GEORGE AT THE FORT.
"Colonel, that young fellow has had a very hard time of it," said George
when Bob had closed the door behind him.
"I expected it," replied the officer carelessly. "It is a wonder to me
that the deserters didn't kill him, for there were some hard characters
among them and they were well armed."
This remark would seem to indicate that the colonel was a most unfeeling
man, and that he did not set much if any value upon the life of a
non-commissioned officer; but such was not really the case. When he was
a subaltern his superiors had often assigned to him some very hazardous
undertakings, and when he attained to a rank that entitled him to a
command he sent others into danger and thought nothing of it. A
soldier's first and last duty was to obey any orders he might receive,
and if he lost his life while in the act of executing those orders,
why, it was nothing more than might be expected.
"They did try to kill him," said George. "Didn't you notice that hole in
the breast of his coat?"
"I did, and I thought it looked as though it had been made by a bullet."
"So it was. Bristow shot at him. He wanted to be revenged on Bob for
telling you about those thirty men who tried to desert some time ago,
and if he had been a little better marksman you would have been put to
the trouble of appointing a new corporal in the place of as brave a boy
as ever swung a sabre."
"Why, George," exclaimed the colonel, becoming interested, "you are
quite enthusiastic. Do you know Corporal Owens?"
"Yes, sir. He is the one who pulled me out of the river on the night the
old Sam Kendall was burned."
"Oh yes; you told me about that the first time you were here. Where did
the corporal find Bristow and his party?"
George answered this question by giving the colonel a circumstantial
account of the pursuit, as he had heard it from Bob's lips, and the
manner in which he had gone to work to secure the deserters after he had
discovered their place of refuge. His description of Bryant's arrest
amused the officer, who declared that it was a very neat piece of
strategy.
Having placed Bob's case in the most favorable light possible, George
then went on to tell the colonel about Springer's unexpected visit to
his ranche, and described in detail the intended movements of Fletcher
and his band. The officer said he had done right in sending the
cattle-thief to warn the commandant at Eagle Pass, and had no doubt that
that officer would take measures to assist the civil authorities at Rio
Grande City in protecting the jail and giving Fletcher and his men a
warm reception when they came across the river; but, in order to explain
what happened afterward, we must here say that he did nothing of the
kind. Unfortunately for Springer, he was recognized by some ranchemen
who happened to be hanging about the post, and in spite of his
protestations he was arrested and turned over to the marshal, who locked
him up. No attention whatever was paid to his warning, and so positive
was the marshal that there was "something back of it" that he would not
even permit the prisoner to tell his story.
The cattle-thief remained in jail until the next full moon, and then
Fletcher and his men suddenly made their appearance, just as Springer
said they would. As no precautions had been taken to guard the prison,
the raiders had an easy victory, and before assistance could arrive from
the Pass, Springer and the murderers of the cowboy had been released and
Fletcher was safe across the river. Springer, of course, was much too
sharp to tell how he came to be an inmate of the jail, and the boss
cattle-thief, believing that he had been arrested while trying to carry
out his instructions, treated him with the greatest consideration.
"What did you mean by saying that you would give me a taste of army-life
by sending me out on a scout to-morrow?" asked George after he had
finished his story. "Any raiding going on about here?"
"Well, yes. I am going to send Clinton out to punish a war-party of
Kiowas if he can catch them. I am aware you are used to roughing it, but
you know nothing about campaigning with troops, and I thought I would
give you a chance to get your hand in before I call upon you to lead us
across the river. Some young bucks belonging to Satanta's band, the most
of them mere boys, have broken away from their agency and come down here
in pursuit of scalps and fame. Among other outrages which they have
committed, they jumped down on a poor fellow the other day, killed or
scattered his herdsmen, drove off his stock and carried his two children
into captivity. I should like to be the means of ridding the frontier of
that villain, for he is dangerous. During a peace-council that was held
at Fort Dodge some time ago, Satanta talked so glibly about his desire
to cultivate friendly relations with us, and his unalterable
determination to 'follow the white man's road' in future, that he really
succeeded in making the commissioners believe that he was sincere in
what he said. To encourage him in his good resolutions, the department
commander and staff presented him with a uniform coat and sash and a
brigadier-general's hat. How the wily old scoundrel must have laughed in
his sleeve when he saw how completely he had bamboozled some of our best
soldiers!"
"How long did he keep his promise?" asked George.
"About three weeks, and then he led an attack, dressed in his new
uniform, against the fort in which the council was held. Oh, he's a good
one! I know you didn't come here to fight Indians, but you'll have to
hold yourself in readiness for anything that turns up."
"You will always find me around when you want me," replied George. "May
I write a letter here?" he continued, seeing that the colonel picked up
his pen and turned to his table to resume some writing in which he had
been interrupted when Bob and the new scout came in to report.
"Certainly. There are pens, ink and paper; help yourself. There's the
letter-box over there. The mail-carrier goes out to-morrow."
Before George could begin work on his letter the officer of the day came
in. He shook hands with the new-comer, to whom he had been introduced on
the occasion of the boy's first visit to the fort, and was told by the
colonel to put the deserters into the guard-house, to show George where
to stake out his horse and mule, and to see that he had somebody to help
him bring in his pack-saddle.
The work of bringing in his luggage and taking care of his animals was
soon performed, and then George came back and began his letter. It took
him a long time to write it, for he wanted to make it one that would
produce an impression upon the person to whom it was addressed. It was
to Gus Robbins's father. It conveyed to that gentleman the information
that although his son was alive and in fair bodily health, he had
brought himself into serious trouble, having been detected in two
attempts at desertion, and unless his friends at home interested
themselves in his behalf he had a fair prospect of going to prison. If
Mr. Robbins would move in the matter he could easily procure the
culprit's discharge from the service, for he was a minor and had
enlisted without his father's consent; but if there was anything done it
must be done quickly, for it was probable that a court-martial would be
convened in a very few days. Having sealed and addressed the letter, he
bade the colonel good-night and went to bed, feeling satisfied that he
had done all he could for the unfortunate Gus.
George slept soundly, as he always did, but the morning gun and the
first notes of reveille awoke him. While he was making his toilet with
his usual care and deliberation--as we have said, his long intercourse
with river-dandies had made him very particular on this point--his
friend, Bob Owens, and the men who occupied the quarters with him, were
hurrying on their clothes in order to get into line in time to answer to
their names at roll-call. While they were dressing they talked, and this
was a portion of the conversation that took place between the corporal
and one of the colonel's orderlies--the same one who had been on duty
when Bob went in to report his arrival with the deserters.
"I say, Owens," exclaimed the orderly, "who was that nobby young officer
who came in with you last night? What is his name, and what rank does he
hold? I know he is green, for he didn't know enough to put on a
dress-coat before he went into the colonel's presence."
"His name is George Ackerman," answered Bob, "but he is not an officer;
he's a scout."
"'A scout'!" repeated the orderly in a tone of contempt. "He is a
pretty-looking scout, I must say. What does he know about life on the
Plains?"
"He knows a good deal more about it than anybody in this room, for he
was born right here in Texas," was the reply.
"Has he ever seen service?"
"No, but he knows what danger is, and he has been in some situations
that you wouldn't care to be placed in. During long months of his life
he lived in constant fear of a violent death."
"I don't doubt that he told you so, but I don't believe it, all the
same," observed the orderly.
"I can't help that. I am personally acquainted with him, and you are
not. I was with him when the steamer to which he belonged was burned on
the Mississippi River, and came to Texas with him. He owns a big
cattle-ranche a few miles from here, and has an income of about forty
thousand dollars a year."
"Aha! that accounts for the milk in the cocoa-nut," exclaimed the
orderly. "I know now why it was that the colonel met him in so friendly
a manner. Even those stern old regulars soften in the presence of one
who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, don't they?"
"But George Ackerman's money didn't get him the position he holds," said
Bob quickly. "He has been a prisoner among the cattle-thieves on the
other side of the river, and knows where they hang out. He is here to
act as our guide when we pursue the raiders across the river."
"What did the cattle-thieves take him prisoner for?"
"Because they were promised twenty thousand dollars for it by George's
guardian, who wanted to get him out of the way, so that his son could
inherit George's property. But he managed to escape from them, went up
North and became a pilot, and it was while he was serving in that
capacity that I made his acquaintance."
"That's a very pretty story," remarked the orderly, "but doesn't it
sound almost too much like a dime novel?"
"If you don't believe it ask Gus Robbins, if you get a chance to speak
to him. He knows George, and has reason to be grateful to him too. Gus
came down here to visit Ned Ackerman while the latter's father was
acting as George's guardian, and got himself into trouble that would
have ended seriously if George had not befriended him. It was through
that same visit that Gus got into the army."
"Did you hear what the colonel said to him about a servant?" asked the
orderly. "Whoever saw a scout with a servant? I never did, and neither
did I ever before see a man holding that position treated with so much
consideration by a post-commander. I can't account for it."
Bob could not account for it either, and so he attempted no explanation.
We may tell the reader that there were two good reasons for it. In the
first place, George was not a regular scout; he might, with more
propriety, have been called a volunteer aide. It is true that he was
sworn into the service, and that he was bound to do his duty faithfully
"during the pleasure of the commanding officer" of Fort Lamoine, but he
drew no pay from the government. He did not even ask that he should be
fed while he lived at the fort, but stood ready to pay his share of the
mess-bill. He had freely offered his services as guide to the troops
because he, in common with every rancheman and farmer in that country,
wanted the raiding-parties broken up, and he believed that he could do
as much, if not more, toward accomplishing that object than any other
single civilian. He was not obliged to wear a uniform (being sworn in,
he had a _right_ to wear it), but he had purchased it for the same
reason that he had purchased the Mexican costume and the other clothing
he had brought with him--because he believed it might some day be of use
to him. We have already seen how one of his disguises came into play. If
he had not brought with him that Mexican suit, it is hard to tell how
Bryant would have been captured.
In the next place, the colonel was an old acquaintance and friend of
George's father. He had often enjoyed Mr. Ackerman's hospitality, and he
could say, with Zeke, that he had carried George in his arms when the
latter was a "yelling baby not knee-high to a duck," and when he himself
was nothing but a second lieutenant. Since that time a great many things
had happened. Mr. Ackerman and his wife were dead, the second lieutenant
had passed through a terrible war, had worn a major-general's
shoulder-straps in the volunteer army and won a brevet colonelcy in the
regulars, and George had grown almost to manhood. Neither of them knew
of the presence of the other in that country until George, accompanied
by Mr. Gilbert and a few other ranchemen, came to the fort to offer his
services. The colonel knew the boy as soon as he heard his name, and it
was on account of the respect and affection he cherished for the memory
of his father that he extended so cordial a greeting to him; but, like
all the other soldiers who had seen him, the colonel did not think that
George was just the guide he wanted.
"I need somebody with age and experience, George," said he, "and you
have neither. I know you can handle a herd of cattle and manage your
ranche in good style, but I am not so certain of your ability to act as
guide to my troops. I admire your pluck, and I should be glad to have
you come here and live until you get tired of it; and in order to make
it lawful for you to stay here, I will give you a position as
forage-master."
"I am very much obliged to you, sir, but that is a berth I don't want,"
answered George. "I want to help put down those raiders."
"But just think of the responsibility that would rest upon you,"
protested the colonel. "A single blunder on your part might cripple me
fearfully."
"You need have no fears on that score," said Mr. Gilbert. "George is
good wherever you put him. He is acquainted with Fletcher, who is the
most active of all the raiders who trouble us; he knows where he hangs
out, and he is the only one on this side of the river who does. When it
comes to trailing, he is at home there too. Can you look at a trail and
tell how old it is and how many men or horses made it?"
No, the colonel couldn't do that. He always looked to his scouts for
information on those points.
"George can do it," said Mr. Gilbert. "He has served his time under one
of the best trailers in the country; and that is Zeke, his herdsman."
After a little more conversation the colonel, although not without many
misgivings, accepted the offer of George's services; and he never had
occasion to regret it. During the very first expedition that was sent
out of the fort after he reported there for duty he showed what he was
made of, and gave the colonel reason for placing almost unlimited
confidence in his judgment. Acting as Bob Owens's counsellor, he enabled
the latter to perform an exploit that made him the lion of the post.
Having dressed himself, George passed through the colonel's office and
out through the hall to the parade. In the outer door was seated a man
who was bent half double, with his elbows resting on his knees and his
face buried in his hands. Hearing the sound of the boy's footsteps, he
raised his head, revealing a countenance so haggard and sorrowful that
George was startled at the sight of it. The man moved aside to allow him
room to pass, and then covered his face with his hands again, and as
George walked out he was sure he heard him utter a suppressed moan. The
man was not a soldier, for he was dressed in citizen's clothes. He
looked like a rancheman; and as George was a rancheman himself, he
naturally felt some sympathy for the unknown sufferer. After hesitating
a moment, weighing in his mind the propriety of the step he was about to
take, he turned back and asked,
"What is the matter with you, sir? Are you ill?"
"'Ill'?" repeated the man, without looking up. "Worse than that--worse
than that."
"Is there anything that I can do for you?" asked George. "You seem to be
in great trouble."
As these words fell upon his ear the man straightened up, and, gazing at
George with a pair of wild-looking eyes, said, in a voice that was
rendered husky by some strong emotion,
"I am in trouble, partner, and although I do not think you can help me
in any way, I feel grateful to you for your sympathy. I have been
bounced by the hostiles and cleaned out--completely cleaned out."
"That _is_ bad," returned George, who told himself that the man took his
loss very much to heart. He knew a good many stock-raisers who had been
"bounced" and "cleaned out," but he had never before seen one who seemed
to be so utterly broken down by his misfortunes as this one did. The
stranger's next words, however, explained it all.
"The loss of my ranche and stock I don't mind," said he; "that's
nothing. But when one sees his two motherless boys carried off by the
red fiends, while he is powerless to help them, it's pretty rough, it's
pretty rough."
"Why, this must be the man the colonel told me about last night," said
George to himself.
"I should not fear that the savages would raise their hands against the
lives of the boys (they are too young to be put to torture, one being
eight and the other ten years of age) if it were not for one thing,"
continued the bereaved father, jumping to his feet and pacing back and
forth like a caged tiger. "I made a hard fight of it, and dropped a
Kiowa for every year of my oldest boy's age. Of course the death of
those warriors will have to be avenged by their relatives. Perhaps you
don't know it, but that is Indian law."
"I do know it," interrupted George. "I couldn't have lived so close to
these raiders, both Indians and Mexicans, nearly all my life without
learning something about their ways, could I? I am a Texan, like
yourself."
"You are? I took you for a Yankee soldier."
"There's where you made a mistake," replied George. "I was born in
Miller county in this State, and I am here to act as guide to the troops
when they cross the river in pursuit of the cattle-thieves."
"Good! Put it there!" exclaimed the man, extending his hand, while his
face for the moment showed the pleasure he felt at the meeting. "My name
is Wentworth; what is yours?"
George told him, and Mr. Wentworth said he had often heard the name, and
in a roundabout way had learned something of the family history.
"I have heard of you too," said George. "You have often been obliged to
run in order to save your life and stock, have you not?"
"Yes, and I have always succeeded in getting safely away; but there is a
first time for everybody, and mine came three days ago. I was going on
to say that I am afraid the savages will take vengeance on my helpless
little boys for the braves I shot in the fight," continued Mr.
Wentworth. "If they don't do that, they will probably hold them for
ransom; but they might as well tomahawk the boys at once and put them
out of their misery, for I haven't a horn nor a hoof nor a cent of money
to give in exchange for them. I know I have seen them for the last time,
but won't I make it hot for those who stole them?"
George could not say anything comforting. The sight of the strong man's
overwhelming grief struck him dumb.
"I know some of the bucks who were in the fight," continued Mr.
Wentworth, grinding his teeth and rubbing his hands nervously together.
"They have often camped on my ranche when they came down here
buffalo-hunting. I don't care what treaties our government may make with
that tribe; there will be eternal war between me and them. No Kiowa
shall ever cross my trail and live--no, not if I hang for it. I only
wish that some of those peace commissioners--those lunatics who believe
that an Indian is a human being and needs only kind treatment to make
him peaceable and friendly--could stand in my boots this minute. I tell
you, Ackerman, if one of them were here now I'd stand and see an Indian
shoot him, and never lift a hand in his defence. I got in last night and
told the colonel about it, and he said he would send out a couple of
companies this morning with orders to overtake and punish them if
possible; but he might as well save his men and horses, for it isn't
possible. They have reached the Staked Plains by this time, and are safe
from pursuit. This is a lovely government for a white man to live under,
isn't it? It is too cowardly to protect us from the Mexicans, and too
tender-hearted to hang an Indian for murder unless he happens to kill
some one high in authority, like General Canby."
Mr. Wentworth seemed almost beside himself when he thought of his boys,
who were now so many miles away from him, for then it was that he
realized how powerless he was to help them. He went on in this strain
until he had talked himself out of breath, and then he went back to his
seat on the doorstep and covered his face with his hands.