DEEPER IN THE TOILS
Dress parade went off that evening in somewhat perfunctory fashion. Even
the alert and soldierly adjutant had a preoccupied air. Stone rejoiced
in his three battalions, as they really were--the cavalry squadron
consisting, like the infantry units, of four companies--and ordinarily
loved to hold them quite a while at the manual, and later for the march
past. This evening he ordered but a few casual shifts and dispensed
entirely with the review. Almost every piazza had its little group of
spectators. The walk was lined with visitors, the roadway with vehicles
from town, and Stone had never seemed to notice them. What he did notice
was that Dwight, standing stark and alone in front of the center of his
squadron, began swaying before the sergeant's reports were rendered, and
was obviously faint and ill. It was on his account entirely that Stone
curtailed the stately ceremony, and thereby disappointed spectators. He
took the major by the arm and walked with him to his door and left him
there with promise to send the surgeon without delay. Dwight declared
the doctor unnecessary, but thanked most earnestly his commanding
officer. A pert young woman in cap and ribbons met them at the threshold
with the information that Madame had partaken of a _tisane_ and begged
that she might not be intruded upon, as it was Dr. Wallen's mandate that
she should sleep, if a possible thing. Stone looked queerly, sharply, at
her and turned away. The major made no reply to her remarks, but desired
that Master James be sent to him as soon as he returned. It seems that
Jimmy had accompanied Sergeant French, a keen angler, to a trout stream
up in the Sagamore Range early in the afternoon. It might be late before
they returned. "Lucky thing, that!" thought the colonel, as he hastened
homeward to lay aside his full uniform, the orderly, meantime, speeding
over to the post surgeon's.
"What do you make of him?" asked the colonel, an hour later, as the
senior medical officer came lumbering up the steps.
"He seems, physically, all right now," was the answer. "There is no
functional disorder. He's sound as a dollar as far as our tests can
determine, but Dwight has been under a strain, as we know, and
then--there's that Luzon sunstroke. Any time, almost, that may lead to
such symptoms as you noted at parade."
"Lucky Dwight isn't a drinking man," said Stone grimly. "There won't be
any more _Banner of Light_ descriptions of our depravity for a time,
anyhow; but--fancy the story _that_ would make in expert hands--and a
Prohibition sheet. God grant no worse scandal come to us," he added
piously, and in guarded tone, as the surgeon took his leave.
It was barely nine o'clock when, some garrison callers having departed,
Mrs. Stone picked up a light wrap and said she believed she would stroll
down the line and see Mrs. Ray. Everybody by this time had heard of the
fracas at the office of the post Exchange at noonday, and the few who
had caught sight of the left side of Foster's face bore testimony to the
fact that Sandy Ray had lost little, if any, of one science he picked up
at the Point. Mrs. Ray would surely be feeling anxious and distressed,
said Mrs. Stone, even though everyone assured her, in manner if not in
words, that public sympathy was all with Sandy.
"I believe I'll go, too," said Stone. "I'm feeling woozy to-night." So,
arm in arm, this Darby and Joan of the frontier betook themselves down
the row, past many an open casement and doorway, softly lighted, with
whispering couples in the shadows and laughing, chatting groups upon the
steps, with the tinkle of mandolin and guitar to mingle with the soft
murmur of voices, despite many a hospitable bid to "Come and join us,"
the couple kept sturdily on and found, just as they expected, that other
sympathetic souls had been before them, that Mrs. Ray was still holding
quite a reception, Priscilla and Sandy being conspicuous by their
absence, Priscilla having retired with a throbbing headache, Sandy,
still tingling and nervous, having sent for his horse but a short time
before and gone for a ride. They stayed quite a while, did the Stones,
and Mrs. Ray seemed gladdened and comforted by their coming. It meant so
much just then. Indeed, the bugles were sounding the ten o'clock call
when finally they took their leave, and Sandy had not returned. True, he
had then been gone little over an hour, and he could ride but slowly,
though he declared he had neither strained a muscle nor started anew the
trouble in the old wound. Perhaps it was too soon to be sure, but at all
events a ride, a gentle amble on a nimble, easy horse over the elastic
turf in the soft, summer moonlight would soothe and quiet him more than
anything else, so, wisely, Marion had interposed no objection.
Taps sounded and the lights were lowered in the barracks and the
sentries called off half-past ten o'clock, and still there had come no
sign of the westbound Flyer, far over the southward waves of prairie,
slowly breasting the long upgrade to the Pass. The big compound engine
of the Midland Pacific had a deep-toned, melodious, flute-like signal,
utterly different to the ear-piercing shriek of the old-fashioned
railway whistle, and on still evenings the sharp, rhythmical beat of the
exhaust, the steady rumble of the heavy Pullmans, and the occasional
blast, rich and mellow, of the misnamed whistle could be followed
westward for many a mile, until at last the echoes of the signal died
away among the cliffs and canyons of the frowning Sagamore.
Some distance out across the rolling prairie, a mile or more beyond the
Minneconjou, was the siding of a deserted station, once built there by
the quartermaster's department with the idea of making a much shorter
haul for supplies than that afforded by the broad and fairly level road
from town. The wear and tear on mules, harness and running gear
consequent upon the up-hill and down-dale character of the road, and the
unprecedented volume of blasphemy supposedly necessary to successful
fording of the Minneconjou, within earshot of the pious-minded at the
post, led to eventual abandonment of that route in favor of the far
longer but undeniably safer line to Silver Hill. It was a fine sight on
clear evenings to see the long trail of electric lights gleaming white
against the darkness, come rounding a distant bluff to the east, and
then, skirting for a mile or so the south bank of the Minneconjou, go
alternately burrowing and bridging the prairie divides and hollows until
finally lost behind the sharp spur known as Two-Mile Ridge. The Flyer
had a way of waiting at Omaha for the last of the express trains of five
great railways bringing their loads from Chicago and St. Louis, all
scheduled to reach Council Bluffs about the same hour, and some one or
more of them being frequently behind. The Midland could make up no time
between the Missouri and the Minneconjou, so light was the roadbed, so
heavy the traffic, so many the stops. It was not until beyond the
Sagamore the Flyer began to deserve its name. Due at Silver Hill this
year of which we write as early as 5:30, the Flyer not infrequently
stopped for supper as late as eleven, and not until eleven this night
did the sentry on the southward front hear the big compound tooting for
the crossings at Bonner's Bluff, and see the long line of electrics come
gleaming into view far down the eastward valley.
Private O'Shea, sentry on No. 3, overlooking the flats whereon stood the
stables, was straining his ears to catch the expected call of eleven
o'clock from No. 2, and watching the distant trail of lights, and was
able to say next morning that the Flyer was just shoving its nose behind
Two-Mile Ridge as the second call, that of eleven o'clock, started
round. The moon in its first quarter, though bright and clear, was then
dipping low in the west and objects were by no means as distinct as they
had been when he came on post soon after nine and saw Lieutenant Ray set
forth, mounted, up the Minneconjou. O'Shea remembered that Hogan, who
took care of the lieutenant's horse, had come back across his post, and
they had had a brief talk about him, Hogan saying the lieutenant wasn't
half satisfied with having blackened the eyes of a bigger man. "He was
that savage and snappy he rowed me for keeping him so long waiting,
when, dear knows, he couldn't have stood at the back gate ten minutes."
O'Shea owned that he and Hogan, "all the fellers, for that matter," had
wished their little bantam of a canteen officer could have had two
minutes more at "the big feller." Foster had no friends among the
enlisted men at the fort. It presently became a question whether or no
he had not enemies. Hogan was just saying the lieutenant told him not to
sit up for him when they became aware of someone approaching, heard the
rattle of a sword, and saw the officer of the guard barely forty yards
away, whereat Hogan skipped for the stables. Then came the next
important point in O'Shea's statement. Just as the tail lights of the
big train disappeared behind the ridge he heard the sudden single blast
of the whistle sounding the old-time signal "down-brakes," noted the
instant change from the loud, pulsing exhaust to the scream of escaping
steam, heard even the squeal and grind of the tightly clamped wheels as
the Flyer slowed down to a standstill. He was wondering what had
happened when the third relief came round and Private Schmitz took his
place on post, as subsequently he replaced O'Shea on the stand.
Schmitz was an honest Teuton, but by no means brilliant. Schmitz told a
straightforward tale, and one that had strange and significant bearing
on the case that became presently of paramount interest at Minneconjou.
Schmitz said that he heard the train going on westward after the relief
had disappeared, and that, just after the call of 11:30, he walked way
up to the far end of his post, the west end, came slowly back, and when
about in rear of Lieutenant Ray's quarters he heard a sort of cough down
the slope toward the stables and saw a dark form approaching. He
challenged in low tone, as he had been taught. The answer was, "Officer
of the post," and before he could think how to say, "Advance and be
recognized," the officer said, "Lieutenant Ray, sentry," and went on
without stopping. When asked to describe the officer, Schmitz said the
moon was then "owudt" and it was pretty dark, but it was a "leetle,
schmall yentleman. He walk and talk and look yust like Lieutenant Ray
effrey day does." Questioned as to the dress, he said the lieutenant
wore his "kempyne hat bulled down ofer his eyes--his blue blouse mid
shoulder straps, poots unt bants." He added that, though the officer
hadn't come nearer him than fifteen feet, if it wasn't Lieutenant Ray,
who was it? Schmitz stood pat on this proposition, and that was all that
could be elicited from him, except that the Herr Lieutenant had gone
through the back gate to his quarters.
About the same hour the telephone in the quartermaster's office, the
only telephone the United States would permit or, at least, pay for at
the post, set up a sharp ringing, that finally roused from his heavy
slumber a veteran employee serving as clerk. Shuffling to the instrument
in his slippers, the clerk desired to be informed what in sheol Silver
Hill wanted waking people that hour of the night? The reply was a
question. The Argenta's livery stableman wished to know if anything had
been seen of a horse and buggy of his at the fort. A gent had hired one
just about dark, said he, a gent who said he'd be back about ten, and
who hadn't come. The gent had had supper in his room at the Argenta and
had ordered his traps sent to the railway station to meet the Flyer.
They said at the hotel office that he was a Captain Foster, whereat the
clerk became interested, notified the stableman that he would make
immediate inquiry at the guard-house, and did, and the guard said that
neither Foster nor his buggy had been seen about the post. The clerk was
beginning to dribble this through the 'phone, when he was suddenly cut
off by the counter announcement: "Oh, it's all right! The rig's just
back. Cap took the Flyer west and sent a boy home with it. Never even
got change for the ten dollars he deposited."
But when mine host of the Argenta came back from seeing the Flyer off
for the west he, too, had questions to ask as to Foster. Did the office
clerk see anything of him? Nothing. "Queer," said Boniface, "we gave his
hand baggage to the Pullman porter, as directed, but his trunk is there
yet. Reckon I'll have to wire after him and tell the conductor to send
them things back by No. 5."
And this, before he went to bed, the landlord proceeded to do, but no
Captain Foster appeared during the night to claim the trunk or
remonstrate about the luggage; nor came there any answer to the dispatch
to the Flyer until the following morning, when there was handed the
proprietor a slip somewhat as follows:
Man calling himself Captain Foster put aboard last night at Fort
Siding, slugged and robbed. Taking him on to Wister. Physician in
charge. Better notify police.
This was about eight o'clock, at which time the old guard was cleaning
up about the guard-house and the companies detailed for the new were
assembling in front of their quarters, and the officer of the guard, a
young lieutenant recently joined from civil life, new to his trade and
strange to the traditions of the army, was cross-questioning a reluctant
corporal about an unauthorized item of equipment found tucked into his
cartridge belt when the guard paraded at reveille--an officer's gauntlet
of the style worn in the cavalry a year before this time. The corporal
explained that it had been picked up by No. 3 just before his relief was
taken off post at 5:15, that it had been handed him, the corporal, just
before sentry's shout of "Turn out the guard!" at the approach of the
officer of the day, and he had stowed it there for want of a better
place and before he had had time to examine it.
But No. 3, it seems, had _had_ time to examine, and had told some of his
mates of his discovery. They had gone to Corporal Clancy to see for
themselves, and had been told to go about their business, which led to
more talk that finally reached the lieutenant's ears. Clancy had had a
clatter with the sergeant and had been refused permission to go to his
quarters anywhere, for a strange story was flitting about the post
concerning two or three men of "B" Troop who had been out late the
previous night, had got liquor over at a vile resort far across the
Minneconjou, and a little southwest of town, and had had a sanguinary
fight of some kind, for Sullivan was badly cut and Connelly had a nasty
eye, and there was something black and ugly back of it they were trying
to hide, unless veteran sergeants were in error; and finally the
sergeant of the guard told the lieutenant of the story and said he
believed Corporal Clancy was secreting evidence that might be of value,
whereupon Clancy was ordered into the presence and told to produce that
gauntlet.
But neither lieutenant nor sergeant dreamed of what was before them when
Clancy at last reluctantly complied, dragging from beneath his blouse
what had been a dainty bit of military finery, a soft white gauntlet,
that bore within the cuff the inscription, "Sanford Ray," and that
without was soaked and stained with blood.