Early came a lancer, bearing the swallow-forked guidon, his steed blown
and wet. The soldiers gathered about him.
Foremost of the riders was a man not a soldier; at least, he looked
more like a handsome, gentlemanly desperado. He sat easy and lithe and
broad-shouldered; from under his wide-brimmed black hat, fell down upon
the shoulders long, curling light hair. Belted about his waist was a
pair of ivory-handled revolvers, one at either thigh. He wore shiny,
flexible boots reaching to the knee; tight-fitting white doe-skin
riding-breeches; a fine blue-flannel shirt open at the throat, and
trimmed down the front with red; around his throat was loosely knotted
a blue silk handkerchief; upon his hands were well-fringed gauntlet
gloves. His skin was fair, with just a touch of sun-brown; a long
blonde moustache drooped along either side of a firm clean chin; his
nose was a bold hawk nose, and as piercing as the eyes of a hawk were
his eyes of steely blue. Altogether, he seemed a man to be reckoned
with.
“Well, Bill,” addressed the general, buoyantly, “I didn’t mean to
desert you fellows, but I needed exercise.”
“I see,” nodded Bill, gravely. His keen, steely eyes noted the buffalo
tongue; they read every detail of Ned’s face and figure; and swiftly
sweeping the horizon they returned to him.
“Killed a big bull and found a small boy,” continued the general. “Ned,
this gentleman is Mr. James B. Hickok, better known as Wild Bill. He’s
a valuable friend to have.”
Mr. Hickok reined forward his horse, and offered Ned his hand.
“How do you do?” he spoke, politely. His voice was soft, but vibrant,
and Ned liked him. “Count me at your service.”
Ned was certain that Mr. Hickok was not making fun of him; and,
abashed, he shook hands. Whereupon Mr. Hickok gracefully reined his
horse back to the general.
All the soldiers had arrived. “By their blanket-rolls and haversacks,
they must be on a scout,” thought Ned, “and not merely on a hunt.”
Among the last to arrive was another young officer—a captain, said the
double bars of his shoulder-straps.
“All right, Hamilton. Now that you’ve shown us you’re safe, we’ll go
on,” called the general, still in joking frame of mind. That he had
distanced all his company and had an adventure pleased him immensely.
With quick gesture he waved his hand, and accompanied by Mr. Hickok
trotted to the fore. Captain Hamilton escorted at one side of the
column, as two by two the soldiery strung out. Behind the general rode
the lance-corporal, and Bugler Odell, Ned holding tightly to him. Now
and then Bugler Odell let information drift over Ned’s shoulder.
“That be Wild Bill,” he said, speaking guardedly. “’Tis the name he
likes best. He’s chief scout for the general, and peace-keeper all
’round, for he’s boss o’ Riley, I tell ye. Six-foot two he stands in
his socks; ye can span his waist with your hands. Quickest shot with
the pistol I ever saw; chain lightnin’ can’t beat him. But you wouldn’t
think he was such a tarrer, to speak with him. And when he’s mad he
doesn’t talk much louder or say much more; yet you bet wan word and wan
look from him be plinty to make the worst badman on the trail calm down
and say, ‘Certainly, Bill. Excuse me, Mr. Hickok.’ He served in the
Kansas troubles before the War, when the free-soil men and the slavery
men were makin’ the border a red-hot place. He was a Union scout out
here durin’ the War, too, and fought at the battle o’ Pea Ridge down in
Arkansas. Wan time, in Sixty-wan, alone in a room he was attacked by
ten border-ruffians, hand to hand, and when it was over they were all
dead and he was ’most dead with eleven buckshot in him and thirteen
other wounds.”
“Is he a soldier now?” queried Ned, awed.
“Nope; not what you might call a reg’lar soldier. He’s a border-man—a
frontiersman. Some might call him a disperado, behind his back; and
some a gambler; but anyway, he’s got the bravery and the nerve, and his
word is good as gold, and that’s the kind o’ men needed out in this
country.”
They rode on, while Ned pondered over the character of the terrible
Wild Bill Hickok. He had appeared as such a mildly speaking,
gentlemanly individual, that Bugler Odell’s description did not seem to
fit.
“The Sivinth Cavalry be gettin’ its share o’ good men,” resumed Bugler
Odell, confidentially. “Yon captain—he’s a foine wan, and a great
joker. Captain Hamilton, I mean. Sure, he’s a lieutenant-colonel,
from the War; but he ranks as captain o’ Reg’lars, by appointment to
the Sivinth. His grandfather was a big man by the name o’ Alexander
Hamilton. Ah, the Sivinth be officered entirely by generals and
colonels and majors; and titles be so thick they make your head swim.
I’m only plain sergeant, but some o’ the enlisted men be generals, by
courtesy, as ye’ll find out.”
“Right you are,” agreed the lance-corporal. “The War left many a man
with soldierin’ as his only job.”
Wild Bill was an accurate scout, for as the sun was setting they all
sighted directly ahead, high upon a table-land backed by hills, an
irregular group of buildings, the windows flashing above the level dun
expanse below. Between were trees, marking a stream.
“There’s Riley,” announced Bugler Odell, pointing. “Below is the Smoky
Hill Fork o’ the Republican, and the line o’ cottonwoods runnin’ to
north’ard be the Republican itself. The post sits in the elbow o’ the
two, where they join and make the Kaw or Kansas.”
As they approached Ned gazed curiously. The post made quite a showing,
and everybody in the column seemed glad to be getting back. Now the
flag-staff of the post, with the colors still floating, showed clearly.
The general stirred restlessly in his saddle, as if eager to shorten
the distance. The dogs, which had been ranging far and wide, galloped
further ahead, and further, anon halting to look hopefully behind them
and see that the column were surely coming on.
Suddenly across the rosy-purple glow making lovely the flat landscape,
wafted high and sweet the notes of a bugle at the post. All the column
listened—or appeared to listen.
“’Tis retreat; boom goes the avenin’ gun and down comes the flag,”
explained Bugler Odell, as if Ned did not know.
But Ned did know, and he nodded to himself; for this was one of the
army calls taught him by his father.
The long notes died amidst a dull “Boom!” by the evening gun; and Ned
saw the flag slide down the tall pole.
“Faith, we’ll be locked out,” chuckled Odell, as a joke. “The general
won’t like that; he’s wantin’ to be home with his wife.”
“Sound the trot,” bade the general, curtly, without turning head.
Bugler Odell did so; and through the clattering column rang the brisk
voice of young Captain Hamilton: “Trot—march!” Away they trotted, all,
canteens jingling, carbines jolting, saddles creaking, horses grunting.
Close before was the sparse timber of the Republican River, flowing
from the north; this river they evidently must cross, as the post was
upon the other side.
“Give them Garryowen, Hamilton,” called the general. And he added,
aside: “Then they’ll have supper hot.”
Captain Hamilton nodded at Bugler Odell; and now as the column was
splashing into the ford Odell blew a lively lilt. It was one of the
merriest, most stirring tunes that Ned ever had heard, and he resolved
to learn it. It put life into the whole column.
“That’s a new wan to ye, I’ll wager,” remarked Odell, having paused as
for breath. “’Tis an Irish song that the general likes, and it’s the
march o’ the Sivinth Cavalry.”
The post was above the opposite bank. It stood forth clear in the
crisp air, and among the buildings Ned could see figures scurrying
to and fro. Some of them were women. Away sped the dogs, floundering
through the shallows, and scrambling up the ascent, racing for supper.
Next out scrambled the horses, climbing the steep, beaten trail that
led from the river-bed to the flat plateau above; and at trot the
returning column soon rode into the army post of old Fort Riley.
Bleak it was; composed of bare but substantial barracks and officers’
quarters, two stories high, of whitish stone laid in plaster. These
buildings, lined with verandas, faced inward, forming a broken
square. Outside the square were several other buildings, of stone and
boards—being, as Ned was soon told, the store-houses and stables.
As soon as the column halted, the general nimbly dismounted, and
leaving his horse for his orderly and the dismissal of the column for
Captain Hamilton, he made straight for two women who were standing
expectantly awaiting him, and overwhelmed by the barking dogs.
One he kissed gladly, while to the other he gave his free hand.
“Here we are, Libbie,” Ned heard him say. “Ready for Lizzie’s best.
I’ve brought her a buffalo tongue—a big one. And a recruit, too.” With
his arm about the woman’s shoulders he beckoned to Ned. “Oh, Ned! Come
here.”
Ned went slowly forward. He was ashamed of his rags.
The woman whom the general was treating so affectionately was small
and dark-eyed and sweet; the other woman was a pretty girl, plump and
roguish and very curly-headed, with a profusion of dancing golden hair.
She was smiling across at Captain Hamilton, who now had dismissed the
column.
“Ned, one of these ladies is my wife Mrs. Custer, and the other is our
guest, Miss Diana,” informed the general, a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“You can guess which is which. I picked Ned up on the prairie, at the
same time I got the buffalo—and when the buffalo was about to get
_him_,” he explained, to the twain. “He wants to be a soldier, and I
think we’ll make a bugler of him. What do _you_ think?”
“Oh, you poor boy!” exclaimed the dark-eyed little woman, holding to
Ned both her hands, while Miss Diana smiled brightly upon him. “Is he
lost, Autie?”
“Same old story,” answered the general, soberly. “A waif from another
Indian raid. I’ll tell you about it. But he’ll stay with us, and we’re
going to find his sister for him. She’s all that’s left—somewhere out
among the tribes.”
“Oh!” gasped both women.
“He can come right along with us, can’t he?” queried Mrs. Custer. “He
must be hungry and he ought to have some clothes.”
“N-no, he’d better stay with Odell,” decided the general. “I’ll have
the quartermaster outfit him. He must mess with the other men. He’s to
be enlisted as a bugler.”
Old Fort Riley proved a bustling place. It had been located in the fall
of 1852, and rebuilt in 1855 to afford protection to the settlers who
were passing westward up along the Kansas River Valley. Before it was
christened in honor of General Bennet C. Riley it had been called Camp
Center, because it was supposed to be the geographical center of the
United States. Now it was rapidly filling up with the recruits for the
new Seventh United States Cavalry. Many other people also were flocking
through by ox-team, mule and horse. The rails of the westward creeping
Kansas Pacific branch of the Union Pacific Railroad had approached, to
continue on and on, to Denver.
The post was upon a broad table-land high above the rivers, without
a tree or a shrub, where the wind always blew. The Republican River,
flowing down from the northward, and the Smoky Hill, flowing in from
the westward, joined currents; and below the fort rolled eastward the
noble Kansas River, in a beautiful valley dotted with settlers’ farms
and threaded by the new Kansas Pacific Railroad. Westward from the
fort could be seen other farms, along the Smoky Hill, and the town of
Junction City.
Despite the bareness and the windiness (which were nothing strange to
Ned, who had lived on the Colorado plains) Fort Riley had its charms.
The air was fresh, the view was wide, and with the many soldiers and
the frequent arrivals by stage and by horse or wagon, things were
constantly happening.
In fact, wherever the general chanced to be, something was bound to
happen. He made matters lively—especially when he was off duty. He and
Mrs. Custer were great chums; and, next to her, he liked horses and
dogs—but which the better, it was hard to say. He had a complete pack
of dogs: fox hounds (the old one called Rover) from Texas, where he
had been stationed after the war; a pair of deer-hounds, one of whom
was named Byron; Fannie a fox terrier; stag-hound puppies, Maida and
Blucher; and a bow-legged white bull-dog named Turk, who was the deadly
rival of Byron. He had three horses, splendid ones, named for army
friends; Jack Rucker was a thoroughbred mare from Texas; Phil Sheridan
was a blooded colt from Virginia; and Custis Lee, a pacing horse, very
fast, was ridden usually by Mrs. Custer.
The post headquarters, where lived the general and family, was the
best of the double two-story stone houses about the parade-ground.
It frequently echoed with song and laughter and merry cries, and the
general’s hunting-horn. The household was composed of the general and
Mrs. Custer, Lizzie the faithful black cook, who had been with the
general in the South through the War, and a little negro boy who
wanted to be a jockey. Then of course there were the dogs. In the other
half of the house lived Major Alfred Gibbs and family. Major Gibbs was
a portly, carefully-dressed man, who had been a soldier since 1846. He
ranked next to General Custer.
In his house the general was the same rollicking, active spirit that
he was when ahorse; on duty at the post or afield, and mingling with
the soldiers, he acted the strict officer. He might joke with the other
officers, but all the men understood that he was the chief, and that he
would brook no intrusion upon his military dignity. Thus, although they
called him (out of his hearing) the “old man,” and “old Jack” (because
of the initials G. A. C., for George Armstrong Custer, on his baggage),
they saluted promptly, and obeyed instantly, and tried no jokes on
_him_!
Through the long winter officers, recruits and horses were arriving
almost daily at Fort Riley, to bring up the Seventh Cavalry roll.
Ned grew to know them all. The yellow-haired, boyish General Custer
remained in command; for although he ranked as lieutenant-colonel,
his superior officer of the regiment, Colonel Andrew Jackson Smith, a
major-general and a veteran, who dated back to 1838, was kept on duty
elsewhere. Therefore “old Jack” held the reins at the post—and the
soldiers were speedily brought to know it.
Of the younger officers Ned liked especially his Captain, Louis
M. Hamilton—who was also a lieutenant-colonel; First Lieutenant
Tom Custer, the general’s light-hearted younger brother, a
lieutenant-colonel who had enlisted in the war at sixteen and wore
two medals for enemy’s flags captured; Captain Myles Keogh, who had
served the Pope as well as in the Army of the Potomac; Lieutenant Myles
Moylan the adjutant; and the young second lieutenants who were called
“shave-tails” and “tad-poles” and “plebes.”
Wild Bill, the frontiersman scout, was at the post frequently, passing
up and down, by horse or stage, along the trail west. He was as
particular in his dress as was old Major Gibbs; everything that he
wore was of the finest material, from the ruffle-pleated soft white
shirt and broad-cloth in Junction City to the blue flannel shirt and
riding-breeches on the trail. No matter how dressed, he was always the
same quiet, courteous personage—but he never was seen without the two
ivory-handled revolvers ready at his hips. Report said that he could
shoot to the centre without sighting; and could shoot backward over his
shoulder or under his arm, with an equal deadliness.
All the winter the soldiers were steadily drilled, and put under
constant discipline. “Whipped into shape,” said Bugler Odell. Some men
complained, and some deserted; but the better men realized that the
strict training was necessary.
Bugles were ringing from early till late. Two buglers were attached
to each company. Ned found himself assigned to the company of Captain
Hamilton, and he was glad of that. Now he wore the bugler’s uniform,
which had narrow double strips of yellow down the trousers, and yellow
braid across the chest. It really was a uniform equal to that of any
officer; but——
“All stripes and no authority,” with a laugh declared Odell, who was
chief bugler. “That’s what they say o’ the trumpeter.”
The winter passed without any Indian fights, but with the Seventh
Cavalry getting ready. The railroad trains arrived, and excursionists
were more plentiful than ever: some wanted to hunt buffalo and some
wanted to see Indians, and some wanted to look for land. Rumors
reported that the Cheyennes and the Sioux and the Arapahos to the
westward were not keeping their promises; and that this spring they
would oppose the further advance of the railroad through their hunting
grounds. The settlers of western Kansas were becoming alarmed again.
The Seventh Cavalry must protect them, and the Smoky Hill stage and
emigrant route to Denver, and the railroad survey.
Soon was it known that as quick as the spring opened the Seventh
Cavalry would take the field. By this time Ned, under the teaching of
Chief Bugler Odell, was a thorough trumpeter. Reveille, sick call, mess
call, stables, boots and saddles, the assembly, drill, fire, trot,
charge, tattoo, taps—he knew them all. He had learned “The Girl I Left
Behind Me”; and he had learned “Garryowen”——
“Our hearts so stout have got us fame,
For soon ’tis known from whence we came
Where’er we go they dread the name
Of Garryowen in glory.”
That inspiring tune to which had charged the Custer Third Brigade in
the War, and which was now adopted by the Seventh Cavalry.
So, having been by Odell pronounced a “credit to the regiment,” Ned
felt himself a soldier and ready with the other soldiers.