he anticipated much work.

VII

SCOUTING WITH CUSTER

General Custer wasted no time. Neither did General Hancock. So within a very few minutes after the two generals were together at camp, plans were complete. When the troops of the Seventh came riding in at a trot their officers were met at once with the orders, from headquarters, to prepare their commands for the trail. The Indians were to be pursued, and this was cavalry work.

“Light marching order. One hundred rounds of ammunition to the man, but all other supplies cut down to the last necessary ounce,” were the instructions, as delivered by Adjutant Moylan.

So again was a bustle of preparation—filling of mess-chests, tightening of horse-shoes, rolling of blankets, all in the light of camp fire and moon. Before daybreak the Seventh Cavalry was ready: eight companies, the band, and a squad of the scouts led by Wild Bill and Fall Leaf.

The east was pink when General Custer, standing impatiently waiting for the light, beside Custis Lee (to whom he had changed), spoke shortly to Ned; and from the trumpet of the headquarters bugler pealed the bars of “Boots and Saddles.” Willingly enough the Seventh Cavalry men again formed lines, and mounted; for now they were rid of the “dough boys,” and would travel fast and far, to catch the pesky Indians.

A frost had whitened the ground, and had been marked by horse tracks, so that at the village were many trails. But the Delawares ranged hither-thither until, with a triumphant whoop, the youngest warrior of all announced that he had found the real trail.

The general’s sabre flashed in the beams of the rising sun.

“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!”

“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!” was repeated down the column the command. The Seventh Cavalry was off, on its first independent scout.

The fan-shaped line of the scouts, with Wild Bill and Fall Leaf to the fore, held the advance, that they might read the trail. After, came the cavalry, the general and his adjutant at its head, baggage wagons toward the rear, and a rear-guard of one troop behind. General Custer had again donned his buckskin hunting-coat, which was so comfortable for him, and which would indicate hard work ahead. He looked as he had when Ned had first seen him. And hard work ahead was the expectation, for the Indians had gained a good start.

At rapid walk of the horses rode they all. The trailing lodge-poles of the fleeing village made a trail plain to every eye. A feeling of satisfaction spread when, after a time, the scouts before started on at a gallop, with wave of rifle and flutter of blanket, for a little grove ahead. A faint curl of smoke could be sighted; and there was a glimpse of moving forms.

“Sound the trot,” promptly bade the general.

At Ned’s bugle signal, “Trot—march!” was repeated down the eager column. Away they spurred, ready to deploy into action. But after a brief pause, to reconnoiter, the scouts had proceeded boldly. When the column reached the place they found only the still burning fires where the Indians had halted for hasty breakfast, and several ponies, with packs, left tethered to the trees. And here was a strange Indian, strutting about arrayed in a panoply of bright crimson feathers, while the scouts looked on and laughed.

However, this was only the Delaware General Jackson, Fall Leaf’s nephew, who had arrived first at the grove and had made a capture of the ponies.

“Roman Nose!” he proclaimed. “Heap feather. Ugh!”

“One o’ these pony packs belonged to Roman Nose, the Delawares say,” explained Wild Bill, to General Custer. “That youngster’s as proud as if he’d captured the chief himself.”

There was nothing for which to stop here; and paying no more attention to the ponies or the breakfast camp, allowing the Delawares to do what they pleased with the packs, the Seventh Cavalry pressed on. Jackson rode exultant, his braids ornamented with the Roman Nose feathers.

“We’re out-trailing them,” asserted the general, to Lieutenant Moylan. “The only question is, can we overtake them before dark? We’ve got to do it.”

The baggage wagons were dropped behind, with a squadron of two troops to guard them. The three other squadrons traveled the faster, and ever the trail led northward, as for the Smoky Hill Fork, or the Platte beyond.

Noon had passed, but there was no halt for dinner. General Custer evidently was not a man to delay on the trail. Suddenly Ned realized that it was not a question alone of capturing the Indians; it was the bigger question of saving the settlers. From friendlies these Cheyennes and Sioux had threatened to become hostiles, and their trail bent straight not only for the Indian country to the north, but also for the stage routes, and the settlements of the Smoky Hill Fork, and the Republican, and the Saline, and all.

The afternoon waxed and waned, and still never a glimpse of the Indians was given. Presently the scouts in the advance slackened, hovered, and spread to right and left, nosing like hounds. They were at fault. Then was it seen that the trail suddenly had divided, out-flaring into a score of smaller trails, which again split into other trails yet smaller, as if the fleeing band had burst asunder.

This was the Indians’ favorite trick, when closely pursued. A murmur of vexation arose, while the column, halted, must sit and wait upon the decision of the scouts. The general and his adjutant, followed by Ned the bugler orderly, rode forward to inspect. Wild Bill joined them.

“They’re throwing us off, general,” he announced, calmly. “I reckon all we can do is to pick one of the middle trails and follow it and trust to luck. Fall Leaf has a trail that we might as well take.”

“Very well, sir,” agreed General Custer, brusquely. “We must do all that we can, before darkness cuts us short.”

“For-r-r’d—march!” On this trail out of the many rode the column; but must pause frequently, while the scouts searched right and left and before, as ever the sign lessened, like a stream at headwaters. At five o’clock it had been reduced to a mere thread, for the Indians who had made it had dropped off, one by one. Signal-smokes could be seen, welling up in east, west and north, as the scattered parties spoke one another. In the dusk must the Seventh Cavalry halt, to make camp, rest the horses, and wait for daylight. The Indians had not been headed, and hearts were heavy. Woe betide the Smoky Hill stage route, and the ranches of central Kansas.

The next day the trail was lost utterly in a dried water-course. Then by night march toward the north star was struck the Smoky Hill River. Beyond was the stage route. Colonel Robert West (who really ranked as captain, but was colonel because of his Civil War record) was sent forward with one company to find it. Then in the brightening gray the camp slept; officers and men sprawled out under their blankets. Ned never before had been so tired.

Dreaming, as he slept, of facing Pawnee Killer again and with leveled revolver frightening him into telling where little Mary was, up he popped, startled out of slumber and dream by a quick “Bang!” of carbine and the shrill hail by sentry: “Indians!” The corporal of the guard repeated it.

All the camp was in commotion. Orders issued thick and fast, from where the general was standing, with sabre buckled on and eyes flashing.

“Bring in those stray animals! Have those horses secured, major. One platoon of each company with the horses. The other platoons fall in. Sound the assembly, trumpeter.”

A heavy mist hung low along the horizon; but through it could be descried, dimly, almost a mile away, a group of moving horsemen. They seemed to be riding rapidly for the camp. Wild Bill had reported at once to headquarters, and peering through field-glasses, to him the general spoke.

“What do you think of them, Bill?”

“They’re up to mischief, I should think,” coolly replied Wild Bill, whose eyes were as good as the general’s glass. “Act as if they meant to ride us down.”

“Line of skirmishers ahead; main body in reserve,” murmured the general, studying them. “By Jove! They’re as well disciplined as regular troops! Let ’em come. All we want is a fair fight.” These words, “a fair fight,” were among General Custer’s favorites. “Form line of platoons, adjutant. Have the men take intervals, and lie down, enclosing the camp.”

Captain Robbins had been posted upon the knoll whence the sentry had given the alarm. From him came reports that the enemy seemed to number about eighty; presently he reported that the enemy had halted; and next, the enemy had turned and were making off.

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the general, in that brisk voice of his. “Confound them! I was hoping they’d try closer quarters. Look into this, Moylan. Send out a small detail, for a better view of those fellows. Not too far, remember.”

Gladly into the saddle sprang the young Captain Hamilton and Lieutenant Tom Custer, and leading their detail raced out at a gallop. The mists were breaking under the rising sun; and it could be seen that the detail were galloping on and on, right into the waiting company before.

“Hamilton must intend to settle the war,” quoth Adjutant Moylan.

However, here galloped back again the detail. Pulling up short, Captain Hamilton saluted the general.

“Colonel West’s company, sir, confused in the mist. They mistook our Sibley tents for Indian tipis, and were about to charge us.”

“Plucky enough!” commented the general. “But West won’t hear the last of this, for some time.”

When, toward evening, Colonel West returned, with his weary company, he reported that there was no hope. The Indians had struck the stage line, and raiding right and left had crossed it. Probably all the bands and tribes to the north would be aroused. This was war.

Now the wagons had rolled in. To the bugles the Seventh Cavalry grimly buckled on its sabres, and bridled and saddled.

“Prepare to mount! Mount!”

They mounted.

“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!”

Across the valley of the Smoky Hill they soberly jogged, their wagons lumbering in their rear, for the stage route, and the frightened stations. Presently they might turn east, upon the well-worn wagon-trail, to follow it to Fort Hays.

The first two stage stations were silent and abandoned. Along the route was not a sign of life. The advance of the fleeing Cheyennes and Sioux seemed to have swept the country clean. About the deserted appearance of the valley was something ominously quiet. But the third station was occupied.

A little cheer arose from it as the column rode in; and a group of stablemen and drivers stood out, to welcome. They were heavily armed, and log stables and station house, under their sod roofs, were tightly closed as if for a siege. At this point four stations had gathered in mutual protection.

“What’s the matter here?” demanded the general.

“Matter enough!” spoke one in the group. “Hello, Bill. The Injuns are out. They’ve crossed the line, goin’ north. Several parties of ’em, both Sioux an’ Cheyennes. Yes, sir. The lid’s off an’ the pot’s bubblin’. One party had women an’ children, but the bucks are in their war paint, an’ they’re raidin’ right an’ left. The stages have quit, till things simmer down agin, an’ the settlers ought to be warned.”

With parting word, and with grave face, issuing his crisp “For-r-r’d—march!” repeated by the bugles, the general pressed on.

On the second day they approached a station which, alas, presented a different aspect. From afar it showed, beside the trail, blackened and smoking and partially razed to the ground.

“Lookout Station,” informed Wild Bill.

“Bad work there,” quoth the general, abruptly, spurring Custis Lee.

The Delawares arrived first, to nose about, and to stand surveying.

“They’ve found something,” declared Wild Bill.

He, and the general, and Adjutant Moylan galloped forward; Ned plugged after; the column followed at a trot.

Bad work, indeed. Much of the buildings was in ashes, still smouldering. A portion of the heavy chinked log walls jutted up charred and ugly. The Delawares were clustered, at one side, on the plain, examining a mass difficult to determine, at a little distance. But a nearer view told. The litter once had been human beings.

“Scalped and burned,” said Wild Bill.

Nobody else spoke a word. He and the general and the lieutenant sombrely gazed. The doctor joined, horrified. The Delawares looked from face to face, and waited. Ned stared, and choked.

“The station gang, three of ’em,” announced Wild Bill. “Delawares say they were staked down, alive. You can guess the rest.”

“Are there any signs who did it—what Indians?” demanded General Custer, sternly.

Fall Leaf, who spoke English, shook his head.

“No arrow, no moccasin, nothin’,” he grunted. “Come quick; capture men; scalp, burn, go. Mebbe Cheyenne, mebbe Sioux. Make trail,” and he pointed northward.

There was nothing to do but to bury by the stage road the poor mangled fragments. And at dusk the command rode into Fort Hays, fifteen miles.

VIII

PAWNEE KILLER PLAYS TRICKS

Fort Hays was eighty miles west from Fort Harker, and Fort Harker was ninety miles west from Fort Riley; so that now Fort Riley was one hundred and seventy miles distant. Not much of a fort was Hays either, composed, like Harker, of quarters and stables built of logs roughly faced. It was located on the south side of the crooked Big Creek, which between high clay banks flowed down to the Smoky Hill Fork River, fifteen miles south. On the north side of the creek, and up stream a little way, was the new town of Hays City, waiting for the railroad.

Fort Hays was glad to see the column ride down, and pitch its tents nearby. Back from its first campaign was the Seventh Cavalry, and although it had not fired a shot, save the one by the picket, it had many tales to tell to the Fort Hays garrison.

Speedily up sprang like mushrooms the lines of dingy white army canvas. There was a great letter writing spell. Couriers were about to dash away with dispatches for General Hancock, and (what was of more importance) with word to Fort Riley. The general, as usual, had a regular journal to send. General Gibbs also hastened off; for in the accumulation of mail awaiting at Fort Hays were letters from Mrs. Custer and Mrs. Gibbs and other women left behind, stating that the negro infantry there had mutinied and were behaving badly. However, General Gibbs was the man to discipline them, and he really ought not to attempt field service, anyway.

Shortly after the Seventh had reared its tents, Scout Bill Cody came riding in, and dismounted at headquarters. The orderly ushered him into the tent, to see the general. When the general and Bill emerged together, the general beckoned to Ned.

“Mr. Cody has brought word, we think, of your sister. Cut Nose the Cheyenne chief is reported to be west of here, with a little white girl he has adopted. He took her with him into Monument Station, and calls her Silver Hair, the station men say.”

“Did they keep her, sir?” asked Ned, eagerly. Oh, what if——!

General Custer smiled only sadly, and shook his head.

“No, my boy. The station men could not do that.”

“Was your sister a small gal, not more than a child; right pretty, with flax hair?” demanded Scout Bill Cody, searching Ned out of wide steady eyes as piercing as Wild Bill’s themselves.

“Yes!” said Ned. “Her name is Mary. She’s eight years old.”

“Well,” remarked Scout Cody, preparing to mount his horse, “her name is Silver Hair now. Cut Nose has her. At least, he did have her. But she was being well treated, they say. He’d made a sort o’ pet of her, the old rascal. The station men tried to buy her from him; but he said no. I’ll keep on the lookout for her. Maybe we can get her.” And dignified of face, jaunty of poise, off rode Pony Bill Cody, on errand bound. Thereafter Ned saw him frequently. He seemed to rank with Wild Bill Hickok as an important figure at Fort Hays and Hays City.

“Then she’s gone again, is she?” faltered Ned, to the general. “Cut Nose still has her, has he, sir?”

“Very likely. Yes, he took her, my lad,” answered General Custer, gently. “But here,” he added, in abrupt fashion. “She’s being well treated, didn’t Cody say? She was dressed like an Indian princess. What do you think of that? That’s something for which to be thankful. Think of other captive girls and women—how they’ve suffered. And we’ll get her, if it requires all the Seventh Cavalry and the United States treasury. Brace up, boy.”

For Ned was crying.

In due time dispatches arrived from General Hancock, who was still on the Arkansas, trying to bring the principal chiefs in to council. When, at dress parade, Lieutenant Moylan as adjutant read to the assembled troops the announcements or orders of the day, “by direction of the commanding general” he included among them this special field order, issued from camp near the Arkansas:

II. As a punishment for the bad faith practised by the Cheyennes and Sioux who occupied the Indian village at this place, and as a chastisement for murders and depredations committed since the arrival of the command at this point, by the people of these tribes, the village recently occupied by them, which is now in our hands, will be utterly destroyed.

At that, delivered in Adjutant Moylan’s loud voice, from the troops arose a cheer.

“Well, ’tis war now, if ’twasn’t before,” declared Sergeant Henderson, that evening, within hearing of Ned.

“Why so, Pete?” asked one of the other soldiers.

“’Cordin’ to Wild Bill, that village had $150,000 worth of stuff in it; an’ d’ye suppose the Injuns’ll stand for the destruction of it all? Now they’ll claim we started the war, an’ we claim they started it, an’ what the end’ll be, nobody can say.”

“In my opinion,” said Sergeant Kennedy, “General Hancock ought never to have let that village-full get away from him. They played with him, and held him off, and then they gave him the slip.”

“You’re right,” agreed Henderson. “An’ now we’re up agin it, with the Injuns loose in three hundred miles square o’ territory, an’ we chasin’ ’em. An’ won’t there be a great howl, from the agents an’ the traders an’ the contractors, because the war is spoilin’ their business.”

“Those traders and contractors are responsible for much of this trouble, just the same,” asserted the lawyer “rooky” (who now was a veteran). “They do not deliver the agency goods in quality and quantity up to grade.”

“That’s true,” nodded Odell. “Yez ought to see some o’ the stuff that gets through to the Injuns. Shoddy cotton for wool; shirts ye can stick your finger through, an’ suits o’ clothes that won’t hang together while the Injun puts ’em on an’ that the Government pays the contractor thirteen dollars for!”

“Yes,” said Sergeant Henderson. “An’ the first thing the Injun does with the pants is to cut out the seat. What do they want o’ suits o’ clothes, anyway—one suit a year! An’ the government thinks to trade ’em this way for their lands an’ game an’ all that, an’ lets ’em get cheated into the bargain.”

“Huh!” grunted another member of the circle. “They don’t fare any worse’n us fellows. Did you notice that bread served out to us to-night? Talk about hard-tack! Cook says the boxes show it was baked in ’61—six years ago! Even a mule won’t eat it.”

“Sure,” answered Odell. “And didn’t wan o’ the boxes o’ salt beef opened at the commissary contain a big stone, to make it weigh more!”

General Hancock passed through back from the south. Then followed another event. This was the arrival of the great General Sherman, who was commander of the whole Military Division of the Missouri, whereas General Hancock was commander only of the Department of the Missouri, in it. Of course everybody knew of General William Tecumseh Sherman, the man who had “marched to the sea.” And with General Sherman came, in the same ambulance from Fort Harker, the end of the railroad, Mrs. Custer and Miss Diana!

General Sherman proved to be just like his picture, which Ned had seen several times: a tall spare man, slightly stooped, with high forehead, and long severe face, crisp full beard of russet color, and blue eyes. “Brass mounted,” some of the soldiers called him; and the veterans referred to him affectionately as “Old Bill.” When he smiled he was very pleasant.

The post and the camp turned out in a review to do him honor. However, the best sight, to Ned, was the way in which, when the ambulance stopped at the tent and Eliza’s black face peered out all agrin, with a whoop the general rushed up and swung the happy Mrs. Custer to him. How they chattered!

The general busied himself making Mrs. Custer and the rest of the household comfortable in special new tents, on Big Creek, nearer the fort. For the Seventh Cavalry was ordered out again. Two companies were left at Hays; the six others, 350 men and twenty wagons, marched forth, into the north.

Wild Bill remained behind to carry forward dispatches when some were ready. Young Bill Cody was held to serve as scout for other cavalry. But when the Seventh started Ned witnessed riding ahead as guide, another young man, of fair complexion and handsome features and easy seat. His name was Comstock—Will Comstock. Ah, yes; and a splendid young scout he was, too, equal to the best; could speak Sioux and Cheyenne and some Arapaho, and talk the sign language, and knew every trail and water course. See that revolver he wears? Pearl-handled and silver-mounted! One of the finest revolvers on the plains. He thinks a heap of it, too, does Will Comstock.

Thus by ears and by eyes did Ned learn the character of the new guide.