It was nearly two days before authentic news came in from the Niobrara,
where Hatton's little command had been "corralled." Just as at first
reported, the Indians in overwhelming numbers had suddenly charged down
upon the detachment from behind a ridge that lay full half a mile to
the east of the road; while others, crouching in a dry watercourse, had
picked off the leading soldiers,--the two men thrown out to the front
to scout the trail and secure the main body against surprise. Hatton,
all told, had only twenty men, and the fall of the two far in the
advance had for an instant flurried their comrades back at the wagons.
There was no time to run these lumbering vehicles, empty though they
were, into the familiar, old "prairie fort," in square or circle; but,
while some of the teamsters sprang from their saddles and took refuge
under their wagons, others seized their arms and joined the soldiers in
a sharp fire upon the charging and yelling warriors, with the usual
effect of compelling them to veer and wheel and scamper away, still
keeping up a lively fusillade of their own. One mule team and wagon
went tearing off full tilt across the prairie pursued by a score of
jeering, laughing, and exultant braves, and was finally "rounded up"
and captured by them a mile away to the west; and Hatton had promptly
availed himself of the episode to make a rush with his entire party for
a little hillock three hundred yards east of the road. He had marked
the spot before and knew its possibilities for defence, and there in
less than five minutes he had his men sheltered in an oval "dip" along
the crest and yet commanding the approaches in every direction. From
here they not only successfully "stood off" every attack until dark,
but prevented the Indians reaching the bodies of the slain and securing
the coveted trophy of their scalps, and covered the teamsters who were
sent down to unhitch and secure the mules. When night came a half-breed
scout slipped away with news of the "corral," and Hatton found that two
of his men were severely wounded and that few of them had any water in
their canteens. The river was full six miles to the south. Neither
stream nor spring was close at hand, and with characteristic
improvidence the teamsters had failed to fill their water-barrels at
the stockade before starting. "What was the use, with the Niobrara only
a few hours' march away?" Bitterly did Hatton reproach himself for his
neglect in having left so important a matter to the men themselves, but
there was no sense in fretting over the past. Something had to be done
at once to provide water for the morrow's siege. They heard the
exultant whoops of the savages, who, under cover of the darkness, had
crept out and succeeded in scalping the two dead soldiers. They knew
that very soon the Indians would be crawling out to the wagons in an
attempt to run them away or fire them. Hatton himself ventured down to
examine the water-barrels, and found not more than half a barrel of
dirty, brackish, ill-flavored fluid in all. The darkness grew black and
impenetrable. Heavy clouds overspread the heavens, and a moaning wind
crept out of the mountain-passes of the Big Horn range and came
sweeping down across the treeless prairie. Every now and then they
could hear the galloping beat of pony-hoofs, and knew that they were
closely invested in their hillock citadel, and at last, about ten
o'clock, a sergeant who had been sent with a couple of men to see what
was going on at the wagons, came running back breathless. The wagons
were gone! Every one of them had been run off by the Indians under
cover of the wind and darkness; and presently, half a mile over to the
south-east, a glare of flame arose, and the white tops became for a
moment visible, and dancing, capering naked forms around them, and then
the cotton duck attracted the eager, fiery tongues, and in another
moment the flames seemed to leap high in the air, but the performers in
the aboriginal ballet scurried for shelter. The soldiers sighted their
rifles for nine hundred yards, and the little hill blazed and sputtered
half a minute with a rapid discharge that sent leaden messengers
whistling through the burning wagon-covers and humming about the ears
of the revellers.
Fifteen minutes later, Hatton resolved on a bold move. Mounting his
wounded men on mules, and leading his little party, soldiers,
teamsters, and quadrupeds, he slipped away from the hillock, and,
keeping well to the east of the road, groped through the darkness back
to the high range overlooking the valleys of "Old Woman's Fork" of the
South Cheyenne and Hat Creek to the eastward; and morning found him
bivouacked at a little spring not ten miles from the stockade. Thither,
of course, the Indians trailed and followed at daybreak. There again
they attacked and besieged and were repulsed, again and again; and
there at dawn on the second day, after an all-night march, the trumpets
of the cavalry rang the signal of rescue, and the charging troopers
sent the Sioux whirling in scattered bands over the bold and beautiful
upland. The little detachment was safe, but its brave commander was
prostrate with a rifle-bullet through the thigh and another in the
shoulder. Dr. Weeks declared it impossible to attempt to move him back
to Laramie; and in a litter made with lariats and saddle-blankets the
men carried their wounded leader back to the stockade at the head of
Sage Creek, and there, wrote Weeks, he might have to remain a month,
and there, unless otherwise ordered, the other wounded men would remain
with him, Weeks himself attending them in his improvised
field-hospital.
Major Miller and Dr. Bayard, after brief consultation, had decided that
the young surgeon's ideas were sound. The stockade was well guarded and
provisioned. Medical and surgical supplies were promptly forwarded
under strong cavalry escort, and that same day the entire cavalry
battalion struck its tents and moved away northward over the route
Hatton had taken. Once more was Laramie left with only a handful of men
and hardly a company officer for duty.
Old Bruce turned out, despite his rheumatics, and announced that he was
game for any garrison service under the circumstances. Roswell Holmes,
who had stowed a box of wine and several boxes of cigars in the
supply-wagons, with his compliments to Dr. Weeks and his patients, and
who had remained at Laramie instead of going to the front solely
because of an odd turn in local events, now declared that he must be
considered a brevet second lieutenant, and besought Dr. Bayard's
permission to visit his patient, Mr. McLean, to solicit the loan of his
uniforms, sword, etc. Major Miller laughed gleefully at the idea, and
all the garrison was beginning to pluck up heart again, for Hatton's
wounds were pronounced not dangerous, though painful, and all the
infantry people were proud of the way he and McLean had upheld the
honor of their corps. Jeannie Bruce and Elinor had had long hours of
who knows what delicious confidence and tearful exchange of sympathy.
McLean was reported doing very well; Blunt was improving; Miss Forrest
was taking the air on the gallery. Everybody seemed in better spirits,
despite a certain constraint and mystery that overhung the
garrison,--everybody, with one exception--Dr. Bayard.
"Mr. McLean is improving so rapidly that he is able to sit up already
and will need his uniform himself," was his response to Holmes's
laughing suggestion, but both Major Miller and the gentleman addressed
looked at the speaker in surprise. One might have hazarded the
assertion that it was a matter of regret to the post surgeon that his
patient was on the mend. Miller eyed him narrowly. Ever since the
strange conversation held with the doctor, the post commander had
become almost distrustful of his motives. What could he mean by
intimating that McLean was the guilty party in these recent mysterious
larcenies? What could have put such ideas into his head? For the first
time in several days the major was tempted to reopen the subject which
he had practically forbidden his wife to mention again. He longed to
know what she would say or think if she knew that the surgeon was
trying to divert suspicion from Miss Forrest to the wounded and
unsuspecting officer. Now that the cavalry had gone out to the front
and more troops were marching up from the railway, all anxiety as to
his immediate surroundings was dispelled, and the major could not avoid
drifting back to the strange complications in which two of the
prominent people of his military bailiwick were involved. He had taken
a great liking to Mr. Holmes, and had striven to open the way for that
gentleman in case he had the faintest inclination to speak of his
losses; but, though the civilian instantly saw what the simple-minded
old soldier was aiming at, he changed the subject, and it presently
became plain to the commander that he would not speak about the matter
at all. Miller could not well seek his advice without telling of the
other thefts of which he believed Mr. Holmes to know nothing, and yet
he felt that as commanding officer it was his duty to say to the
visitor how much he regretted the occurrence and how earnestly he was
striving to discover the offender. But Holmes would not give him a
chance. He was doing a little ferreting on his own account.
As for the doctor, two things had conspired to make him blue and
unhappy. Miss Forrest was up and out on her gallery, as has been said,
but was never in her sister's room when the doctor called; declined his
professional services with courteous thanks and the assurance that no
physician was necessary, yet begged to be excused when he sent a
message by Celestine asking if she would not see him. Then he wrote her
a note, and, remembering her antipathy to the mulatto girl, he sent it
by Robert, charging him to take it to her door if she was not in the
sitting-room, but to deliver it in person and wait for an answer.
Robert found her promenading with Mrs. Post on the upper gallery, and
people who had been saying that Mrs. Post had nothing to do with her at
Robinson were surprised at the growing intimacy between them now.
Robert presented the note with a grave and courtly Virginia bow, then
withdrew to a little distance and respectfully awaited her answer. Over
at the Gordons' a group of ladies, old and young, watched the scene
with curious and speculative eyes. Everybody knew that Miss Forrest had
declined to see Dr. Bayard during her illness. Everybody had noted
that, while the entire feminine element of the garrison flocked to
inquire for Nellie in her invalid state, nobody went to see Fanny
Forrest. Now, what could this strange girl be doing with letters from
"Dr. Chesterfield"? Even Mrs. Post watched her narrowly as she
hurriedly read the lines of the doctor's elegant missive. Her eyes
seemed to dilate, her color heightened and a little frown set itself
darkly on her brow; but she looked up brightly after a moment's
thought, and spoke kindly and pleasantly to the waiting messenger,--
"There is no answer, at least not now, Robert. Thank the doctor and
tell him I am very much better."
And so, empty-handed, he returned to his master, who waited expectant
in his study. The message was almost an affront,--such was his pride
and self-esteem; and for nearly an hour he sat there pondering over the
strange characteristics of the girl who, despite the story of her
poverty and dependence, had so fascinated him. It cut him to the quick
that she should so avoid him, when he knew well that between her and
Mr. Holmes there had been an exchange of notes. Mr. Holmes had seen fit
to preserve a mysterious silence as to this significant circumstance,
and finally, apparently by appointment, Mr. Holmes had called at Bedlam
the evening after his arrival, and had enjoyed a long and uninterrupted
conversation with Miss Forrest out on the upper gallery. Now what did
this portend? It was Celestine who gave him this very interesting
information as he entered the lower hall, and, despite his repellant
mien, that enterprising domestic was sufficiently a judge of character
to venture on a low and confidential tone of voice in addressing him.
He had scowled malignantly at her and had bidden her hold her peace as
he passed her by, but Celestine was in no wise dismayed. She knew her
man. It was on his return from his visit that he sent his note, and
then, in the gloom and silence of his library, pondered over the
palpable rebuff. Over across the hall he could hear the soft voices of
his daughter and her now intimate friend Jean. They were cooing and
murmuring together in some girlish confidences which he was in no mood
to appreciate, and with which he could feel no sympathy whatever. Then
in came Holmes from the sunshine of the parade; and he heard him
cheerily enter the parlor, and in hearty, cordial tones announce that
he had just come from Mr. McLean's room, that that young gentleman was
doing finely, and would be able to sit out on the piazza in a day or
two, and that Mrs. Miller was nursing him like a mother. For a time the
chat went blithely on, Jeannie Bruce and Holmes being the principals,
and then came a message which called that young lassie homeward.
Presently Bayard heard the manly voice growing deeper and softer. The
words were indistinguishable, but there was no misjudging the tone,
such was the tremor of tenderness of every syllable. Faint, far
between, and monosyllabic were Nellie's replies, but soon the father
knew she was answering through her tears. It did not last long. Holmes
came to the hall, turned and spoke once more to her,--no touch of
reproach, no tinge of pleading, but with a ring of manly sympathy and
protecting care in every word; Bayard could not but hear one sentence:
"It makes me only more firmly your friend, little girl,--and his, too."
And then he strode forth into the breeze and sunshine again, and no man
who met him knew that he had tempted his fate and lost. Something had
told him, days before, that Miss Forrest's words were prophetic,--Nellie
Bayard would prefer one nearer her own years.
It was to satisfy himself that Randall McLean was that enviable
somebody that he had sought this interview; and, though she had
admitted nothing and he had not questioned, he had read in her tears
and blushes a truth that only recently had she tremblingly admitted to
herself. Now he saw his way clearly to the end.
But to Bayard the abrupt close of the murmured interview meant a
possibility that filled him with double dismay. That one hope should be
dashed to earth this morning was an evil sufficient unto the day. That
it should be followed by the conviction that his daughter had utterly
declined to consider this wealthy and most estimable gentleman as a
suitor for her hand was a bitter, bitter disappointment; but that she
should have refused Roswell Holmes, with all his advantages, because of
Randall McLean--with what?--was more than he could bear.
Just as she was hurrying to her room, still weeping, he interposed.
"My little Nell!--my precious!" he cried, in tenderest tones, as he
folded her in his arms. "Is it so hopeless as this? Is it possible that
my little daughter's heart has been stolen away--right under my
eyes--and I never saw it?"
For an answer she only clung to him, hiding her bonny face, weeping the
more violently. Speak she could not.
"Nell! Nellie!" he pleaded, "try and tell me, dear. You don't know what
it means to me! You don't know what fears your silence causes me! My
child--tell me--that it isn't Mr. McLean."
No answer--only closer nestling; only added tears.
"Nell, my own little one! If you knew with what awful dread I waited!
If you knew what this meant to me--to you--to us all! Speak to me,
daughter. Tell me it isn't that unhappy young man."
And now, startled, shocked, she lifts her brimming eyes in wonderment
to her father's face, gazing at him through the mist of tears.
"Why unhappy?" she almost gasps. "Why--why not Mr. McLean, papa?"
For a moment Bayard stands as though stunned. Then slowly relaxes the
clasp of his arms and turns drearily away, covering his face with his
hands.
"My God!" he moans. "This is retribution, this is punishment! Blinder
than the veriest mole have I been through it all. Nellie!" he cries,
turning suddenly toward her again as she stands there trembling at his
melodramatic misery. "There is no engagement! There has been nothing
said, has there? Tell me!"
"Not a word,--from me," she whispers low. "He sent me a little note
yesterday through Jeannie. Indeed, you can see it, papa; but I have not
answered. It doesn't ask anything."
"Then promise me no word shall go, my child! Promise me! I cannot tell
you why just yet, but he is not the man to whom I could ever consent to
give you. My child! my child! his name is clouded; his honor is
tarnished; he stands accused of crime. Nellie--my God! you must hear it
sooner or later."
But now she draws away from him and leans upon the balusters, looking
into his face as though she doubted his sanity.
"Father!" she slowly speaks at length, "I could no more believe such a
thing of him--than I could of you."
A quick, springy step is suddenly heard on the wooden walk without, the
rattle of an infantry sword against the steps, an imperative
rat-tat-tat at the door. Elinor speeds away to hide her flushed cheeks
and tearful eyes in the solitude of her room. Bayard quickly composes
his features to their conventional calm and recedes to the gloom of the
library. Robert majestically stalks through the hall and opens the
door.
"Dr. Bayard in?" asks the brusque voice of the adjutant. "Ah, doctor,"
continues that officer, marching straightway into the den, "Major
Miller is at the gate and on his way to visit Mr. McLean. He begs that
you will be present at the interview, as it is on a matter of much
importance."
"Very well, Mr. Adjutant," answers Bayard, gravely, as though divining
the solemn import of their errand. "I am at your service at once."