THE HUNTING PARTY.
Joel Warwick was a dashing young officer, proud of his chosen
profession, and anxious for an opportunity to distinguish himself in it.
Although he was fresh from West Point—he had been on the plains but
little more than a year—he had shown himself to be possessed of a good
many qualities that go to make up a first-class soldier.
“I have been thinking of you ever since we were introduced,” continued
the lieutenant, “and wondering if you really knew the worth of the
attentions that have been shown you. You came out here a perfect
stranger, and yet you were received at once on terms of intimacy by the
colonel, who can’t do too much for you; while we little fellows, who
have risked our lives in obedience to his orders, must keep our
distance. The gulf between line and field officers in the regular army
is a wide one, and no subordinate must attempt to cross it. Before my
commander will be as free with me as he is with you, I must wear an
eagle on my shoulders.”
“And yet he thinks a great deal of you,” said Oscar. “He told me that
you would some day make a fine officer.”
“Did he say that?” exclaimed the lieutenant, his eyes sparkling with
pleasure. “Well, I knew that he was satisfied with me. If he wasn’t, he
never would have invited me to go on this hunt.”
“What did you do to please him?”
“I rode my horse to death while carrying despatches for him. While we
were out on our last scout, it became necessary for him to communicate
with the commandant at Fort Wallace; so he started me off with Big
Thompson for a guide. I rode a splendid animal, which my father had
presented to me when I was first ordered out here, and which I believe
to be equal, if not superior, to anything that ever stood on four feet;
but, before we had gone half the distance, he was completely done up,
and Thompson had to shoot him. That was in accordance with orders, you
know. If a horse gives out, he is killed, to keep him from falling into
the hands of the hostiles who may use him against us. My guide then ran
ahead, on foot, and I rode his horse. And would you believe it?—that
miserable little pony of his was none the worse for the journey, and
neither was Thompson, while I was so completely played out that I wasn’t
worth a cent for a whole week. By the way, I thought I saw you leave the
post on horseback?”
“So I did; but out there in the sage-brush he threw me, and made off
before I could catch him. I hope to find him somewhere about the
corral.”
“I hope you will, but I am afraid you won’t. I think you will find that
he has struck a straight course for the camp where his old master hangs
out. Let’s go and see if we can find him, and then we’ll come back and
take a look at that mule and wagon the quartermaster sent up from the
village. The man who owns them has been waiting for you over an hour.”
“Have you heard anybody else inquiring for me?” asked Oscar, thinking of
his brother. “Well, I have done all I can,” he added to himself, upon
receiving a reply in the negative. “Tom has made his own bed, and he
must occupy it.”
What the lieutenant said about the pony made Oscar a little uneasy. If
it was true that the animal had gone off to hunt up his former owner, he
might make up his mind that he had seen the last of him; for the Indian
would take particular pains to see that he did not fall into the hands
of the soldiers again very soon.
If he did not send him off to some secure hiding-place among the
ravines, he would turn him loose with a lot of other ponies, and the
most experienced horseman at the post could not have picked him out from
among them.
If by any chance he was discovered and taken possession of by the
soldiers, some “good” Indian would lay claim to him, and the agent—who
is always more in sympathy with his Indians than he is with the troops
whose presence protects him—would order him to be given up.
The lieutenant explained all this to Oscar as the two walked toward the
corral. When they arrived there they could see nothing of the missing
steed.
The guards were questioned, but the invariable reply was that no pony
wearing a saddle and bridle had passed through the lines that afternoon.
He was not to be found in his stall either: and, after spending half an
hour in fruitless search, Oscar gave him up for lost, and followed the
lieutenant across the parade-ground to the colonel’s quarters, in front
of which stood the wagon and mule the quartermaster had sent up for the
boy’s inspection.
“Be you the college-sharp that’s needin’ a mu-el?” asked a roughly
dressed man, who arose from the warehouse steps and sauntered up to them
while they were critically examining the wagon and the long-eared animal
that was hitched to it.
Oscar looked at the man, and then he turned and looked at the
lieutenant, who said in a low tone:
“Every expert is called a ‘sharp’ out here. If he is a good poker-player
he is called a card-sharp; if he is an eloquent preacher he is called a
gospel-sharp—and no disrespect is intended either. It is simply a
plainsman way of talking. He has heard somewhere that you are backed up
by a university, and that’s the reason he calls you a college-sharp.
It’s a pretty fair looking rig, isn’t it? I don’t know that you can do
better, for you may rest assured that the quartermaster wouldn’t pick
out anything inferior for you. You can easily find sale for it when you
come back; and, if your horse is lost, and you don’t feel like buying
another, you can ride the mule when you want to go hunting. Now, then,
what are you laughing at?”
“I am laughing at the idea of making a hunting horse out of a mule,”
replied Oscar.
“Now, I’ll tell you what’s a fact—they make good ones,” exclaimed the
lieutenant. “One of our favorite scouts rides a mule on all his hunting
excursions, and that same mule can make an elk break his trot quicker
than any thoroughbred in the regiment.”
The officer might almost as well have talked Greek, for Oscar did not
know what he meant when he spoke of an elk being made to break his trot;
but, before he could ask an explanation, the lieutenant continued:
“You look him over, and I’ll go and find the major. It isn’t always safe
to invest in horse- or mule-flesh in this country until you know how
many owners it has. You don’t want to pay for it more than once.”
The young officer hurried off as he said this, and Oscar was left to
complete his examination alone.
It was easy enough to see that the mule was a superior animal. Although
he was not very large or heavy, he was well put together, and looked
strong enough to draw a much weightier vehicle than the one to which he
was hitched—a light “three-spring,” built something like an ambulance,
and provided with a canvas top to protect its cargo from the weather.
Oscar had already made up his mind to purchase, and a few words from the
major—who presently came up—confirmed him in his decision.
The money—a good round sum—was paid over to the owner, who departed
satisfied; the mule and wagon were given into the charge of one of the
teamsters, and Oscar and the lieutenant hurried to their rooms to get
ready for supper.
During the meal the loss of Oscar’s pony was discussed, and the
conclusion at which all the officers arrived was that the young
taxidermist was just fifty dollars out of pocket, besides the amount he
had paid for the lasso, saddle, and bridle, which the animal had carried
away with him.
“No doubt those articles will be very acceptable to the Indian, who will
be delighted to get his horse back again,” said the major. “But I can
mount you for this hunt. I’ll give you Gipsy. She is a beautiful rider,
and as gentle as a kitten. She is pretty fast, too, but when you are in
the chase you’ll have to look out for her. She is not as sure-footed as
your last pony, and if you should happen to get into a prairie-dog’s
nest she might break her legs, and your neck into the bargain. While you
are gone I’ll make every effort to recover your horse, but you mustn’t
be disappointed if I fail.”
Supper over, Oscar went into his room to get ready for the start. When
he came out again he carried his heavy Sharpe’s rifle on his shoulder, a
pair of saddle-bags, containing a few necessary articles, over his arm,
and a belt filled with cartridges was buckled about his waist.
The other members of the party were waiting for him on the
parade-ground. There were six of them in all, not counting the soldier
who was to drive the wagon in which the tents and other camp equipage
was stowed away, and the Osage guide, who sat on his pony near the gate,
waiting for the party to start.
The hunters were all in their saddles, and the colonel’s hounds were
frisking about in front of the wagon, with every demonstration of joy.
The quartermaster stood holding by the bridle a beautiful little nag,
which was affectionately rubbing her head against his shoulder.
This was the major’s holiday horse—the one he rode on dress-parades, and
other extra occasions. The one he rode on his scouts and campaigns was a
tall, raw-boned roan, which he called his war-horse.
Oscar threw his rifle over his shoulder—it was provided with a sling
similar to the one that was attached to the fowling-piece—placed his
saddle-bags in the wagon, and mounted his horse, whereupon the guide put
his pony in motion and rode out of the gate, the cavalcade following
close at his heels.
The sun was just setting as they started out; and, before they had
proceeded many miles on their way, night settled down over the prairie.
As the sky was cloudy, and no stars were to be seen, the darkness soon
became intense. All Oscar could see in advance of him was the white
blanket worn by the Indian guide, who kept steadily on his way, as sure
of his course as he would have been in broad daylight.
But the darkness did not affect the spirits of the hunters, who acted
like a lot of boys just turned loose from school. Even the colonel had
thrown aside his dignity, and seemed delighted to have the opportunity
to let out a little of the jovial spirit and good feeling which had so
long been restrained by the requirements of official etiquette.
He shouted and sang songs until he was hoarse, and even yelled back at
the wolves, which now and then serenaded the party.
Shortly after midnight they arrived at the place which had been selected
for their camping-ground—a little grove of timber situated on one of the
branches of the Platte.
Here the wagon was brought to a halt, and almost before Oscar had had
time to gain any idea of his surroundings, the horses had been staked
out, the tents pitched, and a fire started in the edge of the timber.
Oscar had often made camp in the woods after dark, but he found that the
officers were better at such business than he was.