Remonstrance on part of his men would have been a violation of their
rules of order. Obedient to the lieutenant's instructions, Sergeant
Bruce, with evident reluctance, lowered his hand. Whoever these Indians
were they well understood the principles that governed civilized
warfare. They well knew that the white soldiers would respect a flag of
truce, though in their own vernacular they referred to the sacred emblem
only as a "fool flag," and sometimes used it, as did the Modocs five
years later, to lure officers into ambush and deliberately murder them.
They knew the white soldiers would take no advantage of foemen gathered
for a conference or parley, and thus far the Sioux themselves had
observed the custom which the Modocs basely violated when in cold blood
they slaughtered General Canby and the peace commissioners sent to treat
with them. Confidently, therefore, came the two young warriors, but as
Dean raised himself from the ground and was about to step forward, the
sergeant spoke:
"Beg pardon, sir, but these fellows know all our officers. They would
recognize you at once. The word would go to Red Cloud faster than any
pony could gallop. Let me meet them, or let one of the men."
The ponies were coming at the lope now, and not an instant was to be
lost. The safety of his command might possibly depend on their not being
recognized as of the troop before whose carbines Chaska, brother to
Lizette, had met his death.
"Perhaps you're right," said Dean. "Halt them again. Conroy, you go with
Sergeant Bruce."
Eagerly a young trooper, carbine in hand, sprang up and stood by the
sergeant's side as the latter repeated his warning signal. Obediently,
yet not too promptly, showing evident desire to get where they could
peer over into the ravine and count the number of the white men and
horses, the Indians again drew rein, this time barely one hundred yards
away. Then Bruce and Conroy, holding up their emptied hands, strode
forward along the grassy slope, making the further sign, "Dismount."
In those days few of our cavalry wore, when on Indian campaign, the
forage-cap with its crossed sabres and distinguishing letters. Nothing
in the dress or accoutrements of the two men thus advancing to meet the
Indian emissaries would give to the latter any clew as to the troop or
regiment to which they belonged. Could they see the horses, however, the
matter would be settled at once. The U. S. brand, with that of the
number of the regiment and letter of the troop showed on every cavalry
mount in the service, and the Ogallallas knew the earmarks of two, at
least, of our cavalry regiments in '68 as well as they did the cut of
their own hair. But in the modesty of the non-commissioned officer Bruce
had underrated his own prominence in Indian eyes. Not only did these
keen observers know every officer by sight, and have for him some
distinguishing name of their own, but many a trooper, easily singled out
from his fellows because of his stature, or the color of his hair, or
some other physical peculiarity, was as well known as his captain or
lieutenant, and Bruce, ex-trooper of the Scots Greys, and now a model
sergeant of Yankee cavalry, was already a marked man in the eyes of the
southern Sioux. Brule, Minneconjou and Ogallalla knew him well--his
aquiline beak, to which the men would sometimes slyly allude, having won
him the Indian appellative of Posh Kopee or Big Nose.
Before the two parties came within fifty yards of each other, therefore,
watchers along the ravine saw the quick exchange of significant glances
between the young braves. "Twig that?" whispered Trooper Blaine, in low,
emphatic tone. "Those fellows know 'Scotty' just as well as we do."
All the same, leaving their trained ponies to nibble at the scanty bunch
grass, the two came straight forward with extended hands and cordial
"How, colah!" on their lips, one of them adding, in agency English,
"Want talk chief. Indian poor. Heap sick." (And here he clasped his
stomach with both hands.) "Want coffee, sugar, bread."
"All right," said Bruce promptly, noting the while how the roving black
eyes searched the edge of the ravine. "Stay here. Don't come nearer. You
got buffalo meat?"
A grunt was the reply of one, a guttural "Buffalo, yes," the answer of
the other.
"Bring tongues, then," and Bruce touched his own. "Five," and he threw
forward the outspread right hand, rapidly touching in succession the
thumb and four fingers. "We give both hands full--coffee, sugar,
hardtack," and Bruce illustrated as he spoke. "That's all!" he finished
abruptly, with the well-known Indian sign that plainly tells "I have
spoken--there is nothing more to say," then calmly turned his back and,
bidding Conroy follow, started to return to his comrades at the ravine.
But Indian diplomacy was unsatisfied. The Sioux had found "Big Nose" to
be one of the soldiers in the field. He, at least, was of the hated
troop that fought and chased Burning Star and killed Chaska. The trail
told them there were nearly a dozen in the party, all on shod horses,
with two in lead-spare mounts or pack-horses, doubtless--so they had
extra rations and had come far; but why were they going this way, so far
west of the usual road to the Big Horn posts? Why were they so few in
number? Where were the rest? Why were they hiding here in the ravine,
instead of marching? Answer to this last question was easy enough. It
was to keep out of sight of Indian eyes and needed no excuse. There was
something behind this mysterious presence of ten or twelve soldiers in
the southern foothills, and Machpealota would expect of his scouts full
information, hence the instant movement on the part of one of the two
braves to follow.
Impressively, Bruce turned again and waved him back. "Go, get buffalo
tongue," said he, "or no trade. Keep away from our tepees," and he drew
with his spurred boot-heel a jagged line across the turf. "Your side,"
said he, indicating the slope to the southeast of the line. "This--ours.
That's all!" And this time the Indian knew he must come no nearer.
"I've got 'em talking trade, lieutenant," reported Bruce, the instant he
reached Dean's side. "We don't need the tongues, but we've got more
coffee and sugar than we are apt to want, and at least we can keep them
interested until dark, then we can slip away. Of course, they've sent
word to their main body that we're over here, but I believe they can't
come in force before night."
"They knew you, sergeant, and they know it is probably our troop," said
he. "There must be only a small party near us. Make your trade, but
while you're doing it we'll saddle. I mean to get out of this and into
the thick of the timber before they can surround us. Stand 'em off, now,
while we get ready."
Promises must be kept when made to an Indian, even if they are otherwise
sometimes broken. In ten minutes, with coffee, sugar and hardtack in
their hands, the sergeant and his comrades were back at the front. One
brave was still there, the other had vanished. Five minutes, neither
party saying a word, the troopers waited; then Bruce turned to Conroy.
"I knew they had nothing to trade. Take this sack with you and fall
back. Tell our fellows to keep me well covered till I follow." The
instant the soldier started with the sack swung over his shoulder, the
Indian, who had been squatted on the turf, sprang up and began rapid
expostulation in fluent Ogallalla. "It's no use, young man," interposed
Bruce. "Your chum there has no buffalo tongues, and he knew it. Here's
some hardtack for you," and he spread one liberally with sugar and
handed it to the ever-receptive paw, outstretched to grasp it. A glance
over the shoulder showed that Conroy was nearly at the edge. Then,
quietly, Bruce, too, began to retire. He had not got ten paces, still
facing his unwelcome visitor, when the Indian gave a shrill, sudden cry
and tossed up his hands. Not a second too soon Bruce turned and darted
for cover. The Indian flung himself flat on the turf and rolled away
into a depression where he could find partial shelter from bullets from
the ravine, whence he evidently looked for them, and out from behind the
knoll, bridles held high, "quirts" lashing at their ponies' flanks,
darted half a dozen painted savages, tearing down upon the spot at the
top speed of their agile mounts. Only two men remained on watch at the
moment, Dean and one trooper. Most of the others, already in saddle,
were filing away up the game trail that threaded the windings of the
ravine, the two lead horses with them, while a few yards behind the
young officer and his comrade, halfway down the reverse slope, two
others, afoot, handled the reins of their own horses and those of the
lieutenant and men still held at the edge. It was an exciting moment.
Bruce had only a hundred yards to run before he could get under cover,
and there was no chance of their hitting him at that range, yet a puff
of smoke rose from the knoll, and a bullet, nearly spent, came tumbling
and singing up the turf, and the dashing warriors, yelling wildly,
applauded the shot. Bruce took matters coolly. Leaping behind the
shelter of the ledge, he reached for his carbine, and in a moment more,
as the pursuing Indians came lashing within long range, four seasoned
cavalry carbines, each with a keen eye at the sight and a steady finger
at the trip, were leveled on the coming foe. Dean's young heart beat
hard, it must be owned, for hitherto the Indians had been fighting in
retreat or on the defensive, while now they came as though confident of
success; but there was soldier exultation and something like savage joy
mingling with the thrill of excitement.
"There's more behind those beggars, sir," growled Conroy, a veteran at
Indian work, "but they'll sheer off when they get within three hundred
yards." On they came, shields and lances dangling, ponies on the keen
jump, feathers and pennons streaming on the wind. But, just as Conroy
said, no sooner was Bruce safely under cover and they felt themselves
drawing within dangerous range than, fan-like, they opened out to right
and left, and, yelling still like fiends, veered in wide circle from
their line of attack, and ducking over their ponies' shoulders, clinging
with one leg to the upright part of the cantle, they seemed to invite
the fire of their white foe--and got it. A daring fellow in the lead
came streaking slantwise across the front, as though aiming to pick up
the comrade lurking in the dip of the prairie-like slope, and Conroy's
carbine was the first to bark, followed almost instantly by Dean's. The
scurrying pony threw up his wall-eyed head and lashed with his feathered
tail, evidently hit, but not checked, for under the whip he rushed
gamely on until another bullet, whistling within a foot of his neck,
warned the red rider that he was far too close for safety, for with
halting gait the pony turned and labored off the field, and presently
was seen to be staggering. "Score one for our side," laughed the
Irishman, in glee. "Now's your time, sergeant."
But Bruce, reloading, was gazing sternly at the distant knoll. The other
warriors, riding right and left, were now chasing crosswise over the
billowy slopes, keeping up a fire of taunt and chaff and shrill
war-cries, but never again venturing within three hundred yards--never
wasting a shot.
"I thought so," suddenly cried the sergeant. "They're signaling from the
knoll. They never would have attacked with so few, unless there were
dozens more within sight. Now's our time, lieutenant. We can mount and
ride like hell to the timber--I beg your pardon, sir," he broke off
suddenly. "I didn't mean to say what the lieutenant should do."
"No apologies," laughed Dean, his eyes snapping with the vim of the
fight. "Glad you see the truth of what I said. Come on. Mount quickly,
men."
Two minutes more and the entire party of blue-coats were spurring
swiftly northward up the winding gorge, the pack-horses lumbering
alongside. Eagerly Dean and Bruce in the lead looked right and left for
a game trail leading up the slope, for well they knew that the moment
their reinforcements came the warriors would dash into the ravine and,
finding their antagonists fled, would pursue along the banks. It would
never do to be caught in such a trap. A gallop of a quarter of a mile
and, off to the right, a branch ravine opened out to higher ground, and
into this the leaders dove and, checking speed, rode at the trot until
the ascent grew steep. Five minutes more and they were well up toward
the head of the gulch and presently found themselves nearly on a level
with the hillsides about them. Here, too, were scattered pine-trees and
a few scrub-oak. The timber, then, was close at hand. Signaling halt to
the climbing column, Dean and Bruce, springing from saddle, scrambled up
the bank to their right and peered cautiously back down over the
tumbling waves of the foothills, and what they saw was enough to blanch
the cheek of even veteran Indian fighters.
Far over to the east, beyond an intervening ridge and under the dun
cloud of dust, the earth was black for miles with herds of running
buffalo. Far down to the southeast, here, there and everywhere over the
land, the slopes were dotted with little knots of Indian braves--they
could be nothing else--all riding like mad, coming straight toward them.
Machpealota probably had launched his whole force on the trail of the
luckless troopers.