Part 11

“Well, to continue--to show you a curious phase of bicycling--my advance ran a picket farther along the road and were fired on, but, bless me, they had gone through so quickly and silently that they were not hurt, and the sergeant, who was very wise, dismounted and blew his whistle for us to advance. Bidewell dismounted and immediately advanced, and the picket, hearing his men smashing brush, retreated, and the sergeant turned a pistol loose in their faces and bellowed for them to go out in the road, throw up their hands, and surrender, which they did. You see, Colonel Ladigo, it is very hard to estimate bike forces in the night, they go so silently--they simply flit; and when you first notice them you wonder how many have gone before. A sleepy picket is waked up by a lot of bellowing and shots and smashing of brush, and he doesn’t know anything, especially if the row is half in his rear. Well, the shooting must have aroused the village of Emmittstowne, and I made up my mind to run right into the town. The moon was rising, and we could see fairly well; but first I tried a little ruse with the captured picket. We advanced down the road a piece, and the men ensconced themselves in the brush, while one of the captured men stood in the middle of the road. We heard quite a party coming up the road rapidly, and the picket called out to them that it was nothing--that they had fired at some shadows, and that they might go back. Two men actually advanced to him, but he insisted that all was right, and that they might return; in fact, he protested too much, since he knew that he was lying for his life, and that the date of his demise was fixed at the instant he told the truth. We gave the town half an hour to settle down, and then started on a down grade--coasting silently. All was still. There were lights in a few saloons, and a half-dozen men, who were immediately held up and disarmed. There was evidence of a great many people in the village, since wagons and horses stood about, and tents and huts were everywhere except on the main street. I stopped in front of the hotel, and, do you know, my column got three-quarters of the way through the town before we were discovered. My column is three-quarters of a mile long, you must remember, and that was very fortunate. Some one fired a shot from a darkened window of the hotel, and I ordered my men to use their revolvers. A man can shoot a revolver with great accuracy from a wheel, as it glides so smoothly. Well, there was a deuce of a popping, and it must have fairly riddled the town. The fire was shortly returned, but in a desultory way which did not seem to do any damage, and shortly the tail of the column passed down the street. I had set the hotel on fire before we left, and I really do not think that those fellows know what really happened there yet. I immediately cut the telegraph line, and now had nothing to interfere with my march to North Colville. I had two bikes ruined by shots, and abandoned the riders; but they made their way to our lines later. As we proceeded the country grew more flat, and we made the pedals spin; at times we overtook night prowlers--tramps, for the most part--and one rather large party of drunken insurgents, all of whom we disarmed and left tied to trees and fences along the road. Do you know, Ladigo, that one cannot hear my whole regiment on a road until it is right on top of you. I have frequently seen men ride a bicycle right up beside a man, who never heard a word until ordered to throw up his hands.”

“Oh yes, Pedal, I’d like to catch your outfit at the foot of a long hill; I would fire yellow-legs into you in a way you would despise,” interpolated the impetuous cavalryman, as he blew smoke at the ridge-pole and slapped his one leg over the other in a satisfied way.

“Yes, you might, Ladigo; but I’m going to spend my life trying not to let you catch me at the foot of a long hill, and if you do, you will find about one hundred bicycles piled up in the road, and it makes bad travelling for horses, especially with unshaken infantry pointing at you from behind. Well, in this case, Ladigo, I did not have any of your enterprising yellow-legs to bother me. As I was saying, we went along swimmingly until we struck Cat-tail Creek, and found the bridge burned. It was rather chilly, but I knew there was no help for it, so we got out our air-cushions and did our little swimming drill right there.”

“What are your air-cushions?” inquired the medical officer with the long pipe.

“They are made of rubber, and blow up, and will sustain five equipments, and weigh fourteen pounds. Every five men have one,” explained Pedal.

“Oh, I see--a quaint scheme!”

“Yes; bikes are perfectly mobile,” continued Pedal, with satisfaction. “As I was saying--oh yes, we got over the river all right, but--” and here he glanced apprehensively at Ladigo--“but I forgot to mention that we lost fifteen bicycles in the passage.”

“Ha-ha! oh yes--there are your dismounted men,” and Colonel Ladigo beamed.

“I think horses would have stuck in the mud of Cattail Creek, Ladigo; fact is, horses are not perfectly mobile. I also neglected to mention that the bicycles were all fished up and joined us later. We halted on a hill off the road an hour before gray dawn, to wait for the command to close up and to eat. There are always bikes which break down, and it takes a little time to repair them; and men will fall and injure themselves more or less. But within an hour I had my command all up except five men, having marched nearly seventy miles in eleven hours, had one engagement, crossed a river. And now, Colonel Ladigo, was that not good work?”

“Oh yes, Pedal, quite good--quite good; could do it myself, though,” and the soul of a cavalryman was bound to assert itself.

“Undoubtedly you could, but not next day.” And Pedal lit a cigar, conscious that he had Ladigo downed, but not finally suppressed.

“My men down the road took in a cavalry patrol without a shot--actually took in a cavalry--”

“Hump--hump!” snorted Ladigo; “cavalry forsooth--a lot of d---- jays on plough-teams; cavalry, sir--”

“Here--here, Ladigo, come down,” expostulated the assembled officers, and Ladigo relapsed.

“Well, after a reconnoissance and information from the patrol, I found that there were over five thousand men rendezvoused there, partly organized, and armed with all sorts of guns. Old Middle was in command--you remember Middle, formerly of the Twenty-seventh Infantry, cashiered at Fort Verde in ’82.”

He was known to the men present, and a few sniffs and the remark that “he was bad medicine” was all that greeted the memory of Middle.

“From the patrol I found where their camps and lines and outworks to cover the roads were, and also that it was but a quarter of a mile across a wood-lot to the road which I had intended to retire by, which ran southeast towards Spearfish and Hallam Junction, so I trundled my bikes over to it, and laid them in a column formation off the road, and left them under guard. I formed my command and turned some fellows out of some rifle-pits, which were designed to protect the road, and it was growing light. We charged into the town, which had been alarmed by our fire directed at the men in the pits. The first thing we struck was a long line of temporary camps, of what was probably a regiment, which was on the other side of a railroad embankment; but they were in a panic and offered us no resistance, while we advanced, rapidly firing, and nearly destroyed them. As we entered the town I took one battalion and directed it against the car-shops, which were full of stores and troops: these men we also nearly destroyed; and, having set fire to the shops, I entered the main part of the town, and as we advanced I had it also fired. From my right I heard heavy firing, and knew that the other command had encountered opposition; and turning to my right I struck a second railroad embankment, swarming behind with men who were standing off the advance of the other battalion. I enfiladed them, and they retired precipitously. From the net-work of railroad embankments farther up the flats north of Colville I could see masses of men forming. They began firing at me from a great distance, but we were protected by the railroad fill and did not mind it; while our sharpshooters, with their arms of longer range, annoyed the enemy quite a little, and kept up his demoralization. A great many men had gotten away from the town when I had attacked the car-shops, and I was in fear lest they might form in my rear under the cover of the burning town, so I had my wounded removed rapidly to the hill where my bikes were left, and then retreated rapidly under the cover of the smoke. The enemy were left so completely in the air that they advanced slowly, while from the cover of the brush on the upper edge of a field I held them in play for an hour while my wounded got a good start. At last they seemed to form, and approached to my right, going around the smoke of the burning town, and as they outnumbered me four to one, they would speedily have outflanked me. I began the retreat as I had intended. I had thirty-eight badly wounded men who had to be carried in blankets, fifty-six slightly wounded who would be trundled on bicycles, and had left eighteen dead on the field.”

“I say, colonel, how do you remove wounded men on bicycles?” asked some one.

“It is simple when you see it, but rather difficult to explain. If you will come down some day I will be glad to show you a wounded drill, and then you can see for yourself. By cutting sticks and tying a blanket or shelter-tent a desperately wounded man can be laid prone between two bicycles, or if slightly hurt he can be trundled or even ridden double with a comrade, while one man can move two and even three bicycles. Oh, I tell you, the bike is a great contrivance once you come to understand it,” proceeded the Colonel of Cycle Infantry.

“I should like to have fought those fellows a little harder, but I was sixty miles inside of their lines, and I knew that to prolong the affair would mean that they would be heavily reinforced, and besides this was my first expedition. I had already destroyed the bigger half of the enemy and burned the town, and I did not apprehend a vigorous pursuit. What to do with my wounded was now on my mind. The country to the east of North Colville is very broken, wild, and sparsely inhabited. It had become necessary to abandon my wounded. I selected a point over twelve miles from our battle-ground, far back from the unfrequented road, in a very wild spot in the hills, and left every man not able to travel there, with all our rations and two medical officers, with ten men as a detail for the camp. My trail of course continued, and they were never suspected. Coming to the valley of the Spearfish I halted and slept my command until sundown, and then started for our lines. On the way I rode into and demoralized a half-dozen bands of armed insurgents, and struck our lines at five o’clock in the morning.”

“What became of your wounded up there, colonel?” asked the medical officer with the long pipe.

“The evening following Captain Barhandle with fifty men started and made a successful march to their relief, and left two more medical officers and a lot of medical stores and rations, and came back three days after. The camp was never discovered, and was relieved when the general here made his first expedition into Wood County. They had protected themselves from prowlers by waylaying the roads, and had a dozen prisoners in camp, together with a half-dozen milch cows. My bike men are excellent foragers, since they have been so much on outpost duty.”

“Suppose, Colonel Pedal, you were forced to abandon your bicycles, what would you do?”

“We had a detachment on a scout the other day who were pressed into some bad country and had to abandon their machines, which they did by sinking them in Dead Creek, and the next day we went out and recovered them. If it is desired to utterly destroy them, it can be done in an instant by stepping on the wheel and ‘buckling’ it, or if you remove the chain, it is useless to any one but yourself,” explained the colonel.

“Now, colonel, do you consider that you can move your men successfully in a hilly or mountainous country?” inquired Ladigo.

“In all candor, no--not to a good advantage. I can march uphill as fast as infantry, and go down at limited-express speed; but I really want a rather flat country with lots of roads. I am not particular as to the quality of the roads, so there are enough of them. I can move through snow which has been tracked down by teams; I can fly on the ice; and when it is muddy there is always an inch or so beside the road which is not muddy, and that is enough for me. A favorable place for a bicycle is along a railroad track--going in the centre or at one side. When suddenly attacked, my men can get out of the road like a covey of quail, and a bicycle can be trundled across the worst possible country as fast as a man can travel, for you see all the weight of the man’s gun and pack are on the wheel, which runs without any appreciable resistance, and all bike men know how to throw a bicycle over a fence with ease, and my average march is eighty miles a day. Ladigo, remember--eighty miles a day. No kind of roads, no conditions of weather, or anything but superior force can stop my command for an instant, sir;” and the colonel of cavalry rose and added, “Colonel Pedal, will you have a drink with me?”

A MERRY CHRISTMAS IN A SIBLEY TEPEE

“Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.” Not a good excuse, but it has been sufficient on many occasions to be true. The soldier on campaign passes life easily. He holds it in no strong grip, and the Merry Christmas evening is as liable to be spent in the saddle in fierce contact with the blizzard as in his cosey tepee with his comrades and his scant cheer. The jug containing the spirits of the occasion may have been gotten from a town fifty miles away on the railroad. It is certainly not the distillation of the summer sunlight, and is probably “tough” enough stuff to mingle naturally with its surroundings; but if one “drinks no more than a sponge” he may not have the jaded, retrospective feeling and the moral mending on the day to come. To sit on a camp chest, and to try and forget that the soldier’s quart cup is not filled with best in the market, and then to enter into the full appreciation of the picturesque occasion, is to forget that long marches, “bull meat,” and sleepless, freezing nights are in the background. Pleasant hours sit so nicely in their complemental surrounding of hard ones, since everything in the world is relative. As to the eating in a cavalry camp on campaign, it is not overdone, for beans and coffee and bacon and bacon and coffee and beans come round with sufficient regularity to forestall all gormandizing. The drinking is not the prominent feature either, but helps to soften the asperities of a Dakota blizzard which is raging on the other side of the “ducking.”

The Sibley tent weaves and moans and tugs frantically at its pegs. The Sibley stove sighs like a furnace while the cruel wind seeks out the holes and crevices. The soldiers sit in their camp drawing-room buttoned up to the chin in their big canvas overcoats, and the muskrat caps are not removed. The freemasonry of the army makes strong friendships, and soldiers are all good fellows, that being a part of their business. There are just enough exceptions to prove the rule. The cold, bloodless, compound-interest snarler is not in the army, and if he were he would be as cheerless on a damp evening as he would in a fight. One man is from Arizona, another from Washington, and the rest from the other corners of Uncle Sam’s tract of land. They have met before, and memory after memory comes up with its laughter and pathos of the old campaigns. One by one the “shoulder-straps” crawl in through the hole in the tepee. And, mind you, they do not walk in like a stage hero, with dash and abandon and head in the air; they prostrate themselves like a Turk at prayer, and come crawling. If they raise the flap ever so much, and bring company of the Dakota winds, they are met with a howl of protests. After gaining erectness, they brush the snow from their clothes, borrow a tin cup, and say, “How! how!”

The chief of scouts buttons up to his eyes, and must go look after his “Inguns”; the officer of the day comes in to make his papers, and if he keeps the flying jokes out of his statistics, he does well enough. The second lieutenant, fresh from West Point, doesn’t hesitate to address the grizzled colonel of twenty campaigns--nay, he may even deign to advise him on the art of war; but that is unsatisfactory--the advising of colonels--because the colonel’s advice to the sub has always to be acted upon, whereas the sub’s advice to the colonel is mostly nullified by the great powers of discretion which are vested in the superior rank. The life-study of a sub should be to appear like the cuckoo-bird in a German clock--at the proper moment; and when he appears at wrong intervals, he is repaired. Colonels are terrible creatures, with vast powers for promoting happiness or inflicting misery. If he will lend the moderating influence of his presence, it is well; but if he sends his man around to “present his compliments, and say that the d---- row will immediately cease,” his wishes if not his personality are generally respected.

It is never a late evening, such a one as this; it’s just a few stolen moments from the “demnition grind.” The last arrival may be a youngster just in from patrol, who explains that he just “cut the trail of forty or fifty Sioux five miles below, on the crossing of the White River;” and you may hear the bugle, and the bugle may blow quick and often, and if the bugle does mingle its notes with the howling of the blizzard, you will discover that the occasion is not one of merriment. But let us hope that it will not blow.

The toasts go around, and you use your tobacco in a miserly way, because you can’t get any more, since only to-day you have offered a dollar for a small plug to a trooper, and he had refused to negotiate, although he had pared off a small piece as a gift, and intimated that generosity could go no further. Then you go to your tepee, half a mile down the creek at the scout camp, and you stumble through the snow-laden willows and face the cutting blast, while the clash and “Halt!” of the sentinel stop you here and there. You pull off your boots and crawl into your blankets quickly before the infernal Sibley stove gives its sigh as the last departing spark goes up the chimney, and leaves the winds and drifting snows to bellow and scream over the wild wastes.

BEAR-CHASING IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

Mr. Montague Stevens is an Englishman who for the most part attends to the rounding-up of his cattle, which are scattered over the northwestern quarter of New Mexico; but he does not let that interfere with the time which all Englishmen set duly apart to be devoted to sport. His door-yard is some hundreds of miles of mountain wilderness and desolate mesa--a more gorgeous preserve than any king ever dreamed of possessing for his pleasure--with its plains dotted with antelope, and its mountains filled with cougar, deer, bear, and wild turkeys. The white race has given up the contest with nature in those parts, and it has reverted to the bear, the Navajo, and Mr. Stevens--land-grants, corrals, cabins, brands, and all else.

General Miles was conducting a military observation of the country, which is bound to be the scene of any war which the Apaches or Navajos may make; and after a very long day’s march, during which we had found but one water, and that was a pool of rain-water, stirred into mud and full of alkali, where we had to let our horses into the muddy stuff at the ends of our lariats, we had at last found a little rivulet and some green grass. The coffee-pot bubbled and the frying-pan hissed, while I smoked and listened to a big escort-wagon driver, who was repairing his lash, and saying, softly, “Been drivin’ a bloody lot of burros for thirty years, and don’t know enough to keep a whip out of a wheel; guess I’ll go to jack-punchin’, ’nen I kin use a dry club.”

Far down the valley a little cloud of dust gleamed up against the gray of the mountains, and presently the tireless stride of a pony shone darkly in its luminous midst. Nearer and nearer it grew--the flying tail, the regular beating of the hoofs, the swaying figure of the rider, and the left sleeve of the horseman’s coat flapping purposelessly about. He crossed the brook with a splash, trotted, and, with a jerk, pulled up in our midst. Mr. Stevens is a tall, thin young man, very much bronzed, and with the set, serious face of an Englishman. He wore corduroy clothes, and let himself out of his saddle with one hand, which he also presented in greeting, the other having been sacrificed to his own shot-gun on some previous occasion. Mr. Stevens brought with him an enthusiasm for bear which speedily enveloped the senses of our party, and even crowded out from the mind of General Miles the nobler game which he had affected for thirty years.

The steady cultivation of one subject for some days is bound to develop a great deal of information, and it is with difficulty that I refrain from herein setting down facts which can doubtless be found in any good encyclopædia of natural history; but the men in the mountains never depart from the consideration of that and one other subject, which is brands, and have reached some strange conclusions--the strangest being that the true Rocky Mountain grizzly is only seen once in a man’s lifetime, and that the biggest one they ever heard of leaves his tracks in this district, and costs Mr. Stevens, roughly estimating, about $416 a year to support, since that about covers the cattle he kills.

At break of day the officers, cavalrymen, escort-wagons, and pack-train toiled up the Cañon Largo to Mr. Stevens’s camp, which was reached in good time, and consisted of a regular ranchman’s grub-wagon, a great many more dogs of more varieties than I could possibly count, a big Texan, who was cook, and a professional bear-hunter by the name of Cooper, who had recently departed from his wonted game for a larger kind, with the result that, after the final deal, a companion had passed a .45 through Mr. Cooper’s face and filled it with powder, and brought him nigh unto death, so that even now Mr. Cooper’s head was swathed in bandages, and his mind piled with regrets that he had on at the time an overcoat, which prevented him from drawing his gun with his usual precision. Our introduction to the outfit was ushered in by a most magnificent free-for-all dog-fight; and when we had carefully torn the snarling, yelling, biting mass apart by the hind-legs and staked them out to surrounding trees, we had time to watch Mr. Cooper draw diagrams of bear-paws in the dust with a stick. These tracks he had just discovered up the Cañon Largo, and he averred that the bear was a grizzly, and weighed 1800 pounds, and that he had been there two years, and that all the boys had hunted him, but that he was a sad old rascal.

After lunch we pulled on up the cañon and camped. The tents were pitched and the cooks busy, when I noticed three cowboys down the stream and across the cañon, who were alternately leading their horses and stooping down in earnest consultation over some tracks on the ground. We walked over to them. There were Mr. Cooper, whose only visible eye rolled ominously, and Dan, the S. U. foreman, with another puncher.