General Custer wasted no time. Neither did General Hancock. So within
a very few minutes after the two generals were together at camp, plans
were complete. When the troops of the Seventh came riding in at a trot
their officers were met at once with the orders, from headquarters, to
prepare their commands for the trail. The Indians were to be pursued,
and this was cavalry work.
“Light marching order. One hundred rounds of ammunition to the man,
but all other supplies cut down to the last necessary ounce,” were the
instructions, as delivered by Adjutant Moylan.
So again was a bustle of preparation—filling of mess-chests, tightening
of horse-shoes, rolling of blankets, all in the light of camp fire and
moon. Before daybreak the Seventh Cavalry was ready: eight companies,
the band, and a squad of the scouts led by Wild Bill and Fall Leaf.
The east was pink when General Custer, standing impatiently waiting for
the light, beside Custis Lee (to whom he had changed), spoke shortly to
Ned; and from the trumpet of the headquarters bugler pealed the bars
of “Boots and Saddles.” Willingly enough the Seventh Cavalry men again
formed lines, and mounted; for now they were rid of the “dough boys,”
and would travel fast and far, to catch the pesky Indians.
A frost had whitened the ground, and had been marked by horse tracks,
so that at the village were many trails. But the Delawares ranged
hither-thither until, with a triumphant whoop, the youngest warrior of
all announced that he had found the real trail.
The general’s sabre flashed in the beams of the rising sun.
“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!”
“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!” was repeated down the column the
command. The Seventh Cavalry was off, on its first independent scout.
The fan-shaped line of the scouts, with Wild Bill and Fall Leaf to the
fore, held the advance, that they might read the trail. After, came
the cavalry, the general and his adjutant at its head, baggage wagons
toward the rear, and a rear-guard of one troop behind. General Custer
had again donned his buckskin hunting-coat, which was so comfortable
for him, and which would indicate hard work ahead. He looked as he had
when Ned had first seen him. And hard work ahead was the expectation,
for the Indians had gained a good start.
At rapid walk of the horses rode they all. The trailing lodge-poles
of the fleeing village made a trail plain to every eye. A feeling of
satisfaction spread when, after a time, the scouts before started on at
a gallop, with wave of rifle and flutter of blanket, for a little grove
ahead. A faint curl of smoke could be sighted; and there was a glimpse
of moving forms.
“Sound the trot,” promptly bade the general.
At Ned’s bugle signal, “Trot—march!” was repeated down the eager
column. Away they spurred, ready to deploy into action. But after a
brief pause, to reconnoiter, the scouts had proceeded boldly. When
the column reached the place they found only the still burning fires
where the Indians had halted for hasty breakfast, and several ponies,
with packs, left tethered to the trees. And here was a strange Indian,
strutting about arrayed in a panoply of bright crimson feathers, while
the scouts looked on and laughed.
However, this was only the Delaware General Jackson, Fall Leaf’s
nephew, who had arrived first at the grove and had made a capture of
the ponies.
“Roman Nose!” he proclaimed. “Heap feather. Ugh!”
“One o’ these pony packs belonged to Roman Nose, the Delawares say,”
explained Wild Bill, to General Custer. “That youngster’s as proud as
if he’d captured the chief himself.”
There was nothing for which to stop here; and paying no more attention
to the ponies or the breakfast camp, allowing the Delawares to do what
they pleased with the packs, the Seventh Cavalry pressed on. Jackson
rode exultant, his braids ornamented with the Roman Nose feathers.
“We’re out-trailing them,” asserted the general, to Lieutenant Moylan.
“The only question is, can we overtake them before dark? We’ve got to
do it.”
The baggage wagons were dropped behind, with a squadron of two troops
to guard them. The three other squadrons traveled the faster, and ever
the trail led northward, as for the Smoky Hill Fork, or the Platte
beyond.
Noon had passed, but there was no halt for dinner. General Custer
evidently was not a man to delay on the trail. Suddenly Ned realized
that it was not a question alone of capturing the Indians; it was the
bigger question of saving the settlers. From friendlies these Cheyennes
and Sioux had threatened to become hostiles, and their trail bent
straight not only for the Indian country to the north, but also for
the stage routes, and the settlements of the Smoky Hill Fork, and the
Republican, and the Saline, and all.
The afternoon waxed and waned, and still never a glimpse of the Indians
was given. Presently the scouts in the advance slackened, hovered,
and spread to right and left, nosing like hounds. They were at fault.
Then was it seen that the trail suddenly had divided, out-flaring into
a score of smaller trails, which again split into other trails yet
smaller, as if the fleeing band had burst asunder.
This was the Indians’ favorite trick, when closely pursued. A murmur
of vexation arose, while the column, halted, must sit and wait upon the
decision of the scouts. The general and his adjutant, followed by Ned
the bugler orderly, rode forward to inspect. Wild Bill joined them.
“They’re throwing us off, general,” he announced, calmly. “I reckon all
we can do is to pick one of the middle trails and follow it and trust
to luck. Fall Leaf has a trail that we might as well take.”
“Very well, sir,” agreed General Custer, brusquely. “We must do all
that we can, before darkness cuts us short.”
“For-r-r’d—march!” On this trail out of the many rode the column; but
must pause frequently, while the scouts searched right and left and
before, as ever the sign lessened, like a stream at headwaters. At
five o’clock it had been reduced to a mere thread, for the Indians who
had made it had dropped off, one by one. Signal-smokes could be seen,
welling up in east, west and north, as the scattered parties spoke one
another. In the dusk must the Seventh Cavalry halt, to make camp, rest
the horses, and wait for daylight. The Indians had not been headed,
and hearts were heavy. Woe betide the Smoky Hill stage route, and the
ranches of central Kansas.
The next day the trail was lost utterly in a dried water-course. Then
by night march toward the north star was struck the Smoky Hill River.
Beyond was the stage route. Colonel Robert West (who really ranked
as captain, but was colonel because of his Civil War record) was sent
forward with one company to find it. Then in the brightening gray the
camp slept; officers and men sprawled out under their blankets. Ned
never before had been so tired.
Dreaming, as he slept, of facing Pawnee Killer again and with leveled
revolver frightening him into telling where little Mary was, up he
popped, startled out of slumber and dream by a quick “Bang!” of carbine
and the shrill hail by sentry: “Indians!” The corporal of the guard
repeated it.
All the camp was in commotion. Orders issued thick and fast, from where
the general was standing, with sabre buckled on and eyes flashing.
“Bring in those stray animals! Have those horses secured, major. One
platoon of each company with the horses. The other platoons fall in.
Sound the assembly, trumpeter.”
A heavy mist hung low along the horizon; but through it could be
descried, dimly, almost a mile away, a group of moving horsemen. They
seemed to be riding rapidly for the camp. Wild Bill had reported at
once to headquarters, and peering through field-glasses, to him the
general spoke.
“What do you think of them, Bill?”
“They’re up to mischief, I should think,” coolly replied Wild Bill,
whose eyes were as good as the general’s glass. “Act as if they meant
to ride us down.”
“Line of skirmishers ahead; main body in reserve,” murmured the
general, studying them. “By Jove! They’re as well disciplined as
regular troops! Let ’em come. All we want is a fair fight.” These
words, “a fair fight,” were among General Custer’s favorites. “Form
line of platoons, adjutant. Have the men take intervals, and lie down,
enclosing the camp.”
Captain Robbins had been posted upon the knoll whence the sentry had
given the alarm. From him came reports that the enemy seemed to number
about eighty; presently he reported that the enemy had halted; and
next, the enemy had turned and were making off.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the general, in that brisk voice of his. “Confound
them! I was hoping they’d try closer quarters. Look into this, Moylan.
Send out a small detail, for a better view of those fellows. Not too
far, remember.”
Gladly into the saddle sprang the young Captain Hamilton and Lieutenant
Tom Custer, and leading their detail raced out at a gallop. The mists
were breaking under the rising sun; and it could be seen that the
detail were galloping on and on, right into the waiting company before.
“Hamilton must intend to settle the war,” quoth Adjutant Moylan.
However, here galloped back again the detail. Pulling up short, Captain
Hamilton saluted the general.
“Colonel West’s company, sir, confused in the mist. They mistook our
Sibley tents for Indian tipis, and were about to charge us.”
“Plucky enough!” commented the general. “But West won’t hear the last
of this, for some time.”
When, toward evening, Colonel West returned, with his weary company, he
reported that there was no hope. The Indians had struck the stage line,
and raiding right and left had crossed it. Probably all the bands and
tribes to the north would be aroused. This was war.
Now the wagons had rolled in. To the bugles the Seventh Cavalry grimly
buckled on its sabres, and bridled and saddled.
“Prepare to mount! Mount!”
They mounted.
“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!”
Across the valley of the Smoky Hill they soberly jogged, their wagons
lumbering in their rear, for the stage route, and the frightened
stations. Presently they might turn east, upon the well-worn
wagon-trail, to follow it to Fort Hays.
The first two stage stations were silent and abandoned. Along the route
was not a sign of life. The advance of the fleeing Cheyennes and Sioux
seemed to have swept the country clean. About the deserted appearance
of the valley was something ominously quiet. But the third station was
occupied.
A little cheer arose from it as the column rode in; and a group of
stablemen and drivers stood out, to welcome. They were heavily armed,
and log stables and station house, under their sod roofs, were tightly
closed as if for a siege. At this point four stations had gathered in
mutual protection.
“What’s the matter here?” demanded the general.
“Matter enough!” spoke one in the group. “Hello, Bill. The Injuns
are out. They’ve crossed the line, goin’ north. Several parties of
’em, both Sioux an’ Cheyennes. Yes, sir. The lid’s off an’ the pot’s
bubblin’. One party had women an’ children, but the bucks are in their
war paint, an’ they’re raidin’ right an’ left. The stages have quit,
till things simmer down agin, an’ the settlers ought to be warned.”
With parting word, and with grave face, issuing his crisp
“For-r-r’d—march!” repeated by the bugles, the general pressed on.
On the second day they approached a station which, alas, presented a
different aspect. From afar it showed, beside the trail, blackened and
smoking and partially razed to the ground.
“Lookout Station,” informed Wild Bill.
“Bad work there,” quoth the general, abruptly, spurring Custis Lee.
The Delawares arrived first, to nose about, and to stand surveying.
“They’ve found something,” declared Wild Bill.
He, and the general, and Adjutant Moylan galloped forward; Ned plugged
after; the column followed at a trot.
Bad work, indeed. Much of the buildings was in ashes, still smouldering.
A portion of the heavy chinked log walls jutted up charred and ugly. The
Delawares were clustered, at one side, on the plain, examining a mass
difficult to determine, at a little distance. But a nearer view told.
The litter once had been human beings.
“Scalped and burned,” said Wild Bill.
Nobody else spoke a word. He and the general and the lieutenant
sombrely gazed. The doctor joined, horrified. The Delawares looked from
face to face, and waited. Ned stared, and choked.
“The station gang, three of ’em,” announced Wild Bill. “Delawares say
they were staked down, alive. You can guess the rest.”
“Are there any signs who did it—what Indians?” demanded General Custer,
sternly.
Fall Leaf, who spoke English, shook his head.
“No arrow, no moccasin, nothin’,” he grunted. “Come quick; capture
men; scalp, burn, go. Mebbe Cheyenne, mebbe Sioux. Make trail,” and he
pointed northward.
There was nothing to do but to bury by the stage road the poor mangled
fragments. And at dusk the command rode into Fort Hays, fifteen miles.