And the morrow has come. Down in a deep and bluff-shadowed valley, hung
all around with picturesque crags and pine-crested heights, under a
cloudless September sun whose warmth is tempered by the
mountain-breeze, a thousand rough-looking, bronzed and bearded and
powder-blackened men are resting after battle.
Here and there on distant ridge and point the cavalry vedettes keep
vigilant watch, against surprise or renewed attack. Down along the banks
of a clear, purling stream a sentry paces slowly by the brown line of
rifles, swivel-stacked in the sunshine. Men by the dozen are washing
their blistered feet and grimy hands and faces in the cool, refreshing
water; men by the dozen lie soundly sleeping, some in the broad glare,
some in the shade of the little clump of willows, all heedless of the
pestering swarms of flies. Out on the broad, grassy slopes, side-lined
and watched by keen-eyed guards, the herds of cavalry horses are quietly
grazing, forgetful of the wild excitement of yester-even. Every now and
then some one of them lifts his head, pricks up his ears, and snorts and
stamps suspiciously as he sniffs at the puffs of smoke that come
drifting up the valley from the fires a mile away. The waking men, too,
bestow an occasional comment on the odor which greets their nostrils.
Down-stream where the fires are burning are the blackened remnants of a
wagon-train: tires, bolts, and axles are lying about, but all wood-work
is in smouldering ashes; so, too, is all that remains of several
hundred-weight of stores and supplies destined originally to nourish the
Indians, but, by them, diverted to feed the fire.
There is a big circle of seething flame and rolling smoke here, too,--a
malodorous neighborhood, around which fatigue-parties are working with
averted heads; and among them some surly and unwilling Indians, driven
to labor at the muzzle of threatening revolver or carbine, aid in
dragging to the flames carcass after carcass of horse and mule, and in
gathering together and throwing on the pyre an array of miscellaneous
soldier garments, blouses, shirts, and trousers, all more or less hacked
and blood-stained,--all of no more use to mortal wearer.
Out on the southern slopes, just where a ravine crowded with wild-rose
bushes opens into the valley, more than half the command is gathered,
formed in rectangular lines about a number of shallow, elongated pits,
in each of which there lies the stiffening form of a comrade who but
yesterday joined in the battle-cheer that burst upon the valley with the
setting sun. Silent and reverent they stand in their rough campaign
garb. The escort of infantry "rests on arms;" the others bow their
uncovered heads, and it is the voice of the veteran colonel that, in
accents trembling with sympathy and emotion, renders the last tribute
to fallen comrades and lifts to heaven the prayers for the dead. Then
see! The mourning groups break away from the southern side; the brown
rifles of the escort are lifted in air; the listening rocks resound to
the sudden ring of the flashing volley; the soft, low, wailing good-by
of the trumpets goes floating up the vale, and soon the burial-parties
are left alone to cover the once familiar faces with the earth to which
the soldier must return, and the comrades who are left, foot and
dragoon, come marching, silent, back to camp.
And when the old regiment begins its homeward journey, leaving the
well-won field to the fast-arriving commands and bidding hearty soldier
farewell to the cavalry comrades whose friendship they gained in the
front of a savage foe, the company that was the first to land its fire
in the fight goes back with diminished numbers and under command of its
second lieutenant. Alas, poor Jerrold!
There is a solemn little group around the camp-fire the night before
they go. Frank Armitage, flat on his back, with a rifle-bullet through
his thigh, but taking things very coolly for all that, is having a quiet
conference with his colonel. Such of the wounded of the entire command
as are well enough to travel by easy stages to the railway go with
Maynard and the regiment in the morning, and Sergeant McLeod, with his
sabre-arm in a sling, is one of these. But the captain of Company B must
wait until the surgeons can lift him along in an ambulance and all fear
of fever has subsided. To the colonel and Chester he hands the note
which is all that is left to comfort poor Nina Beaubien. To them he
reads aloud the note addressed to himself:
"You are right in saying that the matter of my possession of that
photograph should be explained. I seek no longer to palliate my action.
In making that puppyish bet with Sloat I _did_ believe that I could
induce Miss Renwick or her mother to let me have a copy; but I was
refused so positively that I knew it was useless. This simply added to
my desire to have one. The photographer was the same that took the
pictures and furnished the albums for our class at graduation, and I,
more than any one, had been instrumental in getting the order for him
against very active opposition. He had always professed the greatest
gratitude to me and a willingness to do anything for me. I wrote to him
in strict confidence, told him of the intimate and close relations
existing between the colonel's family and me, told him I wanted it to
enlarge and present to her mother on her approaching birthday, and
promised him that I would never reveal how I came by the picture so
long as I lived; and he sent me one,--just in time. Have I not paid
heavily for my sin?"
No one spoke for a moment. Chester was the first to break the silence:
"Poor fellow! He kept his word to the photographer; but what was it
worth to a woman?"
There had been a week of wild anxiety and excitement at Sibley. It was
known through the columns of the press that the regiment had hurried
forward from the railway the instant it reached the Colorado trail, that
it could not hope to get through to the valley of the Spirit Wolf
without a fight, and that the moment it succeeded in joining hands with
the cavalry already there a vigorous attack would be made on the
Indians. The news of the rescue of the survivors of Thornton's command
came first, and with it the tidings that Maynard and his regiment were
met only thirty miles from the scene and were pushing forward. The next
news came two days later, and a wail went up even while men were shaking
hands and rejoicing over the gallant fight that had been made, and women
were weeping for joy and thanking God that those whom they held dearest
were safe. It was down among the wives of the sergeants and other
veterans that the blow struck hardest at Sibley; for the stricken
officers were unmarried men, while among the rank and file there were
several who never came back to the little ones who bore their name.
Company B had suffered most, for the Indians had charged fiercely on its
deployed but steadfast line. Armitage almost choked and broke down when
telling the colonel about it that night as he lay under the willows: "It
was the first smile I had seen on his face since I got back,--that with
which he looked up in my eyes and whispered good-by,--and died,--just
after we drove them back. My turn came later." Old Sloat, too, "had his
customary crack," as he expressed it,--a shot through the wrist that
made him hop and swear savagely until some of the men got to laughing at
the comical figure he cut, and then he turned and damned them with
hearty good will, and seemed all oblivious of the bullets that went
zipping past his frosting head. Young Rollins, to his inexpressible
pride and comfort, had a bullet-hole through his scouting-hat and
another through his shoulder-strap that raised a big welt on the white
skin beneath, but, to the detriment of promotion, no captain was killed,
and Jerrold gave the only file.