that had given General Lodge great difficulty upon former exploring
trips, and over which a pass had not yet been discovered.
The old St. Vrain and Laramie Trail wound along the base of these slopes
and through the valleys. But that trail was not possible for a railroad.
A pass must be found--a pass that would give a grade of ninety feet to
the mile. These mountains had short slopes, and they were high.
It turned out that the line as already surveyed through ravines and
across the gorge had to be abandoned. The line would have to go over the
hills. To that end the camp was moved east again to the first slopes of
the Wyoming hills; from there the engineers began to climb. They reached
the base of the mountains, where they appeared to be halted for good and
all.
The second line, so far as it went, overlooked the Laramie Trail, which
fact was proof that the old trail-finders had as keen eyes as engineers.
With a large band of hostile Sioux watching their movements the engineer
corps found it necessary to have the troops close at hand all the time.
The surveyors climbed the ridges while the soldiers kept them in sight
from below. Day after day this futile search for a pass went on. Many of
the ridges promised well, only to end in impassable cliffs or breaks or
ascents too steep. There were many slopes and they all looked alike.
It took hard riding and hard climbing. The chief and his staff were in
despair. Must their great project fail because of a few miles of steep
ascent? They would not give up.
The vicinity of Cheyenne Pass seemed to offer encouragement. Camp was
made in the valley on a creek. From here observations were taken. One
morning the chief, with his subordinates and a scout, ascended the creek
and then through the pass to the summit. Again the old St. Vrain and
Laramie Trail lay in sight. And again the troops rode along it, with the
engineers above.
The chief with his men rode on and up farther than usual; farther than
they ought to have gone unattended. Once the scout halted and gazed
intently across the valley.
“Smoke signals over thar,” he said.
The engineers looked long, but none of them saw any smoke. They moved
on. But the scout called them back.
“Thet bunch of redskins has split on us. Fust thing we’ll run into some
of them.”
It was Neale’s hawk eye that first sighted Indians. “Look! Look!” he
cried, in great excitement, as he pointed with shaking finger.
Down a grassy slope of a ridge Indians were riding, evidently to head
off the engineers, to get between them and the troops.
“Wal, we’re in fer it now,” declared the scout. “We can’t get back the
way we come up.”
The chief gazed coolly at the Indians and then at the long ridge sloping
away from the summit. He had been in tight places before.
“Ride!” was his order.
“Let’s fight!” cried Neale.
The band of eight men were well armed and well mounted, and if
imperative, could have held off the Sioux for a time. But General Lodge
and the scout headed across a little valley and up a higher ridge, from
which they expected to sight the troops. They rode hard and climbed
fast, but it took a quarter of an hour to gain the ridge-top. Sure
enough the troops were in sight, but far away, and the Sioux were
cutting across to get in front.
It was a time for quick judgment. The scout said they could not ride
down over the ridge, and the chief decided they must follow along it.
The going got to be hard and rough. One by one the men dismounted to
lead their horses. Neale, who rode a mettlesome bay, could scarcely keep
up.
“Take mine,” called Larry King, as he turned to Neale.
“Red, I’ll handle this stupid beast or--”
“Wal, you ain’t handlin’ him,” interrupted King. “Hosses is my job, you
know.”
Red took the bridle from Neale and in one moment the balky horse
recognized a master arm.
“By Heaven! we’ve got to hurry!” called Neale.
It did seem that the Indians would head them off. Neale and King labored
over the rocky ground as best they could, and by dint of hard effort
came up with their party. The Indians were quartering the other ridge,
riding as if on level ground. The going grew rougher. Baxter’s horse
slipped and lamed his right fore leg. Henney’s saddle turned, and more
valuable time was lost. All the men drew their rifles. At every dip
of ground they expected to come to a break that would make a stand
inevitable.
From one point on the ridge they had a good view of the troops.
“Signal!” ordered the chief.
They yelled and shot and waved hats and scarfs. No use--the soldiers
kept moving on at a snail pace far below.
“On--down the ridge!” was the order.
“Wal, General, thet looks bad to me,” objected the scout. Red King
shoved his lean, brown hand between them. There was a flame in his
flashing, blue glance as it swept the slowly descending ridge.
“Judgin’ the lay of land is my job,” he said, in his cool way. “We’ll
git down heah or not at all.”
Neale was sore, lame, and angry as well. He kept gazing across at the
Sioux. “Let’s stop--and fight,” he panted. “We can--whip--that bunch.”
“We may have to fight, but not yet,” replied the chief. “Come on.”
They scrambled on over rocky places, up and down steep banks. Here and
there were stretches where it was possible to ride, and over these they
made better time. The Indians fell out of sight under the side of the
ridge, and this fact was disquieting, for no one could tell how soon
they would show up again or in what quarter. This spurred the men to
sterner efforts.
Meanwhile the sun was setting and the predicament of the engineers grew
more serious. A shout from Neale, who held up the rear, warned all
that the Indians had scaled the ridge behind them and now were in
straightaway pursuit. Thereupon General Lodge ordered his men to face
about with rifles ready. This move checked the Sioux. They halted out of
range.
“They’re waitin’ fer dark to set in,” said the scout.
“Come on! We’ll get away yet,” said the chief, grimly. They went on, and
darkness began to fall about them. This increased both the difficulty
and the danger. On the other hand, it enabled them to try and signal the
troops with fire. One of them would hurry ahead and build a fire while
the others held back to check the Indians if they appeared. And at
length their signals were answered by the troops. Thus encouraged, the
little band of desperate men plunged on down the slope. And just when
night set in black--the fateful hour that would have precipitated the
Indian attack--the troops met the engineers on the slope. The Indians
faded away into the gloom without firing a shot. There was a general
rejoicing. Neale, however, complained that he would rather have fought
them.
“Wal, I shore was achin’ fer trouble,” drawled his faithful ally, King.
The flagman, Casey, removed his black pipe to remark, “All thet cloimb
without a foight.”
General Lodge’s first word to Colonel Dillon was evidently inspired by
Casey’s remark.
“Colonel, did you have steep work getting up to us?”
“Yes, indeed, straight up out of the valley,” was the rejoinder.
But General Lodge did not go back to camp by this short cut down the
valley. He kept along the ridge, and it led for miles slowly down to the
plain. There in the starlight he faced his assistants with singular fire
and earnestness.
“Men, we’ve had a bad scare and a hard jaunt, but we’ve found our pass
over the Wyoming hills. To-morrow we’ll run a line up that long ridge.
We’ll name it Sherman Pass.... Thanks to those red devils!”
On the following morning Neale was awakened from a heavy, dreamless
sleep by a hard dig in the ribs.
“Neale--air you daid?” Larry was saying. “Wake up! An’ listen to thet.”
Neale heard the clear, ringing notes of a bugle-call. He rolled out of
his blankets. “What’s up, Red?” he cried, reaching for his boots.
“Wal, I reckon them Injuns,” drawled Red.
It was just daylight. They found the camp astir--troopers running for
horses, saddles, guns.
“Red, you get our horses and I’ll see what’s up,” cried Neale.
The cowboy strode off, hitching at his belt. Neale ran forward into
camp. He encountered Lieutenant Leslie, whom he knew well, and who told
him a scout had come in with news of a threatened raid; Colonel Dillon
had ordered out a detachment of troopers.
“I’m going,” shouted Neale. “Where’s that scout?”
Neale soon descried a buckskin-clad figure, and he made toward it. The
man, evidently a trapper or hunter, carried a long, brown rifle, and he
had a powder-horn and bullet-pouch slung over his shoulder. There was a
knife in his belt. Neale went directly up to the man.
“My name’s Neale,” he said. “Can I be of any help?”
He encountered a pair of penetrating gray eyes.
“My name’s Slingerland,” replied the other, as he offered his hand. “Are
you an officer?”
“No. I’m a surveyor. But I can ride and shoot. I’ve a cowboy with me--a
Texan. He’ll go. What’s happened?”
“Wal, I ain’t sure yet. But I fear the wust. I got wind of some Sioux
thet was trailin’ some prairie-schooners up in the hills. I warned the
boss--told him to break camp an’ run. Then I come fer the troops. But
the troops had changed camp an’ I jest found them. Reckon we’ll be too
late.”
“Was it a caravan?” inquired Neale, intensely interested.
“Six wagons. Only a few men. Two wimmen. An’ one girl.”
“Girl!” exclaimed Neale.
“Yes. I reckon she was about sixteen. A pretty girl with big, soft eyes.
I offered to take her up behind me on my hoss. An’ they all wanted her
to come. But she wouldn’t.... I hate to think--”
Slingerland did not finish his thought aloud. Just then Larry rode up,
leading Neale’s horse. Slingerland eyed the lithe cowboy.
“Howdy!” drawled Larry. He did not seem curious or eager, and his cool,
easy, reckless air was in sharp contrast to Neale’s fiery daring.
“Red, you got the rifles, I see,” said Neale.
“Sure, an’ I rustled some biscuits.”
In a few moments the troops were mounted and ready. Slingerland led them
up the valley at a rapid trot and soon started to climb. When he reached
the top he worked up for a mile, and then, crossing over, went down
into another valley. Up and down he led, over ridge after ridge, until a
point was reached where the St. Vrain and Laramie Trail could be seen in
the valley below. From there he led them along the top of the ridge, and
just as the sun rose over the hills he pointed down to a spot where the
caravan had been encamped. They descended into this valley. There in the
trail were fresh tracks of unshod horses.
“We ain’t fur behind, but I reckon fur enough to be too late,” said
Slingerland. And he clenched a big fist.
On this level trail he led at a gallop, with the troops behind in the
clattering roar. They made short work of that valley. Then rougher
ground hindered speedy advance.
Presently Slingerland sighted something that made him start. It proved
to be the charred skeleton of a prairie-schooner. The oxen were nowhere
to be seen.
Then they saw that a little beyond blankets and camp utensils littered
the trail. Still farther on the broad wheel-tracks sheered off the road,
where the hurried drivers had missed the way in the dark. This was open,
undulating ground, rock-strewn and overgrown with brush. A ledge of
rock, a few scraggy trees, and more black, charred remains of wagons
marked the final scene of the massacre.
Neale was the first man who dismounted, and Larry King was the second.
They had outstripped the more cautious troopers.
“My Gawd!” breathed Larry.
Neale gripped his rifle with fierce hands and strode forward between two
of the burned wagons. Naked, mutilated bodies, bloody and ghastly, lay
in horrible positions. All had been scalped.
Slingerland rode up with the troops, and all dismounted, cursing and
muttering.
Colonel Dillon ordered a search for anything to identify the dead. There
was nothing. All had been burned or taken away. Of the camp implements,
mostly destroyed, there were two shovels left, one with a burnt handle.
These were used by the troopers to dig graves.
Neale had at first been sickened by the ghastly spectacle. He walked
aside a little way and sat down upon a rock. His face was wet with
clammy sweat. A gnawing rage seemed to affect him in the pit of the
stomach. This was his first experience with the fiendish work of the
savages. A whirl of thoughts filled his mind.
Suddenly he fancied he heard a low moan. He started violently. “Well,
I’m hearing things,” he muttered, soberly.
It made him so nervous that he got up and walked back to where the
troopers were digging. He saw the body of a woman being lowered into a
grave and the sight reminded him of what Slingerland had said. He saw
the scout searching around and he went over to him.
“Have you found the girl?” he asked.
“Not yet. I reckon the devils made off with her. They’d take her, if she
happened to be alive.”
“God! I hope she’s dead.”
“Wal, son, so does Al Slingerland.”
More searching failed to find the body of the girl. She was given up as
lost.
“I’ll find out if she was took captive,” said Slingerland. “This Sioux
band has been friendly with me.”
“Man, they’re on the war-path,” rejoined Dillon.
“Wal, I’ve traded with them same Sioux when they was on the war-path....
This massacre sure is awful, an’ the Sioux will hev to be extarminated.
But they hev their wrongs. An’ Injuns is Injuns.”
Slabs of rock were laid upon the graves. Then the troopers rode away.
Neale and Slingerland and Larry King were the last to mount. And it was
at this moment that Neale either remembered the strange, low moan or
heard it again. He reined in his horse.
“I’m going back,” he called.
“What fer?” Slingerland rejoined.
Larry King wheeled his mount and trotted back to Neale.
“Red, I’m not satisfied,” said Neale, and told his friend what he
thought he had heard.
“Boy, you’re oot of yur haid!” expostulated Red.
“Maybe I am. But I’m going back. Are you coming?”
“Shore,” replied Red, with his easy good nature.
Slingerland sat his horse and watched while he waited. The dust-cloud
that marked the troops drew farther away.
Neale dismounted, threw his bridle, and looked searchingly around.
But Larry, always more comfortable on horseback than on land, kept
his saddle. Suddenly Neale felt inexplicably drawn in a certain
direction--toward a rocky ledge. Still he heard nothing except the wind
in the few scraggy trees. All the ground in and around the scene of
the massacre had been gone over; there was no need to examine it again.
Neale had nothing tangible upon which to base his strange feeling. Yet
absurd or not, he refused to admit it was fancy or emotion. Some voice
had called him. He swore it. If he did not make sure he would always be
haunted. So with clear, deliberate eyes he surveyed the scene. Then he
strode for the ledge of rock.
Tufts of sage grew close at its base. He advanced among them. The
surface of the rock was uneven--and low down a crack showed. At that
instant a slow, sobbing, gasping intake of breath electrified Neale.
“Red--come here!” he yelled, in a voice that made the cowboy jump.
Neale dropped to his knees and parted the tufts of sage. Lower down the
crack opened up. On the ground, just inside that crack he saw the gleam
of a mass of chestnut hair. His first flashing thought was that here was
a scalp the red devils did not get.
Then Red King was kneeling beside him--bending forward. “It’s a girl!”
he ejaculated.
“Yes--the one Slingerland told me about--the girl with big eyes,”
replied Neale. He put a hand softly on her head. It was warm. Her hair
felt silky, and the touch sent a quiver over him. Probably she was
dying.
Slingerland came riding up. “Wal, boys, what hev you found?” he asked,
curiously.
“That girl,” replied Neale.
The reply brought Slingerland sliding out of his saddle.
Neale hesitated a moment, then reaching into the aperture, he got his
hands under the girl’s arms and carefully drew her out upon the grass.
She lay face down, her hair a tumbled mass, her body inert. Neale’s
quick eye searched for bloodstains, but found none.
“I remember thet hair,” said Slingerland. “Turn her over.”
“I reckon we’ll see then where she’s hurt,” muttered Red King.
Evidently Neale thought the same, for he was plainly afraid to place her
on her back.
“Slingerland, she’s not such a little girl,” he said, irrelevantly. Then
he slipped his hands under her arms again. Suddenly he felt something
wet and warm and sticky. He pulled a hand out. It was blood-stained.
“Aw!” exclaimed Red.
“Son, what’d you expect?” demanded Slingerland. “She got shot or cut,
an’ in her fright she crawled in thar. Come, over with her. Let’s see.
She might live.”
This practical suggestion acted quickly upon Neale. He turned the girl
over so that her head lay upon his knees. The face thus exposed was
deathly pale, set like stone in horror. The front of her dress was a
bloody mass, and her hands were red.
“Stabbed in the breast!” exclaimed King.
“No,” replied Slingerland. “If she’d been stabbed she’d been scalped,
too. Mebbe thet blood comes from an arrow an’ she might hev pulled it
out.”
Neale bent over her with swift scrutiny. “No cut or hole in her dress!”
“Boys, thar ain’t no marks on her--only thet blood,” added Slingerland,
hopefully.
Neale tore open the front of her blouse and slipped his hand in upon her
breast. It felt round, soft, warm under his touch, but quiet. He shook
his head.
“Those moans I heard must have been her last dying breaths,” he said.
“Mebbe. But she shore doesn’t look daid to me,” replied King. “I’ve seen
daid people. Put your hand on her heart.”
Neale had been feeling for heart pulsations on her right side. He
shifted his hand. Instantly through the soft swell of her breast
throbbed a beat-beat-beat. The beatings were regular and not at all
faint.
“Good Lord, what a fool I am!” he cried. “She’s alive! Her heart’s
going! There’s not a wound on her!”
“Wal, we can’t see any, thet’s sure,” replied Slingerland.
“She might hev a fatal hurt, all the same,” suggested King.
“No!” exclaimed Neale. “That blood’s from some one else--most likely
her murdered mother.... Red, run for some water. Fetch it in your hat.
Slingerland, ride after the troops.”
Slingerland rose and mounted his horse. “Wal, I’ve an idee. Let’s take
the girl to my cabin. Thet’s not fur from hyar. It’s a long ride to the
camp. An’ if she needs the troop doctor we can fetch him to my place.”
“But the Sioux?”
“Wal, she’d be safer with me. The Injuns an’ me are friends.”
“All right. Good. But you ride after the troops, anyhow, and tell Dillon
about the girl--that we’re going to your cabin.” Slingerland galloped
away after the dust cloud down the trail.
Neale gazed strangely down at the face of the girl he had rescued. Her
lips barely parted to make again the low moan. So that was what had
called to him. No--not all! There was something more than this feeble
cry that had brought him back to search; there had been some strong and
nameless and inexplicable impulse. Neale believed in his impulses--in
those strange ones which came to him at intervals. So far in his life
girls had been rather negative influences. But this girl, or the fact
that he had saved her, or both impressions together, struck deep into
him; life would never again be quite the same to Warren Neale.
Red King came striding back with a sombrero full of water.
“Take your scarf and wash that blood off her hands before she comes to
and sees it,” said Neale.
The cowboy was awkward at the task, but infinitely gentle. “Poor kid!
I’ll bet she’s alone in the world now.”
Neale wet his scarf and bathed the girl’s face. “If she’s only fainted
she ought to be reviving now. But I’m afraid--”
Then suddenly her eyes opened. They were large, violet-hued, covered
with a kind of veil or film, as though sleep had not wholly gone; and
they were unseeingly, staringly set with horror. Her breast heaved with
a sharply drawn breath; her hands groped and felt for something to hold;
her body trembled. Suddenly she sat up. She was not weak. Her motions
were violent. The dazed, horror-stricken eyes roved around, but did not
fasten upon anything.
“Aw! Gone crazy!” muttered King, pityingly.
It did seem so. She put her hands to her ears as if to shut out a
horrible sound. And she screamed. Neale grasped her shoulders, turned
her round, and forced her into such a position that her gaze must meet
his.
“You’re safe!” he cried sharply. “The Indians have gone! I’m a white
man!”
It seemed as though his piercing voice stirred her reason. She stared
at him. Her face changed. Her lips parted and her hand, shaking like a
leaf, covered them, clutched at them. The other hand waved before her as
if to brush aside some haunting terror.
Neale held that gaze with all his power--dominant, masterful, masculine.
He repeated what he had said.
Then it became a wonderful and terrible sight to watch her, to divine
in some little way the dark and awful state of her mind. The lines, the
tenseness, the shade, the age faded out of her face; the deep-set frown
smoothed itself out of her brow and it became young. Neale saw those
staring eyes fix upon his; he realized a dull, opaque blackness of
horror, hideous veils let down over the windows of a soul, images of
hell limned forever on a mind. Then that film, that unseeing cold thing,
like the shade of sleep or of death, passed from her eyes. Now they
suddenly were alive, great dark-violet gulfs, full of shadows, dilating,
changing into exquisite and beautiful lights.
“I’m a white man!” he said, tensely. “You’re saved! The Indians are
gone!”
She understood him. She realized the meaning of his words. Then, with
a low, agonized, and broken cry she shut her eyes tight and reached
blindly out with both hands; she screamed aloud. Shock claimed her
again. Horror and fear convulsed her, and it must have been fear that
was uppermost. She clutched Neale with fingers of steel, in a grip he
could not have loosened without breaking her bones.
“Red, you saw--she was right in her mind for a moment--you saw?” burst
out Neale.
“Shore I saw. She’s only scared now,” replied King. “It must hev been
hell fer her.”
At this juncture Slingerland came riding up to them. “Did she come
around?” he inquired, curiously gazing at the girl as she clung to
Neale.
“Yes, for a moment,” replied Neale.
“Wal, thet’s good.... I caught up with Dillon. Told him. He was mighty
glad we found her. Cussed his troopers some. Said he’d explain your
absence, an’ we could send over fer anythin’.”
“Let’s go, then,” said Neale. He tried to loosen the girl’s hold on him,
but had to give it up. Taking her in his arms, he rose and went toward
his horse. King had to help him mount with his burden. Neale did not
imagine he would ever forget that spot, but he took another long look to
fix the scene indelibly on his memory. The charred wagons, the graves,
the rocks over which the naked, gashed bodies had been flung, the three
scraggy trees close together, and the ledge with the dark aperture at
the base--he gazed at them all, and then turned his horse to follow
Slingerland.
6
Some ten miles from the scene of the massacre and perhaps fifteen from
the line surveyed by the engineers, Slingerland lived in a wild valley
in the heart of the Wyoming hills.
The ride there was laborsome and it took time, but Neale scarcely noted
either fact. He paid enough attention to the trail to fix landmarks
and turnings in his mind, so that he would remember how to find the
way there again. He was, however, mostly intent upon the girl he was
carrying.
Twice that he knew of her eyes opened during the ride. But it was to see
nothing and only to grip him tighter, if that were possible. Neale began
to imagine that he had been too hopeful. Her body was a dead weight and
cold. Those two glimpses he had of her opened eyes hurt him. What should
he do when she did come to herself? She would be frantic with horror and
grief and he would be helpless. In a case like hers it might have been
better if she had been killed.
The last mile to Slingerland’s lay through a beautiful green valley with
steep sides almost like a cañon--trees everywhere, and a swift, clear
brook running over a bed of smooth rock. The trail led along this brook
up to where the valley boxed and the water boiled out of a great spring
in a green glade overhung by bushy banks and gray rocks above. A rude
cabin with a red-stone chimney and clay-chinked cracks between the logs,
stuffed to bursting with furs and pelts and horns and traps, marked the
home of the trapper.