WHEN NEW FLOWERS BLOOM ON THE GRAVES OF OTHER ROSES--PLUNKETY PLUNK
OF UNSHOD FEET--HE HAD RECKONED WELL.
In the early springtime, at that time of the year when all the world
grows glad; when the green grass springs from the cold, brown earth;
when new flowers bloom on the graves of other roses; when every animal,
man, bird and beast, each to his own kind turns with a look of love
and tender sympathy, we find the restless Red Men of the Plains on the
war-path.
One day at sunset, Lieutenant Creede rode out from Ogallala, where
the scouts were stationed, guarding the railway builders. It was
customary for some one to take a look about at the close of day, to
see if any stray Sioux were prowling around. About six miles from
camp, he came to a clump of trees covering a half dozen acres of
ground. Through this grove the scout rode, thinking perhaps an elk
or deer might be seen; but nothing worth shooting was sighted, till
suddenly he found himself at the farther edge of the wood and on the
banks of the Platte. Looking across the stream, he saw a small band of
hostile Sioux riding in the direction of the river, and not more than
a mile away. His field-glasses showed him that there were seven of the
Sioux, and without the aid of that instrument, he could see that they
had a majority of six over his party. They were riding slowly in the
direction of the camp. Creede concluded that they intended to cross
over, kill the guards, and capture the Government horses. His first
thought was to ride back to camp, keeping the clump of trees between
him and the Indians, and arrange a reception for the Sioux.
The river was half a mile wide and three feet deep. Horses can’t travel
very rapidly in three feet of water.
In a short time they had reached the water’s edge and the scout could
hardly resist the temptation to await their approach, dash out, take a
shot at them, and then return to camp. That was dangerous, he thought;
for, if he got one, there would still be a half a dozen bullets to
dodge. A better plan would be to leave his horse in the grove, crawl
out to the bank, lie concealed in the grass until the enemy was within
sixty yards of him, then stand up and work his Winchester. The first
shot would surprise them. They would all look at their falling friend;
the second would show them where he was, and the third shot would leave
but four Indians. By the time they swung their rifles up another would
have passed to the Happy Land, and one man on shore, with his rifle
working, was as good as three frightened Indians in the middle of the
river.
Thus reasoned the scout, and he crept to the shore of the stream. He
had no time to lose, as the Indian ponies had finished drinking and
were already on the move.
As the sound of the sinking feet of the horses grew louder, the hunter
was obliged to own a feeling of regret. If he could have gotten back
to his horse without them seeing him, he thought it would be as well
to return to camp and receive the visitors there. Just once he lifted
his head above the grass, and then he saw how useless it would be to
attempt to fly, for the Indians were but a little more than a hundred
yards away. Realizing that he was in for it, he made up his mind to
remain in the grass until the Sioux were so near that it would be
impossible to miss them. Nearer and nearer sounded the plunkety-plunk
of the unshod feet of the little horses in the shallow stream, till at
last they seemed to be in short-rifle range, and the trained hunter
sprang to his feet. He had reckoned well, for the Indians were not over
sixty yards away, riding tandem. Creede’s rifle echoed in the little
grove; the lead leaped out and the head Indian pitched forward into the
river. The riderless horse stopped short. The rifle cracked again, and
the second Red Man rolled slowly from the saddle; so slowly that he
barely got out of the way in time to permit the next brave, who was
almost directly behind him, to get killed when it was his turn. The
remaining four Indians, instead of returning the fire, sat still and
stone-like, so terrified were they that they never raised a hand. Two
more seconds; two more shots from the trusty rifle of the scout and two
more Indians went down, head first, into the stream. Panic-stricken,
the other two dropped into the river and began to swim down stream with
all their might. They kept an eye on the scout and at the flash of his
gun they ducked their heads and the ball bounded away over the still
water. Soon they were beyond the reach of the rifle. Returning to their
own side of the river, they crept away in the twilight, and the ever
sad and thoughtful scout stood still by the silent stream, watching
the little red pools of blood on the broad bosom of the slowly running
river.
Three of the abandoned bronchos turned back. Four crossed over to
Creede and were taken to camp.
The two sad and lonely Sioux had gone but a short distance from the
river, when one of them fell fainting and soon bled to death. He had
been wounded by a bullet which had passed through one of his companions
who was killed in the stream. The remaining Indian was afterwards
captured in battle and he told this story to his captors, just as it
was told to the writer by the man who risked his life so fearlessly in
the service of Uncle Sam.