CHAPTER XV.

THE HUNTING PARTY.

Joel Warwick was a dashing young officer, proud of his chosen profession, and anxious for an opportunity to distinguish himself in it. Although he was fresh from West Point—he had been on the plains but little more than a year—he had shown himself to be possessed of a good many qualities that go to make up a first-class soldier.

“I have been thinking of you ever since we were introduced,” continued the lieutenant, “and wondering if you really knew the worth of the attentions that have been shown you. You came out here a perfect stranger, and yet you were received at once on terms of intimacy by the colonel, who can’t do too much for you; while we little fellows, who have risked our lives in obedience to his orders, must keep our distance. The gulf between line and field officers in the regular army is a wide one, and no subordinate must attempt to cross it. Before my commander will be as free with me as he is with you, I must wear an eagle on my shoulders.”

“And yet he thinks a great deal of you,” said Oscar. “He told me that you would some day make a fine officer.”

“Did he say that?” exclaimed the lieutenant, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Well, I knew that he was satisfied with me. If he wasn’t, he never would have invited me to go on this hunt.”

“What did you do to please him?”

“I rode my horse to death while carrying despatches for him. While we were out on our last scout, it became necessary for him to communicate with the commandant at Fort Wallace; so he started me off with Big Thompson for a guide. I rode a splendid animal, which my father had presented to me when I was first ordered out here, and which I believe to be equal, if not superior, to anything that ever stood on four feet; but, before we had gone half the distance, he was completely done up, and Thompson had to shoot him. That was in accordance with orders, you know. If a horse gives out, he is killed, to keep him from falling into the hands of the hostiles who may use him against us. My guide then ran ahead, on foot, and I rode his horse. And would you believe it?—that miserable little pony of his was none the worse for the journey, and neither was Thompson, while I was so completely played out that I wasn’t worth a cent for a whole week. By the way, I thought I saw you leave the post on horseback?”

“So I did; but out there in the sage-brush he threw me, and made off before I could catch him. I hope to find him somewhere about the corral.”

“I hope you will, but I am afraid you won’t. I think you will find that he has struck a straight course for the camp where his old master hangs out. Let’s go and see if we can find him, and then we’ll come back and take a look at that mule and wagon the quartermaster sent up from the village. The man who owns them has been waiting for you over an hour.”

“Have you heard anybody else inquiring for me?” asked Oscar, thinking of his brother. “Well, I have done all I can,” he added to himself, upon receiving a reply in the negative. “Tom has made his own bed, and he must occupy it.”

What the lieutenant said about the pony made Oscar a little uneasy. If it was true that the animal had gone off to hunt up his former owner, he might make up his mind that he had seen the last of him; for the Indian would take particular pains to see that he did not fall into the hands of the soldiers again very soon.

If he did not send him off to some secure hiding-place among the ravines, he would turn him loose with a lot of other ponies, and the most experienced horseman at the post could not have picked him out from among them.

If by any chance he was discovered and taken possession of by the soldiers, some “good” Indian would lay claim to him, and the agent—who is always more in sympathy with his Indians than he is with the troops whose presence protects him—would order him to be given up.

The lieutenant explained all this to Oscar as the two walked toward the corral. When they arrived there they could see nothing of the missing steed.

The guards were questioned, but the invariable reply was that no pony wearing a saddle and bridle had passed through the lines that afternoon.

He was not to be found in his stall either: and, after spending half an hour in fruitless search, Oscar gave him up for lost, and followed the lieutenant across the parade-ground to the colonel’s quarters, in front of which stood the wagon and mule the quartermaster had sent up for the boy’s inspection.

“Be you the college-sharp that’s needin’ a mu-el?” asked a roughly dressed man, who arose from the warehouse steps and sauntered up to them while they were critically examining the wagon and the long-eared animal that was hitched to it.

Oscar looked at the man, and then he turned and looked at the lieutenant, who said in a low tone:

“Every expert is called a ‘sharp’ out here. If he is a good poker-player he is called a card-sharp; if he is an eloquent preacher he is called a gospel-sharp—and no disrespect is intended either. It is simply a plainsman way of talking. He has heard somewhere that you are backed up by a university, and that’s the reason he calls you a college-sharp. It’s a pretty fair looking rig, isn’t it? I don’t know that you can do better, for you may rest assured that the quartermaster wouldn’t pick out anything inferior for you. You can easily find sale for it when you come back; and, if your horse is lost, and you don’t feel like buying another, you can ride the mule when you want to go hunting. Now, then, what are you laughing at?”

“I am laughing at the idea of making a hunting horse out of a mule,” replied Oscar.

“Now, I’ll tell you what’s a fact—they make good ones,” exclaimed the lieutenant. “One of our favorite scouts rides a mule on all his hunting excursions, and that same mule can make an elk break his trot quicker than any thoroughbred in the regiment.”

The officer might almost as well have talked Greek, for Oscar did not know what he meant when he spoke of an elk being made to break his trot; but, before he could ask an explanation, the lieutenant continued:

“You look him over, and I’ll go and find the major. It isn’t always safe to invest in horse- or mule-flesh in this country until you know how many owners it has. You don’t want to pay for it more than once.”

The young officer hurried off as he said this, and Oscar was left to complete his examination alone.

It was easy enough to see that the mule was a superior animal. Although he was not very large or heavy, he was well put together, and looked strong enough to draw a much weightier vehicle than the one to which he was hitched—a light “three-spring,” built something like an ambulance, and provided with a canvas top to protect its cargo from the weather.

Oscar had already made up his mind to purchase, and a few words from the major—who presently came up—confirmed him in his decision.

The money—a good round sum—was paid over to the owner, who departed satisfied; the mule and wagon were given into the charge of one of the teamsters, and Oscar and the lieutenant hurried to their rooms to get ready for supper.

During the meal the loss of Oscar’s pony was discussed, and the conclusion at which all the officers arrived was that the young taxidermist was just fifty dollars out of pocket, besides the amount he had paid for the lasso, saddle, and bridle, which the animal had carried away with him.

“No doubt those articles will be very acceptable to the Indian, who will be delighted to get his horse back again,” said the major. “But I can mount you for this hunt. I’ll give you Gipsy. She is a beautiful rider, and as gentle as a kitten. She is pretty fast, too, but when you are in the chase you’ll have to look out for her. She is not as sure-footed as your last pony, and if you should happen to get into a prairie-dog’s nest she might break her legs, and your neck into the bargain. While you are gone I’ll make every effort to recover your horse, but you mustn’t be disappointed if I fail.”

Supper over, Oscar went into his room to get ready for the start. When he came out again he carried his heavy Sharpe’s rifle on his shoulder, a pair of saddle-bags, containing a few necessary articles, over his arm, and a belt filled with cartridges was buckled about his waist.

The other members of the party were waiting for him on the parade-ground. There were six of them in all, not counting the soldier who was to drive the wagon in which the tents and other camp equipage was stowed away, and the Osage guide, who sat on his pony near the gate, waiting for the party to start.

The hunters were all in their saddles, and the colonel’s hounds were frisking about in front of the wagon, with every demonstration of joy.

The quartermaster stood holding by the bridle a beautiful little nag, which was affectionately rubbing her head against his shoulder.

This was the major’s holiday horse—the one he rode on dress-parades, and other extra occasions. The one he rode on his scouts and campaigns was a tall, raw-boned roan, which he called his war-horse.

Oscar threw his rifle over his shoulder—it was provided with a sling similar to the one that was attached to the fowling-piece—placed his saddle-bags in the wagon, and mounted his horse, whereupon the guide put his pony in motion and rode out of the gate, the cavalcade following close at his heels.

The sun was just setting as they started out; and, before they had proceeded many miles on their way, night settled down over the prairie.

As the sky was cloudy, and no stars were to be seen, the darkness soon became intense. All Oscar could see in advance of him was the white blanket worn by the Indian guide, who kept steadily on his way, as sure of his course as he would have been in broad daylight.

But the darkness did not affect the spirits of the hunters, who acted like a lot of boys just turned loose from school. Even the colonel had thrown aside his dignity, and seemed delighted to have the opportunity to let out a little of the jovial spirit and good feeling which had so long been restrained by the requirements of official etiquette.

He shouted and sang songs until he was hoarse, and even yelled back at the wolves, which now and then serenaded the party.

Shortly after midnight they arrived at the place which had been selected for their camping-ground—a little grove of timber situated on one of the branches of the Platte.

Here the wagon was brought to a halt, and almost before Oscar had had time to gain any idea of his surroundings, the horses had been staked out, the tents pitched, and a fire started in the edge of the timber.

Oscar had often made camp in the woods after dark, but he found that the officers were better at such business than he was.