Cold and still the dawn is breaking. Faint, wan, and pallid is the
feeble gleam that comes peeping over the low hills far over at the
east. Bare and desolate look the barren slopes on every hand. Not a
tree, not a shrub of any kind can eye discover in this dim and ghostly
light. All is silence, too. Even the coyotes who have set up their
unearthly yelping at odd intervals during the night seem to have slunk
away before the coming of the morning's sun and sought the shelter of
their lurking-spots. Here on the bleak ridge, where three men, wrapped
in cavalry overcoats, are lying prone, not a sound of any kind beyond
an occasional muffled word is to be heard. Three hundred yards behind
them, down in the valley, some thirty shadowy steeds are cropping at
the dense buffalo-grass, while their riders, dismounted now, are
huddled together for warmth. The occasional stamp of a hoof and the
snort of some impatient charger break the silence here, but cannot be
heard out at the front where the picket is lying. Another sound,
soothing, monotonous, ceaseless, falls constantly upon the ear of the
waking soldiers,--the rush of the swollen Platte over the rocks and
gravel of the ford a quarter-mile away, the only point below the fort
where the renegade Sioux can recross without swimming, and they are not
yet here to try it. When they come they will find Captain Terry, with
young McLean and thirty troopers, lurking behind the covering ridge,
ready and willing to dispute the passage. Through the darkness of the
night those good gray steeds, flitting like ghosts along the shore,
have come speeding down the Platte to land their riders first at the
goal, and once here, and satisfied by scrutiny of the south entrance to
the ford that no Indian pony has appeared within the last twenty-four
hours, Terry has posted his lookouts on the ridge, and then, having
hoppled and "half-lariated" his horses, has cautioned the men to rest
on their arms and not to throw off belt or spur. "There is no telling,"
he says, "what moment they may come along."
McLean, with his long Springfield rifle, has gone up to the ridge to
join the outlying picket. A keen-eyed fellow is this young soldier and
a splendid shot, and the Indians who succeed in crossing that next
ridge a mile farther south and approaching them unobserved will have
to wear the cap of the "Invisible Prince." He has come out on this
scout full of purpose and ambition. Things have not gone happily with
him during the past few days. Profoundly depressed in spirits at the
millstone of debt suddenly saddled upon him as the result of
peculations of the deserting sergeant, he has the added misery of
seeing the sweet-faced girl with whom he has fallen so deeply in love
practically withdrawn from his daily life and penned up within her
father's house for the evident object of compelling her to entertain
the devotion of a rival, whose wealth and social position make him a
man to be feared,--a man whom any woman, old or young, might think
twice before refusing. Already the people at Laramie were discussing
the possibilities,--some of them in his very presence; and there were
not lacking those to say, that, even if she had been more than half
inclined to reciprocate McLean's evident attachment, she would be a
fool not to accept Roswell Holmes, with his wealth, education, and
undoubted high character. A second lieutenant in the army was all very
well for a girl who could do no better, but Elinor Bayard was of
excellent social position herself. Her mother's people ranked with the
best in the land, and her father, despite his _galanterie_, was a man
distinguished in his profession and in society. It was driving McLean
wellnigh desperate. Not one word of love-making had been breathed
between him and the gentle girl who so enjoyed her walks and rides
with him, but he knew well that her woman's heart must have told her
ere this how dear she was to him, and it was no egotism or conceit
that prompted him to the belief that she would not show such pleasure
in his coming if he were utterly indifferent to her. Coquetry was
something Nellie Bayard seemed deficient in; she was frank and
truthful in every look and word.
And yet, realizing what grounds he had for hope, McLean was utterly
downcast when he faced the situation before him. It would take him a
year--with the utmost economy he could command--to pay off the load
that had been so ruthlessly heaped upon him. He realized that so long
as he owed a penny in the world he had no right to ask any woman to be
his wife. Meantime, here was this wealthy, well-educated,
well-preserved man of affairs ready and eager to lay his name and
fortune at her feet. What mattered it that he was probably more than
double her age? Had McLean not read of maidens who worshipped men of
more than twice their years even to the extent of--"A love that was her
doom?" Had he not read aloud to her only a fortnight before the story
of Launcelot and the lily maid of Astolat? Poor fellow! In bitterness
of spirit he believed that in the last few days she had purposely
avoided him, and had treated him with coldness on the few occasions
when they met; and now he had sought this perilous duty eagerly and
avowedly; he had set forth without so much as a word of farewell to her
or a touch of her trembling little hand, affecting to be so occupied in
preparation up to the instant of starting that he had no time for a
word with anybody. And yet Mrs. Miller had called him aside and spoken
to him as the group of officers and ladies gathered near the Laramie
bridge to see the little column start, and Nellie Bayard had looked up
wistfully at him as he rode by their party, merely waving his
scouting-hat in general salutation. It hurt her sorely that he should
have gone without one word for her,--and yet she scarce knew why.
And now here they were, squarely across the Indian trail, and ready for
their coming. Roswell Holmes could not have that distinction at all
events, thought McLean, as he tried the lock and breech-block of his
rifle to see that everything was in perfect working order. Come what
might,--if it were only Indians,--he meant to make a record in this
fight that any woman might be proud of; and if he fell,--well, he
wouldn't have to pay for Sergeant Marsland's stealings, or have the
misery of seeing her borne off by Holmes's big bank-account, as she
probably would be. Poor Mac! He had yet to learn that a reputation as
an Indian-fighter is but an ephemeral and unsatisfactory asset as an
adjunct to love-making.
Meanwhile, the dawn is broadening; the grayish pallor at the orient
takes on a warmer tint, and a feeble glow of orange and crimson steals
up the heavens. The slopes and swales around the lonely outpost grow
more and more visible, the distant ridge more sharply defined against
the southern sky. Off to the left, the eastward, the river rolls along
in a silvery, misty gleam; and their comrades, still sheltered under
the bluff, are beginning to gather around the horses and look to the
bridles and "cinchas." Now the red blush deepens and extends along the
low hill-tops across the Platte, and tinges the rolling prairie to the
south and west. A few minutes more and the glow is strong enough to
reveal an old but well-defined trail leading from the distant ridge
straight up to the little crest where McLean is lying. It seems to
follow a south-westerly course, and is the trail, beyond doubt, along
which the marauders from the reservations have time and again recrossed
with their plunder and gained the official shelter of those sacred
limits.
"Why, sir," says Corporal Connor, who is lying there beside the young
officer, "last October a party came over and scalped two women and
three teamsters not three miles from the post, and ran off with all
their cattle. We caught up with them just across the Niobrara, and they
dropped the mules and horses they were driving and made a run for it.
We chased and gained on them every inch of the way, but they got to the
lines first, and then they just whirled about and jeered at us and
shook the scalps in our faces, and called us every name you could think
of,--in good English, too," added the trooper seriously; "and the
lieutenant and I rode to the agency and pointed out two of them to the
agent that very day, but he didn't dare arrest them. His life depended
on his standing by them through thick and thin. Look, lieutenant! Look
off there!"
Over to the southwest, dimly visible, three or four shadowy objects are
darting rapidly over the distant ridge that spans the horizon in that
direction. For one moment only they are revealed against the sky, then
can be seen, faint as far-away cloud-shadows, sweeping down into the
shallow valley and making for the river above the position of the
outpost. Indians, beyond question! the advance guard of the main body;
and the time for action has come.
Instead of riding toward them, however,--instead of approaching the
ford by the most direct line,--these scouts are loping northward from
the point where the trail crosses the ridge, and pushing for the
stream. McLean sees their object with the quickness of thought. 'Tis
not that they have made a "dry camp" during the night, and are in haste
to get to water with their ponies. He knows well that in several of the
ravines and "coulies" on their line of march there is abundant water at
this season of the year. He knows well that not until they had crept up
to and cautiously peered over that ridge, without showing so much as a
feather of their war-bonnets, would they venture so boldly down into
the "swale." He knows well that both in front and rear they are
watching for the coming of cavalry, and that now they are dashing over
to the Platte to peer across the skirting bluffs until satisfied no
foeman is near, then to scurry down into the bottom to search for
hoof-prints. If they find the well-known trail of shod horses in column
of twos, it will tell them beyond shadow of doubt that troops are
already guarding the ford. "Confound it!" he exclaims. "Why didn't we
think of it last night, and come down the other side? We could just as
well have crossed the Platte on the engineer bridge, and then they
couldn't have spotted us. Now it's too late. Run back, corporal, and
warn the captain. I'll stay here and watch them."
Connor speeds briskly down the slope, and, even as they see him coming,
the men lead their horses into line. Captain Terry has one foot in the
stirrup as the non-commissioned officer reaches him and his hand goes
up in salute.
"Lieutenant McLean's compliments, sir" (the invariable formula in
garrison, and not omitted in the field by soldiers as precise as the
corporal). "Three or four bucks are galloping over to the river above
us to look for our tracks."
"How far above us, corporal?"
"Nigh on to a mile, sir."
"Sergeant Wallace, stay here with the platoon. Mount, you six men on
the right, and come after me as quick as you can!" And away goes
Captain Terry, full speed up the valley and heading close under the
bluffs. In a minute three of the designated troopers are in a bunch at
his heels, the other three scattered along the trail. From McLean's
post he can see both parties in the gathering light,--the Indians,
slowly and cautiously now, beginning the ascent to the bluffs, the
captain and his men "speeding it" to get first to the scene. Another
moment, and he sees Terry spring from his horse, throw the reins to a
trooper, and run crouching up toward the crest; then, on hands and
knees, peep cautiously over, removing his hat as he does so. Then he
signals "forward" to his men, slides backward a yard or two, runs to
his horse, mounts, gallops some four hundred yards farther along the
foot of the slope, then turns, rides half-way up, and then he and four
of the men leap from their saddles, toss their reins to the two who
remain mounted, and, carbine in hand, run nimbly up the bluffs and
throw themselves prone upon the turf, almost at the top. Not two
hundred yards away from them four Sioux warriors, with trailing
war-bonnets and brilliant display of paint and glitter, are "opening
out" as they approach, and warily moving toward the summit. One instant
more and there is a sudden flash of fire-arms at the crest; five jets
of bluish smoke puff out upon the rising breeze; five sputtering
reports come sailing down the wind a few seconds later; and, while two
of the warriors go whirling off in a wide, sweeping circle, the other
two are victims to their own unusual recklessness. One of them,
clinging desperately to the high pommel, but reeling in his saddle,
urges his willing pony down the slope; the other has plunged forward
and lies stone-dead upon the sward. Even at the echo of the carbines,
however, popping up from across the ridge a mile away, there come
whirling into view a score of red and glittering horsemen, sweeping
down in broad, fan-shaped course, at top speed of their racing ponies,
yelling like mad, and lashing their nimble steeds to the rescue. Two
minutes of that gait, and the captain and his little squad will be
surrounded.
"Mount! mount!" shouts McLean, as he turns and rushes down the slope,
followed by his picket-guard. "Lively now, sergeant. Run to the
captain. Don't wait for me!"
"Come on, all you fellers!" is Sergeant Wallace's characteristic
rallying cry; and away goes the little troop, like a flock of quail.
McLean is in the saddle in an instant, and full tilt in pursuit.
Not a moment too soon! Even before the leading troopers have reached
the two "horse-holders" under the bluffs, both above and below the
captain's position, the plumed and painted warriors have flashed up on
the ridge and taken him in flank. Without the prompt aid of his men he
would be surrounded in the twinkling of an eye. Already these daring
flankers have opened fire on the knot of horsemen, when McLean shouts
to some of the rearmost to follow him, and veering to the left he rides
straight at the Indians who have appeared nearest him along the bluffs.
Two of the troopers follow unhesitatingly; others sheer off toward
their main body. There's too much risk in darting right into the teeth
of a pack of mounted Sioux, even to follow an officer. Wary and
watchful the Indians mark his coming. Circling out to right and left
they propose to let him in, then follow their old tactics of a
surround. He never heeds their manoeuvres; his aim is to get to close
quarters with any one of them and fight it out, as Highland chieftains
fought in the old, old days of target and claymore. He never heeds the
whistle of the bullets past his ears as one after another the nearest
Indians take hurried shots at him. Straight as a dart he flies at a
tall savage who pops up on the ridge in front of him. The long
Springfield is slung now, and he grasps the gleaming revolver in his
hand. Twice the Indian fires, the lever of his Henry rifle working like
mad, but the bullets whiz harmlessly by; then, with no time to reload,
and dreading the coming shock, he ducks quickly over his nimble
piebald's neck and strives to lash him out of the way, just as the
young officer from some other hand
Receives but recks not of a wound,
and then troop-horse, pony, soldier, and savage are rolling in a
confused heap upon the turf. The Indian is the first on his feet and
limping away; no redskin willingly faces white man "steel to steel."
McLean staggers painfully to his knees, brushes dust and clods from his
blinded eyes with one quick dash of his sleeve, and draws a bead on his
red antagonist just as the latter turns to aim; there is a sudden flash
and report, and the Sioux throws up his hands with one yell and tumbles
headlong. Then a mist seems rising before the young soldier's eyes, the
earth begins to reel and swim and whirl, and then all grows dark, and
he, too, is prostrate on the sward.