In every direction wide stretched the lonely brown prairie-land of
north central Kansas, 1866. From horizon to horizon not a house of any
kind was to be seen, nor even a tree except low lines of willows and
occasional cottonwoods marking the courses of streams. Late November’s
pale blue sky bent mildly over, the steady plains breeze rustled
the dried weeds and the sun-cured carpet of buffalo-grass; and Ned
Fletcher, trudging wearily, felt that he was a very small boy in a very
large world.
However, he was not afraid of the largeness; and as he hastened as fast
as he could, with ear alert for sunning rattlesnakes and eye upon a
vast herd of buffalo grazing far to the northeast, he was rather glad
of the loneliness. Moving objects, ahorse, might mean Indians, and
Indians he did not want. Ah no, no, no.
Ned was bare-headed, his tow hair long and matted as if it needed
cutting and combing. But who had there been, in the Indian camps, to
cut or comb a white-boy prisoner’s hair? He wore on his body a tattered
fragment of stained blanketing, his head thrust through a slit. One
foot was supplied with an old moccasin that lacked part of the sole;
the other foot had nothing. As he hurriedly walked he limped.
Where he was he did not know. He was still in Kansas, he believed,
although one part of this flat prairie-country looked much like
another. Since his escape from the Sioux he had been trying to travel
straight east; but he had sneaked down crooked stream-beds and had
slept some, and now exactly where he might be or how far he might have
come, he could not tell.
Somewhere on before were the settlements of the Kansas frontier, out
of which was creeping westward the Kansas Pacific Railroad, bound for
Denver. North was the Republican Fork emigrant trail to Denver, and
south was the Smoky Hill trail. With these, and with the outlying
ranches and hamlets which were liable to be encountered, it did seem to
Ned that by hook or crook he would be rescued if he only kept going.
Suddenly he stopped short, with lame foot upraised, and peered. He was
all ready, like prairie-dog or other timid wild animal, to disappear.
This was what alarmed him: the grazing herd of buffalo, resembling a
great tract of black gooseberry bushes, had broken and were on the run!
As everybody in the far West knew or ought to know, running buffalo
were frightened buffalo; and the question naturally would be: “Which
has frightened them—white hunters or Indian hunters?” Upon the answer
might depend much, even life.
Ned’s heart thumped inside his bony chest, under the thin blanket, and
he glanced about for hiding-place.
The creek-bed was too far; the earth around was flat and sandy and
bald; but near at hand was a curious circular hollow, like a dimple in
the brown face of the prairie. Crouching and skimming, Ned darted for
it, and plunged in.
This was a buffalo-wallow. In the beginning some old buffalo bull,
tormented by flies, had pawed and horned and turned up the sod of
a soft spot in the prairie, and there had taken a good roll. Other
buffalo bulls had followed him, enlarging the hole as they enjoyed
their mud-baths. Now, in late November, the wallow was dry, but it was
two feet deep and fifteen feet across.
Behind the sloping edge of the wallow Ned lay close, and peeped over.
He was a brave boy, but he shivered with excitement. After he had
escaped, and had come so far, and was almost within touch of white
people, was he to be re-captured? He couldn’t stand it—no, he couldn’t
stand it, unless he had to. When they have to, people can stand a great
deal.
The buffalo were increasing in size rapidly, as with their peculiar
headlong rolling gallop they came thundering on. There were several
thousand of them; the beat of their hoofs merged into a dull roar; over
their torrent of black backs floated a yellow spume of dust.
Gazing beyond them anxiously Ned searched for the hunters. He thought
that he saw them—some horsemen, veiled in the dust as they so furiously
pursued. Were they white horsemen, or red? Then he saw, to his relief,
that the course of the tossing herd was past his wallow, not over it.
He would not be trampled to death, anyway; and perhaps he would not
be seen. And then he saw that a single buffalo had separated from the
flying herd, and that had paired off with it a single horseman, to ride
it down. _They_ were heading almost directly for the wallow.
Ned flattened himself as flat as a horned toad or a lizard, and
motionless, watched. He did not dare to stir his head, he dared
scarcely to breathe. Indians, as well he knew, had eyes very keen for
any movements against the surface of the ground.
The buffalo was running gallantly—head down, tail curved, heavy
fore-quarters propelled by light hind-quarters. In its rear pursued the
hunter. Ned, peering through a screen of weeds, fastened eyes upon him
to read him. He wore a hat; good! He wore a shirt or coat; pretty good!
He held a revolver; very good! He rode like a white man; hurrah!
Heart beating afresh, Ned waited a minute longer, to make certain.
How the buffalo ran! How the hunter rode! It was a big bull buffalo.
Ned could see his shaggy head, like a lion’s; he fancied that he could
see his tongue as it hung foamy and red; almost could he see his
glaring eyeballs and hear his panting breath. The horseman—yes, he was
white!—was leaning forward, lifting his long-legged bay to the race.
His right hand held high a heavy revolver, his left hand gathered the
loosely drawn reins; his broad-brimmed hat flared in the breeze that
he made; his hair, yellow and free, streamed backward. He gave a wild,
exultant halloo, and his horse, lengthening with leap after leap,
fairly was eating the space to the straining, lumbering quarry. It took
a fast horse to do this; but the buffalo was wounded, for now from his
red tongue was dripping something redder still.
Ned had just concluded that the hunter must be a soldier, for his
trousers-seams, showing between boot-tops and shirt or coat, bore broad
stripes, when he realized also that this chase, like the rest of the
chase, was passing his wallow; and that if he did not make himself
known he would not be seen. Another minute, and buffalo and rider would
be by, and the chances were small that they ever would notice such a
small thing as he, behind them. With a spring, out rushed Ned; waving
his arms and calling, he ran forward across the prairie.
His thoughts and eyes were on the rider—that white man rider. He was
regardless of the buffalo, now—but the buffalo proved not regardless
of him. Into the very path of the onward scouring chase went Ned,
waving and shouting; and veering at sharp tangent the buffalo instantly
charged for him. The buffalo’s little tail flicked up, in half-cocked
manner, his shaggy head dropped lower, and he made a savage lunge at
what he thought was a new enemy.
Ned paused not for parley. An enraged buffalo bull coming full tilt
won’t listen to talk, and the fact that Ned was only a boy made no
difference to this big fellow. In a sideways jump Ned dodged and turned
and made for his wallow again.
This seemed the thing to do. Now he forgot about the rider and thought
about the buffalo. He had small hope of beating him, for a buffalo
can run as fast as an ordinary horse and this buffalo was very angry.
Ned imagined that the hot breath of the great animal was burning his
back—that the hard stubby horns were grazing him there; his legs were
weak and his feet heavy; and nervously glancing behind him, as he ran,
he stumbled, sprawling head over heels. When he should stop rolling,
then what?
He stopped, and scrambling for his feet he looked quickly, poised on
hands and knees, before he should rise. His next movements depended
upon the buffalo. The buffalo had halted, as if surprised. He was
almost towering over, so huge he stood; he was surveying Ned, his
matted hump high, his bearded hairy head low again, his tongue dripping
crimson froth, his red-streaked eye-balls standing out amidst his
matted locks, his throat rumbling, his forehoofs flinging the dirt in
defiance. As soon as he could debate a little over what had upset his
new enemy, he would charge again.
Ned, crouched on hands and knees, stared at the buffalo; the buffalo,
rumbling and pawing and bleeding, stared at Ned.
But the rider—the rider! With rapid thud of hoofs he galloped. “Keep
down, lad! Keep down!” he shouted, in clear ringing voice. Ned never
forgot how he looked, as with bright yellow hair floating, crimson
necktie-ends at his throat streaming, black hat-brim flaring, wide
blue eyes in bronzed moustached face blazing, bridle free and revolver
levelled, like a whirlwind he passed the great beast—firing as he did
so—and now at full speed passing Ned also he leaned, Indian-wise,
grasped Ned under the arms and with strong heave hoisted him right up
to the saddle.
For an instant longer the horse, with Ned thus suspended beside him,
careened on. Then in response to vigorous command and tug of gauntleted
hand holding both revolver and lines, he wheeled and stopped. Giddy,
clinging desperately to the buckskin waist, Ned gazed before. The great
bull was prone, feebly kicking his last. Ned looked up, into a face
looking down. It was a handsome, manly face; lean and deeply tanned,
with sunny blue eyes, broad high forehead, straight nose, flowing
tawny moustache, firm cleft chin, all under a large soft-brimmed black
slouch hat, from beneath which the bright yellow hair fell in long
curly waves to the shirt collar. This shirt collar was generous and
rolling, of blue flannel with a white star at either point in front.
Under the collar lay a long soft tie of crimson silk, its ends loosely
knotted and hanging down outside a fringed buckskin coat. Between skirt
of coat and tops of riding-boots showed dusty trousers of army blue,
with broad yellow stripes down the seams. Altogether, to Ned’s quick
and wondering eye he was a most attractive and remarkable individual.
Looking down, while Ned looked up, he smiled heartily, and said:
“Well, we got the buffalo before he got you, didn’t we? Let’s see.”
With a “Whoa, Phil! Steady, now!” to the horse, he carefully lowered
Ned and set him back upon the ground; then swinging easily off he
dismounted, and leaving the horse to stand, with revolver ready he
approached the buffalo. But the buffalo was stone dead.
“All right,” he called back, to Ned, who was anxiously watching.
“Hurrah! He’s a big fellow, isn’t he! And there come the dogs! Hi!”
and raising a cow-horn from its sling to his lips he blew a stirring,
rollicking blast. “Watch them leg it! The pace was too hot for them,
this time. Well,” he spoke, more directly, to Ned, “come over here,
and tell me about yourself. You’re a white lad, aren’t you? My name’s
Custer—Autie Custer; what’s yours?”
“Ned Fletcher,” faltered Ned. “I’m a white boy, but I’ve been captive
with the Indians. Now I’m escaping. You—you’re an officer in the army,
I guess.”
“What makes you think so?” The query was quick and crisp—with blue eyes
twinkling behind it.
Ned hesitated. His gaze strayed to the blackish specks, said to
be dogs, rapidly nearing across the prairie; and returned to this
straight, lithe, square-shouldered figure, standing there so
fascinating in face and form and garb. Ned could not tell exactly why,
but he felt that this man was every inch a soldier and a leader. If he
wasn’t an officer he ought to be, anyway. So Ned hazarded:
“By those stripes—and you’ve got stars on your shirt collar.”
The blue eyes twinkled merrily.
“Oh, those stars don’t count for anything. That’s a sailor shirt. And
maybe I stole the pants. My wife calls me ‘Autie,’ the men call me
‘Jack,’ but once in a while somebody calls me ‘Colonel,’ so I suppose
I’m a sort of an officer, after all. But here—if you’re a white boy
you’ve got to have something on. Aren’t you cold? You must be cold.
Take my coat. Captive to the Indians, you say? Where? How did that
happen? Put on that coat, and tell me. I’ll be cutting out this
buffalo’s tongue. Did you ever see a buffalo’s tongue cut out? It’s
quite a job, isn’t it! Hi! Hello, pups! (For the dogs were arriving.)
Down, Maida! Down, Flirt! Blucher! Good dog, Byron! Where’s Rover? Oh,
yes; I see. Hurry, Rover, or you’ll be too late. There! That’ll do.
Next time you hunt with the old man you’ll save your wind for the final
spurt, won’t you!”
The dogs were splendid animals: three gaunt, rough-coated stag hounds,
a deer hound, a fox hound or two. They came in panting and eager,
whining and gambolling and sniffing right and left. Colonel Custer
knelt and whipping out his hunting-knife pried open the dead bull’s
mouth and slashed at the thick tongue.
Ned didn’t want to put on the buckskin coat, but he had been ordered
to, so he did, and dropped the ragged blanket. The coat almost covered
him. While the dogs nosed him and excitement still reigned, he answered
the questions.
“The Dog Soldiers killed my father and burned the ranch and took my
mother and sister and me away with them. My mother is dead—they made
her work too hard (and Ned choked up), and I don’t know where my sister
is but I’m going to find her.”
“Where was the ranch?”
“On the Bijou in Colorado.”
“How long ago?”
“About a year. I was traded to the Sioux. But when I had a chance I ran
away.”
“From their village?”
“No, sir; on the march.”
“Who were the chiefs?”
“The Sioux chief was Pawnee Killer, and the Cheyenne chief was Cut
Nose. I ran away from Pawnee Killer. My sister’s out with old Cut
Nose’s Cheyennes, I think.”
“Where do you want to go, my boy?”
“Anywhere, so that I find my sister.”
“All right.” Colonel Custer had finished cutting out the tongue. Now
he wiped his knife on the buffalo’s wool, and stood. “We’ll take you
back to Riley, first. That’s where I live—Fort Riley. It isn’t far; a
day’s ride. We’re out on a little scout. There comes my orderly, now.
The lazy fellow! Eh, Phil?” and the handsome bay horse, thus addressed,
pricked his ears. “First we leave the orderly, then we leave the dogs,
and we kill a buffalo and pick up a boy! That will be something to tell
the old lady when we get back.”
About this handsome, energetic army officer was an air so happy-go-lucky
and boyish that Ned, another boy, found himself already loving him.
Now the orderly galloped up. He wore fatigue cap and blouse and
trousers, of the regulation service blue; and by yellow braid and
chevrons and the brass horn hanging from his shoulder he was a bugler.
He arrived dusty and red, his horse much blown; pulling short he
saluted, trying not to stare. Colonel Custer drew himself up very
tall and straight and military, surveyed him sternly and spoke
gruffly—although Ned felt certain that those blue eyes held a twinkle.
“Take this boy on before you, Odell. Where’s the rest of the troop?”
“Yes, sir. Following the buffalo, sir.”
“Where have you been?”
“Trying to catch up with you, sir.”
“Oh! I see.” And as Colonel Custer turned, to his own horse, and tied
the buffalo tongue to the saddle, Ned fancied not only the twinkle in
the eyes but a smile under the yellow moustache.
“Well, boy, you’re to get aboard with me, the general says,” said
Bugler Odell. “Give me a grip on ye and I’ll help ye up. But you ought
to have coverin’ for your legs. It’s cold, ridin’. Use that blanket,
now, I see lyin’ there.”
“No. I’ve got enough,” asserted Ned, eyeing the blanket fragment
disdainfully. The heavy buckskin coat fell below his knees, and he was
used to the cold air.
“Yes; wrap that piece of blanketing around you, or you’ll wear a hole
through Odell’s saddle-skirts,” bade Colonel Custer, as he vaulted
astride his own saddle.
“You hear what the general says,” reminded Bugler Odell, soberly.
“Fetch the blanket and come on, now.”
So Ned, understanding that it was the custom, evidently, to obey
whatever the man with the yellow hair directed, gingerly lifted the
fragment of dirty blanket, and approached the bugler’s stirrup. With
one foot upon it, and the trooper hauling him stoutly, he right soon
was seated before the low pommel, where he tucked the blanketing around
his legs.
“Ready?” queried the bugler. “Here we go, and you’d better hang tight,
for the general won’t wait. That hoss o’ his is a tarrer.”
“The general? Is he a general! He said he was colonel,” stammered Ned,
perplexed, as following the man with the yellow hair away they went, at
jolting trot which speedily broke into a smoother gallop.
“Who? General Custer? Sure, he’s left’nant-colonel o’ regulars,
commandin’ the Sivinth Cavalry; but he was brigadier-general and brevet
major-general o’ the volunteers in the war, and the youngest one in the
whole army, too. Yes, and it’s brevet o’ major-general o’ regulars he’s
just been given. So ‘general’ he’s to be called, and don’t you forget
it.”
“_General_ Custer! Oh, I know _General_ Custer! He was the ‘boy
general’!” exclaimed Ned, excited. “My father knew him, I mean. He was
my father’s general. Now I remember. I didn’t think, at first.”
“Well, he’s a good soldier and a fine man,” commented the bugler,
succinctly; “and of the Sivinth Cavalry he’s goin’ to make a regiment,
or I’m much mistaken.”
The carcass of the dead buffalo bull had been left behind. The prairie
before was free of other buffalo, for all the great fleeing herd had
vanished. General Custer, riding superbly, his crimson tie ends and his
yellow hair streaming together, his dogs panting on either side and at
his heels, was rapidly increasing his lead; his young horse was a racer
and a thoroughbred, and the trooper’s horse was heavy and ordinary.
Clinging tight to the mane with his hands and to the saddle-flaps with
his shins, Ned, secure and not a whit afraid (he had ridden bare-legged
and bare-back too often, with the Indians) enjoyed the gallop, but
wished that they might be nearer to “the general.”
Black specks, moving about over the surface of the prairie, appeared
before. The general slackened pace, and as the bugler and Ned
approached he ordered, over his shoulder:
“Sound the rally.”
Bugler Odell attempted to salute, to pull his horse down to a trot, and
to raise his bugle to his mouth—all in a moment. But the horse shook
its head and champed and tugged, and the bugle, swinging between the
man rider and the boy rider, wedged fast. Odell muttered several angry,
chagrined remarks.
“I’ll blow it,” offered Ned, friendly. “Shall I?”
“You!” grunted Trooper Odell. “It’s the rally, by the bugle, the
general wants. If you’ll hold this hoss a second, now——” and red and
flustered he hauled hard.
“I’ll blow it. I can,” repeated Ned, eagerly, anxious to show his
mettle and to help the embarrassed Odell.
As the obstinate horse pranced the bugle swung free again, jerked
fairly around so that Ned needed only to reach and grab it. He promptly
applied it to his lips (while clutching tight with his one hand and
his two shins), and blew the rally the best that he could. Clear and
passably regular pealed the high notes.
“Good enough, b’gorry!” muttered Odell. “But what’ll the general say?
Give me that horn.”
The moment that the last note died away the general had wheeled his
horse, to gaze.
“Who blew that call?” he shouted.
“I did,” announced Ned, bravely. “Mr. Odell was managing his horse, and
he didn’t say I might but I did.”
“The boy took the horn before I could stop him, sir,” explained the
flurried Odell. “I’ll blow it now, sir. This pesky hoss——” and Bugler
Odell jerked savagely at the bit, pulling his mount to its haunches.
“He blew it mighty well, then,” declared General Custer. “Try it again,
boy. Put more force behind it, so those soldiers yonder’ll hear. We’re
sounding the rally for them to come; see?”
Tremendously Ned blew—glueing his lips and puffing his cheeks and
popping his eyes. Far pealed the notes, across the brown prairie. And
now the specks must have heard, for by twos and threes they were
coming, ever growing larger, and turning into mounted men.
The general jogged easily, with Bugler Odell and Ned close behind him.
“Where did you learn the bugle?” he demanded.
“From my father,” answered Ned, proudly. “He knew all the army calls.”
“He did, did he? Where’d he learn them?”
“In the war. He was a bugler.”
“What regiment?”
“Sixth Michigan Cavalry.”
“What!” General Custer stopped his horse, as he turned in the saddle
and scrutinized Ned, his blue eyes shining. “Was he a Michigander? In
my old brigade, then! He was one of my boys! The son or daughter of any
of my boys is like one of my own family. Of course you’ll come with me
to Fort Riley. What do you want to do?”
Sudden resolve seized Ned.
“I’d like to join the army, too, and hunt Indians until I find my
sister.”
“You shall,” declared the general, enthusiastically. “I’ll enlist you
as a bugler with the Seventh Cavalry, and we’ll hunt Indians together
and find your sister, I’m sure. Shake hands on it.” He skillfully
reined his restless bay to the side of the troop horse and extended his
hand. With a strong grip his nervous gauntlet closed warmly about Ned’s
slim scarred fingers. “Now tell me more about your father.”
So, as they rode slowly, biding the arrival of the soldiery, Ned did:
relating to this singularly young general (the youngest, had said
Bugler Odell, in the whole army, commanding men, like Ned’s father,
almost twice his age) the story of how Mr. Fletcher, after the War,
had moved to the frontier of Colorado Territory and had located upon
a ranch; how outlaw Cheyennes and Sioux, called “Dog Soldiers,” had
raided the ranch, killing him in the field, burning the buildings and
carrying off Ned, Ned’s mother, and his sister who was eight.
While the general was asking questions, the other soldiers, responding
to the “rally,” began to arrive.