Down along the building railway in the valley or the Platte there had
been two years of frequent encounter with small bands of Indians. Down
along the Smoky Hill, in Kansas, the Cheyennes were ever giving trouble.
Even around Laramie and Frayne, on the North Platte, settlers and
soldiers had been murdered, as well as one or two officers, caught alone
out hunting, and the Indians were, of course, the perpetrators.
Nevertheless, it had been the policy of the leaders of the Northern
Sioux to avoid any meeting in force and to deny the complicity of their
people in the crimes committed. Supply trains to Reno, Kearney and C. F.
Smith, the Big Horn posts of the Bozeman Trail went to and fro with
guards of only moderate size. Officers had taken their wives and
children to these far-away stations. The stockades were filled with
soldiers' families. Big bands of Indians roamed the lovely valleys of
the Piney, the Tongue, and Rosebud, near at hand, and rode into full
view of the wary sentries at the stockades, yet made no hostile
demonstration. Officers and men went far up the rocky canons of the
hills in search of fish or game, and came back unmolested. Escorts
reported that they sometimes marched all day long side by side with
hunting bands of Sioux, a mile away; and often little parties, squaws
and boys and young men, would ride confidently over and beg for sugar,
coffee, hardtack--anything, and ride off with their plunder in the best
of spirits and with all apparent good feeling. And yet the great
war-chief of the Brules--Sintogaliska--Spotted Tail, the white man's
friend, gave solemn warning not to trust the Ogallallas. "Red Cloud's
heart is bad," he said. "He and his people are moving from the
reservations to the mountains. They mean trouble." Old traders like
Folsom heard and heeded, and Folsom himself hastened to Fort Frayne the
very week that Burleigh and his escort left for Warrior Gap. Visiting at
the ranch of his son in a beautiful nook behind the Medicine Bow
Mountains, the veteran trader heard tidings from an Indian brave that
filled him with apprehension, and he hurried to the fort.
"Is it true," he asked, "that the government means to establish a post
at Warrior Gap? Is it true that Major Burleigh has gone thither?" And
when told that it was and that only Captain Brooks's troop had gone as
escort, Folsom's agitation was extreme. "Colonel," said he, to the post
commander, "solemnly I have tried to warn the general of the danger of
that move. I have told him that all the northern tribes are leaguing
now, that they have determined to keep to themselves the Big Horn
country and the valleys to the north. It will take five thousand men to
hold those three posts against the Sioux, and you've barely got five
hundred. I warn you that any attempt to start another post up there will
bring Red Cloud and all his people to the spot. Their scouts are
watching like hawks even now. Iron Spear came to me at my son's ranch
last night and told me not ten warriors were left at the reservation.
They are all gone, and the war dances are on in every valley from the
Black Hills to the Powder. For heaven's sake send half your garrison up
to Reno after Brooks. You are safe here. They won't molest you south of
the Platte, at least not now. All they ask is that you build no more
forts in the Big Horn."
But the colonel could not act without authority. Telegraph there was
none then. What Folsom said was of sufficient importance to warrant his
hurrying off a courier to Laramie, fully one hundred miles southeast,
and ordering a troop to scout across the wild wastes to the north, while
Folsom himself, unable to master his anxiety, decided to accompany the
command sent out toward Cantonment Reno. He long had had influence with
the Ogallallas. Even now Red Cloud might listen if he could but find
him. The matter was of such urgency he could not refrain. And so with
the gray troop of the cavalry, setting forth within an hour of his
coming, rode the old trader whom the Indians had so long sworn by, and
he started none too soon.
Reno was some ninety miles away, and not until late the next evening did
the grays reach the lonely post. Not a sign of hostile Indian had been
seen or heard, said the officer in command. Small bands of hunters were
out toward Pumpkin Butte two days before.--Yes, Ogallallas--and a
scouting party, working down the valley of the Powder, had met no band
at all, though trails were numerous. They were now patroling toward the
Big Horn. Perhaps there'd be a courier in to-morrow. Better get a good
night's rest meantime, he said. But all the same he doubled his guards
and ordered extra vigilance, for all men knew John Folsom, and when
Folsom was anxious on the Indian question it was time to look alive.
Daybreak came without a sign, but Folsom could not rest. The grays had
no authority to go beyond Reno, but such was his anxiety that it was
decided to hold the troop at the cantonment for a day or two. Meantime,
despite his years, Folsom decided to push on for the Gap. All efforts to
dissuade him were in vain. With him rode Baptiste, a half-breed
Frenchman whose mother was an Ogallalla squaw, and "Bat" had served him
many a year. Their canteens were filled, their saddle-pouches packed.
They led along an extra mule, with camp equipage, and shook hands
gravely with the officers ere they rode away. "All depends," said
Folsom, "on whether Red Cloud is hereabouts in person. If he is and I
can get his ear I can probably stave off trouble long enough to get
those people at the Gap back to Kearney, or over here. They're goners if
they attempt to stay there and build that post. If you don't have word
from us in two days, send for all the troops the government can raise.
It will take every mother's son they've got to whip the Sioux when once
they're leagued together."
"But our men have the new breech-loaders now, Mr. Folsom," said the
officers. "The Indians have only old percussion-cap rifles, and not too
many of them."
"But there are twenty warriors to every soldier," was the answer, "and
all are fighting men."
They watched the pair until they disappeared far to the west. All day
long the lookouts searched the horizon. All that night the sentries
listened for hoof-beats on the Bozeman road, but only the weird chorus
of the coyotes woke the echoes of the dark prairie. Dawn of the second
day came, and, unable to bear suspense, the major sent a little party,
mounted on their fleetest horses, to scour the prairies at least halfway
to the foothills of the Big Horn, and just at nightfall they came
back--three at least--galloping like mad, their mounts a mass of foam.
Folsom's dread was well founded. Red Cloud, with heaven only knew how
many warriors, had camped on Crazy Woman's Fork within the past three
days, and gone on up stream. He might have met and fought the troops
sent out three days before. He must have met the troops dispatched to
Warrior Gap.
And this last, at least, he had done. For a few seconds after the fall
of the buffalo bull, the watchers on the distant ridge lay still, except
that Dean, turning slightly, called to the orderly trumpeter, who had
come trotting out after the troop commander, and was now halted and
afoot some twenty yards down the slope. "Go back, Bryan," he ordered.
"Halt the ambulances. Notify Captain Brooks that there are lots of
Indians ahead, and have the sergeant deploy the men at once." Then he
turned back and with his field glass studied the party along the ravine.
"They can't have seen us, can they, lieutenant?" muttered the trooper
nearest him.
But Dean's young face was grave and clouded. Certainly the Indians acted
as though they were totally unaware of the presence of troops, but the
more he thought the more he knew that no big body of Sioux would be
traveling across country at so critical a time (country, too, that was
conquered as this was from their enemies, the Crows), without vigilant
scouts afar out on front and flank. The more he thought the more he knew
that even as early as three o'clock those keen-eyed fellows must have
sighted his little column, conspicuous as it was because of its wagons.
Beyond question, he told himself, the chief of the band or village so
steadily approaching from the northeast had full information of their
presence, and was coming confidently ahead. What had he to fear? Even
though the blood of settlers and soldiers might still be red upon the
hands of his braves, even though fresh scalps might be dangling at this
moment from their shields, what mattered it? Did he not know that the
safeguard of the Indian Bureau spread like the wing of a protecting
angel over him and his people, forbidding troops to molest or open fire
unless they themselves were attacked? Did he not laugh in his ragged
shirt sleeve at the policy of the white fool who would permit the red
enemy to ride boldly up to his soldiers, count their numbers, inspect
their array, satisfy himself as to their armament and readiness, then
calculate the chances, and, if he thought the force too strong, ride on
his way with only a significant gesture in parting insult? If, on the
contrary, he found it weak then he could turn loose his braves,
surround, massacre and scalp, and swear before the commissioners sent
out to investigate next moon that he and his people knew nothing about
the matter--nothing, at least, that they could be induced to tell.
One moment more Dean watched and waited. Two of the Indians in the
ravine were busily reloading their rifles. Two others were aiming over
the bank, for, with the strange stupidity of their kind, the other
buffalo, even when startled by the shot, had never sought safety in
flight, but were now sniffing the odor of blood on the tainted air, and
slowly, wonderingly drawing near the stricken leader as though to ask
what ailed him. Obedient and docile, the Indian ponies stood with
drooping heads, hidden under the shelter of the steep banks. Nearer and
nearer came the big black animals, bulky, stupid, fatuous; the foremost
lowered a huge head to sniff at the blood oozing from the shoulder of
the dying bull, then two more shots puffed out from the ravine, the huge
head tossed suddenly in air, and the ungainly brute started and
staggered, whirled about and darted a few yards away, then plunged on
its knees, and the next moment, startled at some sight the soldier
watchers could not see, the black band was seized with sudden panic, and
darted like mad into the depths of the watercourse, disappeared one
moment from sight, then, suddenly reappearing, came laboring up the
hither side, straight for the crest on which they lay, a dozen black,
bounding, panting beasts thundering over the ground, followed by half a
dozen darting Indian ponies, each with his lithe red rider scurrying in
pursuit.
"Out of the way, men! Don't fire!" shouted Dean. And, scrambling back
toward their horses, the lieutenant and his men drew away from the front
of the charging herd, invisible as yet to the halted troop and to the
occupants of the ambulance, whose eager heads could be seen poked out at
the side doors of the leading vehicle, as though watching for the cause
of the sudden halt.
And then a thing happened that at least one man saw and fortunately
remembered later. Bryan, the trumpeter, with jabbing heels and flapping
arms, was tearing back toward the troop at the moment at the top speed
of his gray charger, already so near that he was shouting to the
sergeant in the lead. By this time, too, that veteran trooper, with the
quick sense of duty that seemed to inspire the war-time sergeant, had
jumped his little column "front into line" to meet the unseen danger; so
that now, with carbines advanced, some thirty blue jackets were aligned
in the loose fighting order of the prairies in front of the foremost
wagon. The sight of the distant officer and men tumbling hurriedly back
and to one side, out of the way presumably of some swiftly-coming peril,
acted like magic on the line. Carbines were quickly brought to ready,
the gun locks crackling in chorus as the horses pranced and snorted. But
it had a varying effect on the occupants of the leading wagon. The shout
of "Indians" from Bryan's lips, the sight of scurry on the ridge ahead
brought the engineer and aide-de-camp springing out, rifle in hand, to
take their manly part in the coming fray. It should have brought Major
Burleigh too, but that appropriately named non-combatant never showed
outside. An instant more and to the sound of rising thunder, before the
astonished eyes of the cavalry line there burst into view, full tear for
safety, the uncouth, yet marvelously swift-running leaders of the little
herd. The whole dozen came flying across the sky line and down the
gentle slope, heading well around to the left of the line of troopers,
while sticking to their flanks like red nettles half a dozen young
warriors rode like the wind on their nimble ponies, cracking away with
revolver or rifle in savage joy in the glorious sport. Too much for
Burleigh's nerve was the combination of sounds, thunder of hoofs and
sputter of shots, for when a cheer of sympathetic delight went up from
the soldier line at sight of the chase, and the young engineer sprang to
the door of the ambulance to help the major out, he found him a limp and
ghastly heap, quivering with terror in the bottom of the wagon, looking
for all the world as if he were trying to crawl under the seat.