CHAPTER XVI

TOM LOCKS THE STABLE DOOR

This evening, just before dark, when we were bringing in the tools and making things secure for the night, I noticed that Tom had got out an old padlock that had long lain unused in the mess-chest, and then had found a piece of trace-chain, and with the two had securely locked the stable door--a precaution that we had never thought necessary before--and I asked him: "What are you doing that for, Tom? Seen any fresh signs about?"

"No," he answered, "but 'tain't much trouble an' it's always best to be on the safe side. We've been used to having Found to do guard-duty of nights, an' it may have got us in a fashion of sleeping sounder than we would if we'd had to look out for ourselves; now, while the dog is away, with the stable door unlocked it would be easy enough for an Injun to sneak our horses out an' get away with 'em."

I smiled at what seemed to me a useless precaution and it passed from my mind; but along in the night, after we had been some hours asleep, I was suddenly awakened by a slight noise like the rattling of a chain.

Instantly I was thoroughly aroused and remembered Tom's chain on the stable door. Had I been dreaming? I raised my head cautiously and listened intently. There it was again--unmistakably the chain on the stable door.

I determined to investigate before arousing my comrades, and slipping quietly out of my bed I tiptoed carefully to the door, pulled up one corner of the muslin cover to the lookout hole, and peeped out at the stable door. The moon was shining brightly, and there, to my astonishment, sat a man, crouched at the door of the stable intently working at the lock, either trying to pick it or pry it off. He was not an Indian, either. He had soldier clothes on, and beside him on the ground lay a small bundle.

I took in all this at a glance, and then quietly and quickly slipped back to Tom's bed, shook him gently, and whispered:

"Sh! don't make a bit of noise, Tom. There's a man working at the lock on the stable door. Get up quietly while I wake Jack."

It was more difficult to keep the excitable Irishman quiet while arousing him, but I succeeded in getting him up without making noise enough to be heard outside. Each man took a look through the peep-hole and saw that the crouching soldier was still intently working at the lock.

"Now," I whispered to my comrades, "let each one of us get his carbine or pistol ready, and be careful to keep them from rattling, and when I open our door we'll call on him to throw up his hands and take him prisoner."

"I think I'll give him a load of shot first," whispered Jack, who had the shotgun, "an' then call on him to throw up."

Finding that I could not open our door without making a noise, I jerked it wide open quickly. As I did so the kneeling man turned the full side of his face to me, and in the bright moonlight I recognized private John Flaherty, one of two soldiers who not long before, with Lieutenant Smith, had been caught in a blizzard at our camp and had stayed there until the storm was over. Seeing Jack raise his shotgun to fire, I knocked the muzzle up as I exclaimed:

"Don't shoot, Jack, it's Flaherty!"

He had pressed the trigger, but my throwing the barrels up sent the load of shot into the dirt roof of the stable instead of into Flaherty's back.

I wondered at the stupid, sluggish manner of the man as he rose to his feet at the report of the gun, but when he started off up the path leading to the top of the bank his uncertain gait plainly showed that he was drunk.

Dropping his shotgun, Jack bounded out and up the path after him, soon overtaking the drunken soldier, seizing him by the collar and cuffing him right heartily, with each slap rebuking the would-be horse thief for his drunkenness and thievery.

When Flaherty was brought into the dugout it was evident that he was almost senseless from drink. He was taken over to Found's bed and left there, sound asleep.

"There," said Tom, "we forgot to bring in that little bundle he left by the stable door."

He brought it in, and on opening it it was found to consist of a pint bottle with a little whiskey in it and a change of underclothing marked with the man's initials.

"Well," said Tom, "this poor fellow has gone on a spree; while drunk the idea of deserting has come to him, and he has started off over the prairie in the dead of winter, through an Indian country, without arms, provisions, or clothing. As I have often said, a man who is drunk is literally crazy, and this proves it."

Next morning, when Flaherty was aroused, he had at first no idea where he was and, after he had been told, no idea how he got here. He professed that he had no wish to desert, for he was getting along in his company as well as any of the men and his time of service had nearly expired.

However, he actually had deserted, and he did not know what to do, whether to go back and give himself up and take his punishment or whether to go on. Tom said to him:

"Of course, Flaherty, you can do as you like, but I really think, under the circumstances, you had best go back and give yourself up and take your medicine. Maybe, if I go along with you and explain the situation to Lieutenant Smith, and ask him to intercede with the commanding office, you can be returned to duty without a court martial."

"Would you do that for me, Tom?" asked Flaherty gratefully.

"I'll do all I can for you, Flaherty, for I do not hold you responsible for what you have done; but you had a mighty close call, and if whiskey serves you that way you ought to take warning and swear off."

"That's just what I've been thinking, Tom, and I swear right now I'll never taste another drop."

As I rode up to camp about sundown that day I noticed two or three mounted men far out on the high prairie, coming on the trail from Fort Larned. The field-glass made them out to be Wild Bill and John Adkins with a pack-mule, and Found trotting along with them. They soon reached us and dismounted and began unpacking.

"Is supper most ready, boys?" asked Bill.

"I'll have it ready," replied Jack, "by the time you're ready for it."

"We've just got room in the stable for your two horses," I explained, "in place of the mule team Tom took with him, and I guess I'll take one of our broncos out and tie it behind the haystack to make room for your pack-mule, Bill."

"Don't you do anything of the kind, Peck," replied the scout. "That's one of Uncle Sam's mules, an' he'll do well enough tied in the lee of your haystack; in fact, it wouldn't hurt our horses much, either, to stand out."

While Bill, Adkins, and I had been watering, feeding, and putting away the stock, Jack had been getting supper, and now stepped to the door of the dugout with his fiddle and sounded "mess call," to see if the scout would know what it meant.

"That sounds pretty natural," said Bill to me, "let's go in an' see what he's got to show for it, for I'm as hungry as a coyote."

As we gathered around the mess-chest I inquired:

"When do they expect the volunteers that are coming to relieve the regulars?"

"Don't know a thing, only that they're on the road somewhere 'tween here an' Leavenworth. Now, if they were regulars you could calculate to the hour when they'd get here, for when they get orders to go anywhere neither hell nor high water'll stop 'em; but if a little bad weather strikes these volunteers, an' they can find a snug camping place, they're liable to hang up for a week or two, an' put in the time stealing chickens an' playing cards."

"How long do you and Adkins expect to be gone on this trip, Bill?"

"Well, now, that's a sort of a 'kin-savvy' case," he replied. "It depends on how soon we find the Injuns' camp. Maybe it'll take us a week--maybe two weeks or more--can't tell; but once we get onto their trail we'll soon overhaul 'em. John, here, says that ol' To hausen, the 'Little Mountain,' an' his band is camped right down Walnut Creek, about half-way 'tween here an' Charley Rath's ranch--'bout twenty-five miles from here."

"Yes," said Adkins, "I was up to their camp 'bout a week ago, an since that some of the Injuns was down to the ranch a-trading; but they don't know, for sure, where Satank an' the rest of the tribe is; but they thought we'd be apt to find 'em on the Smoky, or the Saline, or Solomon, or maybe on some of the little timbered creeks in between the rivers."

"Do you think, Adkins," I asked, "that there is any likelihood of To hausen's band moving up this way? For it would bother our wolf-hunting business if they should come near us."

"Oh, they may be a-moving camp now an' then, to get fresh grass for their hosses; but if they get to crowdin' on you, all you've got to do is to go to ol' To hausen an' ask him to keep far enough away so's not to interfere with your wolf poisoning, an' he'll do it, for he's a pretty good ol' Injun, an' always tries to keep on good terms with the whites. There's only about a hundred men in his band, an' they're mostly ol' men what's had experience enough to know that it pays better to keep on good terms with Uncle Sam's people than to be bucking again 'em. But the most of the tribe now seems to be of the other way of thinking an' have split off from ol' To hausen, who used to be head chief, an' taken to following the lead of such devils as Satank, an' Satanta, an' Big Tree; an' they're the ones we've got to look out for."

"Where do you expect to find the Kiowa trail, Bill?"

"Well, from here, we'll follow this ol' lodge-pole trail; it turns off from the Walnut a few miles up the creek an' goes over to the Smoky Hill, which is about twenty miles from here; an' about opposite this point on the Smoky is a mail station on the Denver stage route, an' I reckon we'll be able to find out from the station men whether the Kiowas have gone up or down the river an' lay our course to suit."

"When we first came here," I informed him, "it looked like the last travel over the trail had been about two months before--that would have been about September--and the tracks were going toward the Smoky Hill; but they might have been made by Cheyennes or 'Rapahoes."

"We'll be apt to find an old moccasin, or a broken arrow, or somethin' dropped or thrown away on the trail, before we travel very far, that'll tell what tribe travelled it last," remarked the scout.

"I noticed that you don't carry any picket-pin," I remarked; "how do you picket your horse out?"

"I picket him to a hole in the ground. I dig a hole with my knife about a foot deep; tie a big knot in the end of my lariat; put it down in the bottom of the hole; fill in the dirt an' tamp it down hard as I can with my foot; an' that'll hold him 'bout as good as a picket-pin, an' saves the trouble, an' saves my horse the weight of the iron pin; an' I always try to lighten my horse's load of every ounce I can do away with. An' when I'm out by myself, or where there's nobody to stan' guard at night, I make my bed with my head on my saddle, 'bout half-way 'tween my horse an' the end of my lariat that's buried, an' if anything strange comes in sight the horse'll begin running 'round at the end of his rope, an' dragging it over me'll wake me up."

"Well, your way of doing these things is just about the same as we were trained to do in the cavalry," I remarked.

"Why, of course," replied Bill, "for nearly all I know about scouting is what I learnt from the ol' cavalrymen an' ol' army officers. You take one of them ol' soldiers or officers that's been out on the frontier fifteen or twenty years, an' what he don't know about such matters ain't worth knowing."

In the morning, after breakfast, while assisting the two scouts to saddle up and pack their mule, Jack cut off an antelope ham and tied it in their pack, "to give them a starting of fresh meat," as he said.

Taking up a position in front of Bill, Found stood wagging his tail and looking up pleadingly into his master's face, seeming to ask: "May I go with you?"

"No, Found," said the scout, between whom and his dog there seemed to be a perfect understanding, "you can't go. It'd be too long an' hard a road for you an' would wear you out. You must stay right here till I come back."

Then, turning to me, he said:

"You'd better get his chain an' collar an' I'll tie him to that post there, an' he'll know by that that I don't want him to go an' he'll not try to follow us after we leave."

I brought the chain and Bill took it and tied the dog, petting and talking kindly to him, and then making him lie down, which seemed to satisfy Found that his master desired him to remain.

"Let us hear from you, Bill," I requested, "as soon as you get back, will you, for I'd like to know how the Kiowas are feeling."

"Yes, I will," he replied; "if I don't come back this way I'll come over from the fort soon after we get back."

Mounting their horses--Adkins leading the pack-mule, while Wild Bill rode behind to drive it up--they crossed the creek below the beaver dam, and were soon out of sight behind the timber.