Lieutenant Dean's orders required that he should march his troop without
unnecessary delay to Fork Emory, there to take station relieving Troop
"F," ordered to change to Frayne, which meant, in so many words, to take
the field. Captain Brooks, still wrestling with the fever, had retired
to his quarters at the old frontier fort that stood so long on the
bluffs overlooking the fords of the Platte. The surgeon said he must
remain in bed at least a week, so meantime the troop packed up, sent its
wagons ahead over the range, bade God speed to "F" as it passed through
_en route_ to the front, exchanged a volley of chaff and chewing tobacco
over the parting game of "freeze out" fought to a finish on many an
outspread saddle blanket, then, jogged on toward Gate City, making wide
_detour_ at the suggestion of the field officer in command at Frayne,
that they might scout the Laramie plains and see that all was well at
Folsom's ranch. This _detour_ was duly reported to the peppery veteran
at Fort Emory, an old colonel whose command was by this time reduced
from "headquarters, field, staff and band," six companies of infantry
and four troops of cavalry, to the band and two desperately overworked
companies of foot. "Two nights in bed" were all his men could hope for,
and sometimes no more than one, so grievous was the guard duty. Hence
"old Pecksniff," his adjutant and quartermaster and his two remaining
companies saw fit to take it as most unkind in Lieutenant-Colonel Ford
to authorize that diversion of Dean's, and highly improper on Dean's
part to attempt it. By this time, too, there was in circulation at Emory
a story that this transfer of "C" to interior lines and away from
probable contact with the Sioux was not so much that it had done far
more than its share of that arduous work, completely using up its
captain, as that, now the captain was used up, the authorities had their
doubts as to the "nerve" of the lieutenant in temporary command. A
fellow who didn't care to come to Emory and preferred rough duty up
along the Platte must be lacking in some essential particular, thought
the women folk, and at the very moment that Marshall Dean sat there at
Hal Folsom's ranch, as brave and hardy and capable a young officer as
ever forded the Platte, looking forward with pleasurable anticipations
to those days to come at Emory, with Jessie--Jessie and, of course,
Pappoose--so close at hand in town, there was gaining ground at the post
an impression that the safety of the board of officers sent to choose
the site of the new Big Horn post had been imperiled by Dean's weakening
at a critical moment in presence of a band of probably hostile Sioux.
Burleigh had plainly intimated as much to his chief clerk and Colonel
Stevens, and when Loring and Stone came through a day or two later and
questions were asked about that meeting, the aide-de-camp gave it as
distinctly to be understood that he had practically assumed command,
Dean's inexperience being manifest, and his own prompt measures had
extricated the little detachment from a most delicate and dangerous
position. The engineer, let it be said, did not hear this statement, and
the aid was very careful not to make it in his presence. He was a
comparative stranger and as no one presumed to question him, he
volunteered no information.
Planning to bivouac until dawn of the next day at Folsom's, Dean had
then intended to reach Fort Emory in three easy marches. He was anxious
to bring his horses in in best possible condition, despite all their
hard service; yet now, barely two o'clock on this hot June afternoon,
came most unlooked-for, most importunate interruption to his plans.
Springing to the gate at the sergeant's summons, he first directed his
gaze to the distant peak, recognized instantly the nature of the smoke
puffs there rising, then turned for explanation to the swift-riding
courier, whose horse's heels were making the dust fly from the sun-dried
soil. One or two ranch hands, with anxious faces, came hastening over
from the corral. The darkey cook rushed up from the kitchen, rifle in
hand. Plainly these fellows were well used to war's alarms. Mrs. Folsom,
with staring eyes and dreadful anxiety in her face, gazed only at the
hurrying courier, clinging the while to the pillar of the portico, as
though needing support. The smoke puffs on the mountain, the dust-cloud
back of the tearing rider were symptoms enough for Dean.
"Get in your herd, sergeant!" he shouted at the top of his voice; and
over the rushing of the Laramie his words reached the rousing bivouac,
and saddle blankets were sent swinging in air in signal to the distant
guards, and within a few seconds every horse was headed for home; and
then, to the sound of excited voices was added the rising thunder of
scores of bounding hoofs, as, all in a dust-cloud of their own, the
sixty chargers came galloping in, ears erect, eyes ablaze, nostrils
wide, manes and tails streaming in the breeze, guided by their eager
guards full tilt for camp. Out ran their riders, bridles in hand, to
meet and check them, every horse when within a few yards of his master
seeming to settle on his haunches and plow up the turf in the sudden
effort to check his speed, long months of service on the plains and in
the heart of Indian land having taught them in times of alarm or peril
that the quicker they reached the guiding hand and bore, each, his
soldier on his back, the quicker would vanish the common foe. Even
before the panting steed of the headlong courier came within hailing
distance of the ranch, half the horses in the troop were caught and the
bits were rattling between their teeth; then, as the messenger tore
along the gentle slope that led to the gateway, his wearied horse
laboring painfully at the rise, Mrs. Folsom recognized one of her
husband's herdsmen, a man who had lived long years in Wyoming and could
be unnerved by no false alarm, and her voice went up in a shriek of fear
as she read the tidings in his almost ghastly face.
"Where is Hal?" she screamed. "Oh, what has happened?"
"He's safe," was the answering call, as the rider waved a reassuring
hand, but at the instant he bent low. "Thank God, you're here,
lieutenant," he gasped. "Mount quick. Hal's corralled two miles out
there under the butte--Sioux!" And then they saw that he was swooning,
that the blood was streaming down the left thigh and leg, and before
hand could help him, he rolled senseless, doubled up in the dust at his
horse's feet, and the weary creature never even started.
"Saddle up, men!" rang the order across the stream. And then while
strong arms lifted and bore the wounded herdsman to the porch, Dean
turned to the wailing mistress, who, white-faced and terror-stricken,
was wringing her hands and moaning and running wildly up and down the
walk and calling for some one to go and save her husband. Dean almost
bore her to a chair and bade her fear nothing. He and his men would lose
not a moment. On the floor at her feet lay the little card photograph,
and Dean, hardly thinking what he did, stooped, picked it up and placed
it in the pocket of his hunting shirt, just as the trumpeter on his
plunging gray reached the gate, Dean's big, handsome charger trotting
swiftly alongside. In an instant the lieutenant was in saddle, in
another second a trooper galloped up with his belt and carbine. Already
the men were leading into line across the stream, and, bidding the
trumpeter tell Sergeant Shaughnessy to follow at speed, the young
officer struck spur to his horse and, carbine in hand, a single trooper
at his heels, away he darted down the valley, "C" Troop, splashing
through the ford a moment later, took the direct road past the stockade
of the corral, disappeared from sight a moment behind that wooden
fortification, and, when next it hove in view, it was galloping front
into line far down the Laramie, then once more vanished behind its
curtain of dust.
"Two miles out there under the butte," was the only indication the young
officer had of the scene of the fight, for fight he knew it must be, and
even as he went bounding down the valley he recalled the story of the
Indian girl, the threats of Burning Star, the vowed vengeance of her
brothers. Could it be that, taking advantage of this raid of Red Cloud,
far from all the reservations, far from possibility of detection by
count of prying agents, the three had induced a gang of daring,
devil-may-care young warriors to slip away from the Big Horn with them
and, riding stealthily away from the beaten trails, to ford the Platte
beyond the ken of watchful eyes at Frayne and sneak through the mountain
range to the beautiful, fertile valley beyond, and there lie in wait for
Hal Folsom or for those he loved? What was to prevent? Well they knew
the exact location of his ranch. They had fished and sported all about
it in boy days--days when the soldiers and the Sioux were all good
friends, days before the mistaken policy of a post commander had led to
an attack upon a peaceful band, and that to the annihilation of the
attacking party. From that fatal day of the Grattan massacre ten years
before, there had been no real truce with the Sioux, and now was
opportunity afforded for a long-plotted revenge. Dean wondered Folsom
had not looked for it instead of sleeping in fancied security.
A mile nearer the butte and, glancing back, he could see his faithful
men come bounding in his tracks. A mile ahead, rising abruptly from the
general level, a little knoll or butte jutted out beyond the shoulders
of the foothills and stood sentinel within three hundred yards of the
stream. On the near--the westward--side, nothing could be seen of horse
or man. Something told him he would find the combatants beyond--that
dead or alive, Hal Folsom would be there awaiting him. A glance at the
commanding height and the ridge that connected it with the tumbling,
wooded hills to the north, convinced him that at this moment some of the
foe were lurking there, watching the westward valley, and by this time
they knew full well of the coming of the cavalry to the rescue. By this
time, more than likely, they were scurrying off to the mountains again,
returning the way they came, with a start of at least two miles.
"With or without the coveted scalps?" he wondered. Thus far he had been
riding straight for the butte. The road wound along and disappeared
behind him, but there was no sense in following the road. "Pursue and
punish," was the thing to be done. Surely not more than a dozen were in
the band, else that courier could never have hoped to get in, wounded as
he was. The Indians were too few in number to dare follow to the ranch,
guarded as, by almost God-given luck, it happened to be through the
unlooked-for presence of the troops. No, it was a small band, though a
daring one. Its lookout had surely warned it by this time of his coming,
and by this time, too, all save one or two who rode the fleetest ponies
and lingered probably for a parting shot at the foremost of the chase,
had scampered away behind the curtain of that ridge. Therefore, in long
curve, never checking his magnificent stride, Dean guided his bounding
bay to the left--the northeast--and headed for the lowest point of the
divide.
And then it all occurred to him too that he was far in front of his men,
too far to be of use to them and just far enough to be an easy prey for
the lurking foe. Then, too, it occurred to him that he must not leave
the ranch unprotected. Already he was within long rifle range of the
height; already probably some beady eye was glancing through the sights,
and the deadly tube was covering him as he came bounding on. Three
hundred yards more and his life probably wouldn't be worth a dollar in
Confederate money, and wisely the young leader began to draw rein, and,
turning in saddle, signaled to his single companion, laboring along one
hundred yards behind, to hasten to join him. Presently the trooper came
spurring up, a swarthy young German, but though straining every nerve
the troop was still a mile away.
"Ride back, Wegner, and tell the sergeant to take ten men around that
side--the south side of the bluff," and he pointed with his hand; "the
rest to come straight to me."
Oh, well was it for Dean that he checked his speed, and as the young
dragoon went sputtering back, that he himself drew rein and waited for
the coming of his men. Suddenly from far out along the ridge in front,
from the very crest there leaped a jet or two of fire and smoke. Two
little spurts of dust and turf flew up from the prairie sod a dozen
yards in front, a rifle bullet went singing off through the sunny air,
Rabb, his handsome bay, pawed the ground and switched about, and up on
the crest, riding boldly in full view, two lithe, naked, painted
warriors, war bonnets trailing over their ponies' croups, yelling shrill
insult and derision, went tearing away northward, one of them pausing
long enough to wave some ragged object on high, and give one ringing,
exultant whoop ere he disappeared from view.
"It's a scalp, lieutenant," shouted the foremost sergeant as he came
lunging up to join his chief. "They've got one, anyhow."
"Come on, then, and we'll get it back," was the only answer, as with
nearly thirty troopers stringing out behind them, the two launched out
in chase.