TOM LOCKS THE STABLE DOOR
This evening, just before dark, when we were bringing in the tools and
making things secure for the night, I noticed that Tom had got out an
old padlock that had long lain unused in the mess-chest, and then had
found a piece of trace-chain, and with the two had securely locked
the stable door--a precaution that we had never thought necessary
before--and I asked him: "What are you doing that for, Tom? Seen any
fresh signs about?"
"No," he answered, "but 'tain't much trouble an' it's always best to be
on the safe side. We've been used to having Found to do guard-duty of
nights, an' it may have got us in a fashion of sleeping sounder than
we would if we'd had to look out for ourselves; now, while the dog is
away, with the stable door unlocked it would be easy enough for an
Injun to sneak our horses out an' get away with 'em."
I smiled at what seemed to me a useless precaution and it passed from
my mind; but along in the night, after we had been some hours asleep,
I was suddenly awakened by a slight noise like the rattling of a chain.
Instantly I was thoroughly aroused and remembered Tom's chain on the
stable door. Had I been dreaming? I raised my head cautiously and
listened intently. There it was again--unmistakably the chain on the
stable door.
I determined to investigate before arousing my comrades, and slipping
quietly out of my bed I tiptoed carefully to the door, pulled up
one corner of the muslin cover to the lookout hole, and peeped out
at the stable door. The moon was shining brightly, and there, to my
astonishment, sat a man, crouched at the door of the stable intently
working at the lock, either trying to pick it or pry it off. He was not
an Indian, either. He had soldier clothes on, and beside him on the
ground lay a small bundle.
I took in all this at a glance, and then quietly and quickly slipped
back to Tom's bed, shook him gently, and whispered:
"Sh! don't make a bit of noise, Tom. There's a man working at the lock
on the stable door. Get up quietly while I wake Jack."
It was more difficult to keep the excitable Irishman quiet while
arousing him, but I succeeded in getting him up without making noise
enough to be heard outside. Each man took a look through the peep-hole
and saw that the crouching soldier was still intently working at the
lock.
"Now," I whispered to my comrades, "let each one of us get his carbine
or pistol ready, and be careful to keep them from rattling, and when
I open our door we'll call on him to throw up his hands and take him
prisoner."
"I think I'll give him a load of shot first," whispered Jack, who had
the shotgun, "an' then call on him to throw up."
Finding that I could not open our door without making a noise, I jerked
it wide open quickly. As I did so the kneeling man turned the full side
of his face to me, and in the bright moonlight I recognized private
John Flaherty, one of two soldiers who not long before, with Lieutenant
Smith, had been caught in a blizzard at our camp and had stayed there
until the storm was over. Seeing Jack raise his shotgun to fire, I
knocked the muzzle up as I exclaimed:
"Don't shoot, Jack, it's Flaherty!"
He had pressed the trigger, but my throwing the barrels up sent
the load of shot into the dirt roof of the stable instead of into
Flaherty's back.
I wondered at the stupid, sluggish manner of the man as he rose to his
feet at the report of the gun, but when he started off up the path
leading to the top of the bank his uncertain gait plainly showed that
he was drunk.
Dropping his shotgun, Jack bounded out and up the path after him, soon
overtaking the drunken soldier, seizing him by the collar and cuffing
him right heartily, with each slap rebuking the would-be horse thief
for his drunkenness and thievery.
When Flaherty was brought into the dugout it was evident that he was
almost senseless from drink. He was taken over to Found's bed and left
there, sound asleep.
"There," said Tom, "we forgot to bring in that little bundle he left by
the stable door."
He brought it in, and on opening it it was found to consist of a pint
bottle with a little whiskey in it and a change of underclothing marked
with the man's initials.
"Well," said Tom, "this poor fellow has gone on a spree; while drunk
the idea of deserting has come to him, and he has started off over the
prairie in the dead of winter, through an Indian country, without arms,
provisions, or clothing. As I have often said, a man who is drunk is
literally crazy, and this proves it."
Next morning, when Flaherty was aroused, he had at first no idea
where he was and, after he had been told, no idea how he got here.
He professed that he had no wish to desert, for he was getting along
in his company as well as any of the men and his time of service had
nearly expired.
However, he actually had deserted, and he did not know what to do,
whether to go back and give himself up and take his punishment or
whether to go on. Tom said to him:
"Of course, Flaherty, you can do as you like, but I really think, under
the circumstances, you had best go back and give yourself up and take
your medicine. Maybe, if I go along with you and explain the situation
to Lieutenant Smith, and ask him to intercede with the commanding
office, you can be returned to duty without a court martial."
"Would you do that for me, Tom?" asked Flaherty gratefully.
"I'll do all I can for you, Flaherty, for I do not hold you responsible
for what you have done; but you had a mighty close call, and if whiskey
serves you that way you ought to take warning and swear off."
"That's just what I've been thinking, Tom, and I swear right now I'll
never taste another drop."
As I rode up to camp about sundown that day I noticed two or three
mounted men far out on the high prairie, coming on the trail from Fort
Larned. The field-glass made them out to be Wild Bill and John Adkins
with a pack-mule, and Found trotting along with them. They soon reached
us and dismounted and began unpacking.
"Is supper most ready, boys?" asked Bill.
"I'll have it ready," replied Jack, "by the time you're ready for it."
"We've just got room in the stable for your two horses," I explained,
"in place of the mule team Tom took with him, and I guess I'll take
one of our broncos out and tie it behind the haystack to make room for
your pack-mule, Bill."
"Don't you do anything of the kind, Peck," replied the scout. "That's
one of Uncle Sam's mules, an' he'll do well enough tied in the lee of
your haystack; in fact, it wouldn't hurt our horses much, either, to
stand out."
While Bill, Adkins, and I had been watering, feeding, and putting away
the stock, Jack had been getting supper, and now stepped to the door of
the dugout with his fiddle and sounded "mess call," to see if the scout
would know what it meant.
"That sounds pretty natural," said Bill to me, "let's go in an' see
what he's got to show for it, for I'm as hungry as a coyote."
As we gathered around the mess-chest I inquired:
"When do they expect the volunteers that are coming to relieve the
regulars?"
"Don't know a thing, only that they're on the road somewhere 'tween
here an' Leavenworth. Now, if they were regulars you could calculate
to the hour when they'd get here, for when they get orders to go
anywhere neither hell nor high water'll stop 'em; but if a little bad
weather strikes these volunteers, an' they can find a snug camping
place, they're liable to hang up for a week or two, an' put in the time
stealing chickens an' playing cards."
"How long do you and Adkins expect to be gone on this trip, Bill?"
"Well, now, that's a sort of a 'kin-savvy' case," he replied. "It
depends on how soon we find the Injuns' camp. Maybe it'll take us a
week--maybe two weeks or more--can't tell; but once we get onto their
trail we'll soon overhaul 'em. John, here, says that ol' To hausen,
the 'Little Mountain,' an' his band is camped right down Walnut Creek,
about half-way 'tween here an' Charley Rath's ranch--'bout twenty-five
miles from here."
"Yes," said Adkins, "I was up to their camp 'bout a week ago, an since
that some of the Injuns was down to the ranch a-trading; but they
don't know, for sure, where Satank an' the rest of the tribe is; but
they thought we'd be apt to find 'em on the Smoky, or the Saline, or
Solomon, or maybe on some of the little timbered creeks in between the
rivers."
"Do you think, Adkins," I asked, "that there is any likelihood of To
hausen's band moving up this way? For it would bother our wolf-hunting
business if they should come near us."
"Oh, they may be a-moving camp now an' then, to get fresh grass for
their hosses; but if they get to crowdin' on you, all you've got to
do is to go to ol' To hausen an' ask him to keep far enough away so's
not to interfere with your wolf poisoning, an' he'll do it, for he's
a pretty good ol' Injun, an' always tries to keep on good terms with
the whites. There's only about a hundred men in his band, an' they're
mostly ol' men what's had experience enough to know that it pays better
to keep on good terms with Uncle Sam's people than to be bucking again
'em. But the most of the tribe now seems to be of the other way of
thinking an' have split off from ol' To hausen, who used to be head
chief, an' taken to following the lead of such devils as Satank, an'
Satanta, an' Big Tree; an' they're the ones we've got to look out for."
"Where do you expect to find the Kiowa trail, Bill?"
"Well, from here, we'll follow this ol' lodge-pole trail; it turns off
from the Walnut a few miles up the creek an' goes over to the Smoky
Hill, which is about twenty miles from here; an' about opposite this
point on the Smoky is a mail station on the Denver stage route, an'
I reckon we'll be able to find out from the station men whether the
Kiowas have gone up or down the river an' lay our course to suit."
"When we first came here," I informed him, "it looked like the last
travel over the trail had been about two months before--that would have
been about September--and the tracks were going toward the Smoky Hill;
but they might have been made by Cheyennes or 'Rapahoes."
"We'll be apt to find an old moccasin, or a broken arrow, or somethin'
dropped or thrown away on the trail, before we travel very far, that'll
tell what tribe travelled it last," remarked the scout.
"I noticed that you don't carry any picket-pin," I remarked; "how do
you picket your horse out?"
"I picket him to a hole in the ground. I dig a hole with my knife about
a foot deep; tie a big knot in the end of my lariat; put it down in
the bottom of the hole; fill in the dirt an' tamp it down hard as I
can with my foot; an' that'll hold him 'bout as good as a picket-pin,
an' saves the trouble, an' saves my horse the weight of the iron pin;
an' I always try to lighten my horse's load of every ounce I can do
away with. An' when I'm out by myself, or where there's nobody to stan'
guard at night, I make my bed with my head on my saddle, 'bout half-way
'tween my horse an' the end of my lariat that's buried, an' if anything
strange comes in sight the horse'll begin running 'round at the end of
his rope, an' dragging it over me'll wake me up."
"Well, your way of doing these things is just about the same as we were
trained to do in the cavalry," I remarked.
"Why, of course," replied Bill, "for nearly all I know about scouting
is what I learnt from the ol' cavalrymen an' ol' army officers. You
take one of them ol' soldiers or officers that's been out on the
frontier fifteen or twenty years, an' what he don't know about such
matters ain't worth knowing."
In the morning, after breakfast, while assisting the two scouts to
saddle up and pack their mule, Jack cut off an antelope ham and tied it
in their pack, "to give them a starting of fresh meat," as he said.
Taking up a position in front of Bill, Found stood wagging his tail and
looking up pleadingly into his master's face, seeming to ask: "May I go
with you?"
"No, Found," said the scout, between whom and his dog there seemed to
be a perfect understanding, "you can't go. It'd be too long an' hard a
road for you an' would wear you out. You must stay right here till I
come back."
Then, turning to me, he said:
"You'd better get his chain an' collar an' I'll tie him to that post
there, an' he'll know by that that I don't want him to go an' he'll not
try to follow us after we leave."
I brought the chain and Bill took it and tied the dog, petting and
talking kindly to him, and then making him lie down, which seemed to
satisfy Found that his master desired him to remain.
"Let us hear from you, Bill," I requested, "as soon as you get back,
will you, for I'd like to know how the Kiowas are feeling."
"Yes, I will," he replied; "if I don't come back this way I'll come
over from the fort soon after we get back."
Mounting their horses--Adkins leading the pack-mule, while Wild Bill
rode behind to drive it up--they crossed the creek below the beaver
dam, and were soon out of sight behind the timber.