RAY'S RIDE FOR LIFE
Darkness has settled down in the shadowy Wyoming valley. By the light of
a tiny fire under the bank some twenty forms can be seen stretched upon
the sand,--they are wounded soldiers. A little distance away are nine
others, shrouded in blankets: they are the dead. Huddled in confused and
cowering group are a few score horses, many of them sprawled upon the
sand motionless; others occasionally struggle to rise or plunge about in
their misery. Crouching among the timber, vigilant but weary, dispersed
in big, irregular circle around the beleaguered bivouac, some sixty
soldiers are still on the active list. All around them, vigilant and
vengeful, lurk the Cheyennes. Every now and then the bark as of a coyote
is heard,--a yelping, querulous cry,--and it is answered far across the
valley or down the stream. There is no moon; the darkness is intense,
though the starlight is clear, and the air so still that the galloping
hoofs of the Cheyenne ponies far out on the prairie sound close at hand.
"That's what makes it hard," says Ray, who is bending over the prostrate
form of Captain Wayne. "If it were storming or blowing, or something to
deaden the hoof-beats, I could make it easier; but it's the only
chance."
The only chance of what?
When the sun went down upon Wayne's timber citadel, and the final
account of stock was taken for the day, it was found that with
one-fourth of the command, men and horses, killed and wounded there were
left not more than three hundred cartridges, all told, to enable some
sixty men to hold out until relief could come against an enemy
encircling them on every side, and who had only to send over to the
neighboring reservation--forty miles away--and get all the cartridges
they wanted. Mr. ---- would let their friends have them to kill buffalo,
though Mr. ---- and their friends knew there wasn't a buffalo left
within four hundred miles.
They _could_ cut through, of course, and race up the valley to find the
--th, but they would have to leave the wounded and the dismounted
behind,--to death by torture,--so that ended the matter. Only one thing
remained. In some way--by some means--word must be carried to the
regiment. The chances were ten to one against the couriers slipping out.
Up and down the valley, out on the prairie on both sides of the stream,
the Cheyennes kept vigilant watch. They had their hated enemies in a
death-grip, and only waited the coming of other warriors and more
ammunition to finish them--as the Sioux had finished Custer. _They_
knew, though the besieged did not, that, the very evening before, the
--th had marched away westward, and were far from their comrades. All
they had to do was to prevent any one's escaping to give warning of the
condition of things in Wayne's command. All, therefore, were on the
alert, and of this there was constant indication. The man or men who
made the attempt would have to run the gauntlet. The one remaining scout
who had been employed for such work refused the attempt as simply
madness. He had lived too long among the Indians to dare it, yet Wayne
and Ray and Dana and Hunter, and the whole command, for that matter,
knew that some one _must_ try it. Who was it to be?
There was no long discussion. Wayne called the sulking scout a damned
coward, which consoled him somewhat, but didn't help matters. Ray had
been around the rifle-pits taking observations. Presently he returned,
leading Dandy up near the fire,--the one sheltered light that was
permitted.
"Looks fine as silk, don't he?" he said, smoothing his pet's glossy neck
and shoulder, for Ray's groom had no article of religion which took
precedence over the duty he owed the lieutenant's horse, and no sooner
was the sun down than he had been grooming him as though still in
garrison. "Give him all the oats you can steal, Hogan; some of the men
must have a hatful left."
Wayne looked up startled.
"Ray, I can't let you go!"
"There's no helping it. Some one _must_ go, and who can you send?"
Even there the captain noted the grammatical eccentricity. What was
surprising was that even there he made no comment thereon. He was
silent. Ray had spoken truth. There was no one whom he could order to
risk death in breaking his way out since the scout had said 'twas
useless. There were brave men there who would gladly try it had they any
skill in such matters, but that was lacking. "If any man in the command
could 'make it,' that man was Ray." He was cool, daring, keen; he was
their best and lightest rider, and no one so well know the country or
better knew the Cheyennes. Wayne even wished that Ray might volunteer.
There was only this about it,--the men would lose much of their grit
with him away. They swore by him, and felt safe when he was there to
lead or encourage. But the matter was settled by Ray himself. He was
already stripping for the race.
"Get those shoes off," he said to the farrier, who came at his bidding,
and Dandy wonderingly looked up from the gunny-sack of oats in which he
had buried his nozzle. "What on earth could that blacksmith mean by
tugging out his shoe-nails?" was his reflection, though, like the
philosopher he was, he gave more thought to his oats,--an unaccustomed
luxury just then.
There seemed nothing to be said by anybody. Wayne rose painfully to his
feet. Hunter stood in silence by, and a few men grouped themselves
around the little knot of officers. Ray had taken off his belt and was
poking out the carbine-cartridges from the loops,--there were not over
ten. Then he drew the revolver, carefully examined the chambers to see
that all were filled; motioned with his hand to those on the ground,
saying, quietly, "Pick those up. Y'all may need every one of 'em." The
Blue Grass dialect seemed cropping out the stronger for his
preoccupation. "Got any spare Colts?" he continued, turning to Wayne. "I
only want another round." These he stowed as he got them in the smaller
loops on the right side of his belt. Then he bent forward to examine
Dandy's hoofs again.
"Smooth them off as well as you can. Get me a little of that sticky mud
there, one of you men. There! ram that into every hole and smooth off
the surface. Make it look just as much like a pony's as you know how.
They can't tell Dandy's tracks from their own then, don't you see?"
Three or four pairs of hands worked assiduously to do his bidding.
Still, there was no talking. No one had anything he felt like saying
just then.
"Who's got the time?" he asked.
Wayne looked at his watch, bending down over the fire.
"Just nine fifteen."
"All right. I must be off in ten minutes. The moon will be up at
eleven."
Dandy had finished the last of his oats by this time and was gazing
contentedly about him. Ever since quite early in the day he had been in
hiding down there under the bank. He had received only one trifling
clip, though for half an hour at least he had been springing around
where the bullets flew thickest. He was even pining for his customary
gallop over the springy turf, and wondering why it had been denied him
that day.
"Only a blanket and surcingle," said Ray, to his orderly, who was coming
up with the heavy saddle and bags. "We're riding to win to-night, Dandy
and I, and must travel light."
He flung aside his scouting hat, knotted the silk handkerchief he took
from his throat so as to confine the dark hair that came tumbling almost
into his eyes, buckled the holster-belt tightly round his waist, looked
doubtfully an instant at his spurs, but decided to keep them on. Then he
turned to Wayne.
"A word with you, captain."
The others fell back a short distance, and for a moment the two stood
alone speaking in low tones. All else was silent except the feverish
moan of some poor fellow lying sorely wounded in the hollow, or the
occasional pawing and stir among the horses. In the dim light of the
little fire the others stood watching them. They saw that Wayne was
talking earnestly, and presently extended his hand, and they heard Ray
somewhat impatiently, say, "Never mind that now," and noted that at
first he did not take the hand; but finally they came back to the group
and Ray spoke:
"Now, fellows, just listen a minute. I've got to break out on the south
side. I know it better. Of course there are no end of Indians out there,
but most of the crowd are in the timber above and below. There will be
plenty on the watch, and it isn't possible that I can gallop out through
them without being heard. Dandy and I have got to sneak for it until
we're spotted, or clear of them, then away we go. I hope to work well
out towards the bluffs before they catch a glimpse of me, then lie flat
and go for all I'm worth to where we left the regiment. Then you bet it
won't be long before the old crowd will be coming down just a humping.
I'll have 'em here by six o'clock, if, indeed, I don't find them coming
ahead to-night. Just you keep up your grit, and we'll do our level best,
Dandy and I; won't we, old boy? Now I want to see Dana a minute and the
other wounded fellows." And he went and bent down over them saying a
cheery word to each; and rough, suffering men held out feeble hands to
take a parting grip, and looked up into his brave young face. He had
long known how the rank and file regarded him, but had been disposed to
laugh it off. To-night as he stopped to say a cheering word to the
Wounded, and looked down at some pale, bearded face that had stood at
his shoulder in more than one tight place in the old Apache days in
Arizona, and caught the same look of faith and trust in him, something
like a quiver hovered for a minute about his lips, and his own brave
eyes grew moist. They knew he was daring death to save them, but that
was a view of the case that did not seem to occur to him at all. At last
he came to Dana lying there a little apart. The news that Ray was going
to "ride for them" had been whispered all through the bivouac by this
time, and Dana turned and took Ray's hand in both his own.
"God speed you, old boy! If you make it all safe, get word to mother
that I didn't do so badly in my first square tussel, will you?"
"If I make it, you'll be writing it yourself this time to-morrow night.
Even if I don't make it, don't you worry, lad. The colonel and Stannard
ain't the fellows to let us shift for ourselves with the country full of
Cheyennes. They'll be down here in two days, anyhow. Good-by, Dana; keep
your grip and we'll larrup 'em yet."
Then he turned back to Wayne, Hunter, and the doctor.
"One thing occurs to me, Hunter. You and six or eight men take your
carbines and go up-stream with a dozen horses until you come to the
rifle-pits. Be all ready. If I get clear through you won't hear any row,
but if they sight or hear me before I get through, then, of course,
there will be the biggest kind of an excitement, and you'll hear the
shooting. The moment it begins give a yell; fire your guns; go whooping
up the stream with the horses as though the whole crowd were trying to
cut out that way, _but get right back_. The excitement will distract
them and help me. Now, good-by, and good luck to you, crowd."
"Ray, will you have a nip before you try it? You must be nearly used up
after this day's work." And Wayne held out his flask to him.
"No. I had some hot coffee just ten minutes ago, and I feel like a
four-year-old. I'm riding new colors; didn't you know it? By Jove!" he
added, suddenly, "this is my first run under the Preakness blue." Even
there and then he thought too quickly to speak her name. "Now, then,
some of you crawl out to the south edge of the timber with me, and lie
flat on the prairie and keep me in sight as long as you can." He took
one more look at his revolver. "I'm drawing to a bob-tail. If I fail,
I'll bluff; if I fill, I'll knock spots out of any threes in the
Cheyenne outfit."
Three minutes more and the watchers at the edge of the timber have seen
him, leading Dandy by the bridle, slowly, stealthily, creeping out into
the darkness; a moment the forms of man and horse are outlined against
the stars: then, are swallowed up in the night. Hunter and the sergeants
with him grasp their carbines and lie prone upon the turf, watching,
waiting.
In the bivouac is the stillness of death. Ten soldiers--carbine in
hand--mounted on their unsaddled steeds are waiting in the darkness at
the upper rifle-pits for Hunter's signal. If he shout, every man is to
yell and break for the front. Otherwise, all is to remain quiet. Back at
the watch-fire under the bank Wayne is squatting, watch in one hand,
pistol in the other. Near by lie the wounded, still as their comrades
just beyond,--the dead. All around among the trees and in the sand-pits
up- and down-stream, fourscore men are listening to the beating of their
own hearts. In the distance, once in a while, is heard the yelp of
coyote or the neigh of Indian pony. In the distance, too, are the gleams
of Indian fires, but they are far beyond the positions occupied by the
besieging warriors. Darkness shrouds them. Far aloft the stars are
twinkling through the cool and breezeless air. With wind, or storm, or
tempest, the gallant fellow whom all hearts are following would have
something to favor, something to aid; but in this almost cruel stillness
nothing under God can help him,--nothing but darkness and his own brave
spirit.
"If I get through this scrape in safety," mutters Wayne between his set
teeth, "the --th shall never hear the last of this work of Ray's."
"If I get through this night," mutters Ray to himself, far out on the
prairie now, where he can hear tramping hoofs and guttural voices, "it
will be the best run ever made for the Sanford blue, though I do make
it."
Nearly five minutes have passed, and the silence has been unbroken by
shot or shout. The suspense is becoming unbearable in the bivouac, where
every man is listening, hardly daring to draw breath. At last Hunter,
rising to his knees, which are all a tremble with excitement, mutters to
Sergeant Roach, who is still crouching beside him,--
"By Heaven! I believe he'll slip through without being seen."
Hardly has he spoken when far, far out to the southwest two bright
flashes leap through the darkness. Before the report can reach them
there comes another, not so brilliant. Then, the ringing bang, bang of
two rifles, the answering crack of a revolver.
"Quick, men. _Go!_" yells Hunter, and darts headlong through the timber
back to the stream. There is a sudden burst of shots and yells and
soldier cheers; a mighty crash and sputter and thunder of hoofs up the
stream-bed; a foot dash, yelling like demons, of the men at the west end
in support of the mounted charge in the bed of the stream. For a minute
or two the welkin rings with shouts, shots (mainly those of the startled
Indians), then there is as sudden a rush back to cover, without a man or
horse hurt or missing. In the excitement and darkness the Cheyennes
could only fire wild, but now the night air resounds with taunts and
yells and triumphant war-whoops. For full five minutes there is a
jubilee over the belief that they have penned in the white soldiers
after their dash for liberty. Then, little by little, the yells and
taunts subside. Something has happened to create discussion in the
Cheyenne camps, for the crouching soldiers can hear the liveliest kind
of a pow-wow far up-stream. What does it mean? Has Ray slipped through,
or--have they caught him?
Despite pain and weakness, Wayne hobbles out to where Sergeant Roach is
still watching and asks for tidings.
"I can't be sure, captain; one thing's certain, the lieutenant rode like
a gale. I could follow the shots a full half-mile up the valley, where
they seemed to grow thicker, and then stop all of a sudden in the midst
of the row that was made down here. They've either given it up and have
a big party out in chase, or else they've got him. God knows which. If
they've got him, there'll be a scalp-dance over there in a few minutes,
curse them!" And the sergeant choked.
Wayne watched some ten minutes without avail. Nothing further was seen
or heard that night to indicate what had happened to Ray except once.
Far up the valley he saw a couple of flashes among the bluffs, so did
Roach, and that gave him hope that Dandy had carried his master in
safety that far at least.
He crept back to the bank and cheered the wounded with the news of what
he had seen. Then another word came in ere long. An old sergeant had
crawled out to the front, and could hear something of the shouting and
talking of the Indians. He could understand few words only, though he
had lived among the Cheyennes nearly five years. They can barely
understand one another in the dark, and use incessant gesticulation to
interpret their own speech; but the sergeant gathered that they were
upbraiding somebody for not guarding a _coulée_, and inferred that some
one had slipped past their pickets or they wouldn't be making such a
row.
That the Cheyennes did not propose to let the besieged derive much
comfort from their hopes was soon apparent. Out from the timber up the
stream came sonorous voices shouting taunt and challenge, intermingled
with the vilest expletives they had picked up from their cowboy
neighbors, and all the frontier slang in the Cheyenne vocabulary.
"Hullo! sogers; come out some more times. We no shoot. Stay there: we
come plenty quick. Hullo! white chief, come fight fair; soger heap
'fraid! Come, have scalp-dance plenty quick. Catch white soldier; eat
him heart bime by."
"Ah, go to your grandmother, the ould witch in hell, ye
musthard-sthriped convict!" sings out some irrepressible Paddy in reply,
and Wayne, who is disposed to serious thoughts, would order silence, but
it occurs to him that Mulligan's crude sallies have a tendency to keep
the men lively.
"I can't believe they've got him," he whispers to the doctor. "If they
had they would soon recognize him as an officer and come bawling out
their triumph at bagging a chief. His watch, his shoes, his spurs, his
underclothing, would all betray that he was an officer, though he hasn't
a vestige of uniform. Pray God he is safe!"
Will you follow Ray and see? Curiosity is what lures the fleetest deer
to death, and a more dangerous path than that which Ray has taken one
rarely follows. Will you try it, reader?--just you and I? Come on, then.
We'll see what our Kentucky boy "got in the draw," as he would put it.
Ray's footfall is soft as a kitten's as he creeps out upon the prairie;
Dandy stepping gingerly after him, wondering but obedient. For over a
hundred yards he goes, until both up- and down-stream he can almost see
the faint fires of the Indians in the timber. Farther out he can hear
hoof-beats and voices, so he edges along westward until he comes
suddenly to a depression, a little winding "cooley" across the prairie,
through which in the early spring the snows are carried off from some
ravine among the bluffs. Into this he noiselessly feels his way and
Dandy follows. He creeps along to his left and finds that its general
course is from the southwest. He knows well that the best way to watch
for objects in the darkness is to lie flat on low ground so that
everything approaching may be thrown against the sky. His plainscraft
tells him that by keeping in the water-course he will be less apt to be
seen, but will surely come across some lurking Indians. That he
expects. The thing is to get as far through them as possible before
being seen or heard, then mount and away. After another two minutes'
creeping he peers over the western bank. Now the fires up-stream can be
seen in the timber, and dim, shadowy forms pass and repass. Then close
at hand come voices and hoof-beats. Dandy pricks up his ears and wants
to neigh, but Ray grips his nostrils like a vice, and Dandy desists. At
rapid lope, within twenty yards, a party of half a dozen warriors go
bounding past on their way down the valley, and no sooner have they
crossed the gulley than he rises and rapidly pushes on up the dry sandy
bed. Thank heaven! there are no stones. A minute more and he is crawling
again, for the hoof-beats no longer drown the faint sound of Dandy's
movements. A few seconds more and right in front of him, not a stone's
throw away, he hears the deep tones of Indian voices in conversation.
Whoever they may be they are in the "cooley" and watching the prairie.
They can see nothing of him, nor he of them. Pass them in the
ten-foot-wide ravine he cannot. He must go back a short distance, make a
sweep to the east so as not to go between those watchers and the guiding
fires, then trust to luck. Turning stealthily he brings Dandy around,
leads back down the ravine for some thirty yards, then turns to his
horse, pats him gently one minute, "Do your prettiest for your colors,
my boy," he whispers; springs lightly, noiselessly to his back, and at
cautious walk comes up on the level prairie, with the timber behind him
three hundred yards away. Southward he can see the dim outline of the
bluffs. Westward--once that little _arroya_ is crossed, he knows the
prairie to be level and unimpeded, fit for a race; but he needs to make
a _détour_ to pass the Indians guarding it, get way beyond them, cross
it to the west far behind them, and then look out for stray parties.
Dandy ambles lightly along, eager for fun and little appreciating the
danger. Ray bends down on his neck, intent with eye and ear. He feels
that he has got well out east of the Indian picket unchallenged, when
suddenly voices and hoofs come bounding up the valley from below. He
must cross their front, reach the ravine before them, and strike the
prairie beyond. "Go, Dandy!" he mutters with gentle pressure of leg, and
the sorrel bounds lightly away, circling southwestward under the guiding
rein. Another minute and he is at the _arroya_ and cautiously
descending, then scrambling up the west bank, and then from the darkness
comes savage challenge, a sputter of pony hoofs. Ray bends low and gives
Dandy one vigorous prod with the spur, and with muttered prayer and
clinched teeth and fists he leaps into the wildest race for his life.
Bang! bang! go two shots close behind him. Crack! goes his pistol at a
dusky form closing in on his right. Then come yells, shots, the uproar
of hoofs, the distant cheer and charge at camp, a breathless dash for
and close along under the bluffs where his form is best concealed, a
whirl to the left into the first ravine that shows itself, and despite
shots and shouts and nimble ponies and vengeful foes, the Sanford colors
are riding far to the front, and all the racers of the reservations
cannot overhaul them.