With stiff lips Ned at sunrise time blew first call for a cavalry camp
pretty well frozen up; and the cheery notes of reveille failed to
awaken much enthusiasm among the soldiers. At assembly for roll-call
the men fell in wrapped to their noses, their overcoat-collars turned
high and clothes tied down over their ears.
However, the snow had ceased, the sun was peeping out, and evidently
the storm had passed. Now the April sun would soon lay bare the plains.
General Custer had not seemed to mind the storm; and out of it had
gained some fun, as usual. Ned heard him telling a joke, with great
peals of laughter, to his brother Colonel Tom Custer and several other
officers.
“Ha-ha-ha!” How they all roared and chuckled, none more loudly than the
general himself.
Nobody expected that the Indians would come in to-day, which was the
tenth, for the snow and the cold would keep them housed. Two soldiers
rode away with a dispatch-bag crammed with letters from officers and
men, for Riley and the East; and the general’s letter to Mrs. Custer,
which Ned delivered at the very last moment, must have been the
fattest of all. No dispatch bearer went from march or camp without, as
appeared, a letter from the general for Mrs. Custer. He kept a regular
diary.
The sun shone, but the weather remained biting cold. However, it was
thought that the Indians would come in on the morrow, which was the
eleventh. In the morning Pawnee Killer sent word that he had started
with his people for the fort, when they had discovered a large herd of
buffalo; so they had stopped to get meat.
This excuse did not please General Hancock or any of the officers; and
even Major Wyncoop was hard put to explain why buffalo should be more
important than a council engagement.
“They don’t mean to come in, gentlemen,” declared Wild Bill, to General
Hancock and Custer and others. “They’re playing for time; that’s all.
The first thing you know, they’ll have cleared out. It’s no part of
their intentions to hold any sort of a pow-wow. This snow’ll fetch
along the grass; and after that, look out!”
“If they don’t come to us, we’ll go to them,” announced General
Hancock. “We’ll give them twenty-four hours more to keep their
promise.”
The general was as good as his word. On the evening of the next day
orders went forth through the camp to prepare for an early march on the
following morning.
This evening several Dog Soldier chiefs, led by Tall Bull, a Cheyenne,
did come riding in, out of the sunset glow, for supper and the little
Cheyenne boy. A young man named Edmond Guerrier acted as interpreter.
His father had been a French-Canadian trapper at old Fort Laramie on
the Platte, and his mother had been a Cheyenne woman. Like his father,
he had married a Cheyenne, and he lived with the Cheyennes whenever he
wished to. The commander at Fort Larned and Major Wyncoop recommended
him as a first class interpreter.
The talk did not amount to anything, because the chiefs said nothing of
importance. But they spent the night as guests of General Hancock, in a
tent put up for them.
Early in the morning the visiting chiefs left, taking with them the
little Cheyenne boy, who hung back and whimpered.
“He’s white, now,” commented Wild Bill, watching. “In a month he’ll be
red, and in six Cheyenne’ll be the only tongue he knows.”
“Fust thing they’ll do’ll be to peel those store clothes off’n him, an’
put him into blanket an’ leggins,” spoke California Joe. “Tomorrer you
wouldn’t recognize him.”
Now all was ready for the march onward to the village. Soon after the
Indians had left the clear notes of the “General” rang from bugles of
cavalry, infantry and artillery. Down, in a twinkling, fell flat every
tent. The canvas was quickly roped into square packs, and passed into
the wagons. Speedily ranks were formed, the cavalry mounted, and on up
Pawnee Fork of the Arkansas, from Fort Larned marched the troops.
The route followed the river, which, willow and alder bordered, wound
crookedly. The scouts rode ahead and on either side—Fall Leaf and his
braves being especially vigilant, for all the Western Indians were
their enemies.
Moving figures were sighted, before. They were Indians, but they
kept out of hailing distance. A great smoke arose, which according
to some opinions in the column was caused by the Indians burning the
buffalo-grass so that there would be no forage for the expedition.
Then, toward evening, when the Indian village was yet ten miles
distant, down from above came galloping another party of chiefs and
warriors.
They were escorted in by Wild Bill, and were introduced to General
Hancock. Pressing their horses to the horses of the white men, they
shook hands.
“There’s Pawnee Killer!” exclaimed Ned, excited as he peered. “See him?
The man with the yellow shield, on the spotted horse.”
General Custer heard the words, and reined back a moment.
“The scouts all say that he won’t tell you anything about your sister,”
warned the general. “It’s very likely he doesn’t know. But we’ll find
her. Maybe not this week, or next, but sometime; we’re on the right
track to do so.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Ned, earnestly.
The chiefs’ party had turned and were riding along with the commanding
officer’s staff; their painted ponies pranced nimbly; blankets and
fringes shook in the breeze.
Night was falling, the march had covered twenty-one long miles, and the
infantry soldiers were well weary. So within nine miles of the Indian
village the column went into camp, upon the banks of the Pawnee Fork.
Not till then did Ned have opportunity to get near Pawnee Killer. He
was not afraid of the chief, now; for did he not carry a six-shooter
revolver and wear a sabre, and besides, was he not a soldier, in the
uniform of the United States army? However, he felt sure that Pawnee
Killer would recognize him. And at last, in the dusk, as Pawnee Killer,
blanket wrapped, was stalking by, Ned hailed him, in Sioux, with a
short:
“How, kola?” (Hello, friend?)
Pawnee Killer halted, glanced aside.
“How?” he said.
“You know me, Pawnee Killer?”
“No;” and Pawnee Killer would pass on.
“Wait. Where’s my sister?”
Pawnee Killer impatiently shook his head. Not a muscle of his dark face
changed. How Ned hated him, at that moment: hated him, for the wrongs
received—for memory of slain father and mother, and hard camp life of
himself and his sister. He scarcely could keep his fingers off his
revolver, could young Ned, standing there returning glare for glare.
“Heap fool. White boy heap fool,” grunted Pawnee Killer,
contemptuously, and drawing closer about him his blanket, he stalked
on. Ned sprang a step after him; then stopped short. He must not be
hasty. He must wait. General Custer had promised him, and he, Ned, was
only one victim among many. Yes, he would wait, and depend upon the
general.
Before taps it was understood throughout the camp (for gossip traveled
fast, especially when California Joe was about to carry news among
the fires) that Pawnee Killer and White Horse were to spend the
night as guests of General Hancock; and that in the morning all the
chiefs of the village should assemble in the camp for the council.
Therefore early in the morning—but not until after he had heartily
breakfasted—Pawnee Killer rode out, to bring, he said, the other chiefs.
The camp waited.
Nine o’clock, or when the sun was three hours high, was the hour set
for the council. Nine o’clock came and passed, but Pawnee Killer and
the other chiefs did not come. Then it was that a new chief arrived,
riding briskly in from the direction of the village. Bull Bear was his
name, according to California Joe; a Cheyenne.
Met by Wild Bill, he was conducted straight to General Hancock’s
headquarters, and another of the many talks was held. California Joe,
loafing near the Custer tent, where stood on duty Ned the orderly
bugler of the Seventh Cavalry, laughed in his shaggy whiskers.
“Those thar Injuns never mean to meet the soldiers in ary council
whatsomever,” he asserted. “Fust thing we know, they’ll all be gone,
skedaddled. An’ I’ll bet my ol’ mule agin a pound o’ baccy that the
women an’ children are leavin’ already. If we want to ketch that
village, we got to get thar mighty quick.”
Evidently this was General Hancock’s opinion. He had been trifled with
long enough. Bull Bear, with a stolid but well-fed expression, rode
away as had Pawnee Killer and other chiefs. And presently General
Custer, striding quickly back from the conference, bade, in satisfied
tone, to Adjutant Moylan: “We’re off. Strike the tents.”
The infantry bugles were ringing the “General,” and Ned hastened
to join for the cavalry. Down came the tents. And with “Boots and
Saddles” and “To Horse” the Seventh Cavalry was prepared for the march
or for battle.
Again the expedition was put in motion, and went clanking and creaking
and rumbling across country, ascending along the Pawnee Fork as if this
time bound right through to the village.
Now the formation indicated that General Hancock, likewise, was
prepared for peace or war. The infantry took the advance, with the
artillery and engineers close behind, the river protecting the left
flank, and the cavalry protecting the right. The scouts rode ahead,
for they were the eyes of the column. And well did the doughty General
Hancock use caution; when only a few miles had been covered, back came
galloping Wild Bill, with hand high, as signal to halt. At the same
moment, almost, rounding a turn in the route the heads of the columns
emerged into a wondrous, startling sight.
The vista opened out, with never a tree or a shrub to break it, until
it was cut sharp by a motionless battle-line. There they sat, upon
their ponies, bay, black, white, and spotted—half a thousand Indian
warriors, all panoplied for fight. Shields shone white, yellow, and
red; lances floated crimson tufts; great war-bonnets of feather crests
brightly tinted almost covered the riders; war-paint streaked face and
body and pony; and the glitter of rifle and revolver showed that the
array was armed like the white men.
Midway between the two parties were the scouts, in extended order. The
Delawares had dropped their blankets from their shoulders and naked to
the waist they sat alert and restless, eager to fight. Fall Leaf held
aloft his rifle and shook it tauntingly.
Up and down the line of mounted warriors were riding the war chiefs
gesturing and talking, as if keeping their men in order. But General
Hancock had not been idle. Instantly his aides had spurred to right
and to left, bearing his commands. The infantry and artillery bugles
pealed shrill; and on came the aide to instruct the cavalry. Pulling
his yellow moustache, General Custer waited impatiently.
Arriving, the aide (he was a young lieutenant) reined his horse to its
haunches, and saluted.
“The commanding general sends his compliments, sir, and directs that
the cavalry form line of battle on the right.”
“Troops right front into line. Two troops in reserve,” spoke the
general, instantly, to his adjutant, Lieutenant Moylan; and he nodded
at Ned to blow the call. His blue eyes were flaming; he looked happy.
Away spurred Lieutenant Moylan, down the column of fours, bearing the
orders. Bugle after bugle took up the strain. Out to right trotted the
fours, extending the cavalry front, by troop after troop, until six
were on the line. Two composed a second line, as a reserve.
The infantry also had double-quicked into company front, and company
after company had come upon the battle line. Into the center had
wheeled at a gallop the artillery, and had unlimbered.
“Companies—load!”
With rattle and thud the long Springfield breech-loaders remodeled from
the muzzle-loaders of the Civil War came to a “load,” and prepared for
the “aim, fire.”
“Draw—sabres!” The general’s voice rang high.
With rasp of steel six hundred sabres flashed in the morning sun.