BACK AT FORT DODGE
The swiftly speeding weeks of that war-summer on the plains had brought
many changes to the hard-worked troops engaged in the campaign or
garrisoning the widely scattered posts south of the Platte. Scouting
details, although constantly in the saddle, failed to prevent continued
Indian depredations on exposed settlements. Stage routes were
deserted, and the toiling wagons of the freighters vanished from the
trails. Reports of outrages were continuous, and it became more and
more evident that the various tribes were at length united in a
desperate effort to halt the white advance. War parties broke through
the wide-strung lines of guard, and got safely away again, leaving
behind death and destruction. Only occasionally did these Indian
raiders and the pursuing troops come into actual contact. The former
came and went in swift forays, now appearing on the Pawnee, again on
the Saline, followed by a wild ride down the valley of the Arkansas.
Scattered in small bands, well mounted and armed, no one could guess
where the next attack might occur. Every day brought its fresh report
of horror. From north and south, east and west, news of outrages came
into Sheridan's headquarters at Fort Wallace.
Denver, at the base of the mountains, was practically in state of
siege, provisioned only by wagon trains sent through under strong
guard; the fringe of settlement along the water ways was deserted, men
and women fleeing to the nearest government posts for protection and
food. The troops, few in number and widely scattered in small
detachments, many being utilized as scouts and guards, were unequal to
the gigantic task of protecting so wide a frontier. Skirmishes were
frequent, but the Indians were wary and resourceful, and only once
during the entire summer were they brought into real decisive battle.
The last of August, Major Forsythe, temporarily commanding a company of
volunteer scouts, was suddenly attacked by over a thousand warriors
under command of Roman Nose. A four days' fight resulted, with heavy
loss on both sides, the Indians being finally driven from the field by
the opportune arrival of fresh troops.
The general condition of affairs is well shown by the reports reaching
Fort Wallace in September. Governor Hunt wrote from Denver: "Just
returned. Fearful condition of things here. Nine persons murdered by
Indians yesterday, within radius of nine miles." A few days later,
acting Governor Hall reported: "The Indians have again attacked our
settlements in strong force, obtaining possession of the country to
within twelve miles of Denver. They are more bold, fierce, and
desperate in their assaults than ever before. It is impossible to
drive them out and protect the families at the same time, for they are
better armed, mounted, disciplined, and better officered than our men.
Each hour brings intelligence of fresh barbarities, and more extensive
robberies." This same month Governor Crawford, of Kansas, telegraphed,
"Have just received a despatch from Hays, stating that Indians
attacked, captured, and burned a train at Pawnee Fork; killed, scalped,
and burned sixteen men; also attacked another train at Cimarron
Crossing, which was defended until ammunition was exhausted, when the
men abandoned the train, saving what stock they could. Similar attacks
are of almost daily occurrence."
South of the Cimarron all was desolation, and war raged unchecked from
the Platte to the Pecos. Sheridan determined upon a winter campaign,
although he understood well the sufferings entailed upon the troops by
exposure on the open plains at that season. Yet he knew the habits of
Indians; that they would expect immunity from attack and would gather
in villages, subject to surprise. He, therefore, decided that the
result would justify the necessary hardships involved. To this end
smaller posts were abandoned, and the widely scattered soldiers ordered
to central points in preparation for the contemplated movement. Devere
had been deserted earlier, and Major McDonald had marched his men to
Dodge, where Molly awaited his coming. Retained there on garrison
duty, the two occupied a one-story, yellow stone structure fronting the
parade ground. In October, orders to march reached "M" troop, Seventh
Cavalry, at Fort Union, and the ragged, bronzed troopers, who all
summer long had been scouting the New Mexican plains, turned their
horses' heads to the northeast in hopefulness of action. With them up
the deserted Santa Fé trail, past burned stations and wrecks of wagon
trains, rode Sergeant Hamlin, silent and efficient, the old Confederate
haversack fastened to his saddle, and his mind, in spite of all effort,
recurring constantly to the girl who had gone to Dodge early in the
summer. Was she still there? If so, how would she greet him now after
these months of absence? The little cavalry column, dust-covered and
weary, seemed fairly to creep along, as day by day he reviewed every
word, every glance, which had passed between them; and at night, under
the stars, he lay with head on his saddle, endeavoring to determine his
course of action, both as to their possible meeting, and with regard to
the following of the clue offered by the haversack. The time he had
hoped for was at hand, but he could not decide the best course of
action. He could only wait, and permit Fate to interfere.
Certain facts were, however, sufficiently clear, and the Sergeant faced
them manfully. Not merely the fact that he was in the ranks, great as
that handicap was, could have prevented an attempt at retaining the
friendship of Molly McDonald. But he was in the ranks because of
disgrace--hiding away from his own people, keeping aloof from his
proper station in life, out of bitter shame. If he had felt thus
before, he now felt it a thousand times more acutely in memory of the
comradeship of her whose words had brought him a new gleam of hope.
Never before had loneliness seemed so complete, and never before had he
realized how wide was the chasm between the old and the new life. This
constantly recurrent memory embittered him, and made him restless. Yet
out of it all, there grew a firmer determination to win back his old
position in the world, to stamp out the lie through which that
Confederate court-martial had condemned him. If Le Fevre were alive,
he meant now to find him, face him, and compel him to speak the truth.
The discovery of that haversack gave a point from which to start, and
his mind centred there with a fixed purpose which obscured all else.
It was after dark when "M" troop, wearied by their long day's march
across the brown grass, rode slowly up the face of the bluff, and into
the parade ground at Fort Dodge. The lights of the guard-house
revealed the troopers' faces, while all about them gleamed the yellow
lamps, as the garrison came forth to welcome their arrival. Guided by
a corporal of the guard the men led their horses to the stables, and,
as they passed the row of officers' houses Hamlin caught a furtive
glimpse in a radius of light that gave his pulses a sudden throb. She
was here then--here! He had hardly dared hope for this. They would
meet again; that could scarcely be avoided in such narrow quarters.
But how? On what terms? He ventured the one swift glimpse at her--a
slender, white-robed figure, one among a group of both men and women
before an open door, through which the light streamed--heard her ask,
"Who are they? What cavalry troop is that?" caught the response in a
man's voice, "'M' of the Seventh, from Fort Union," and then passed by,
his eyes looking straight ahead, his hand gripping his horse's bit.
Thirty minutes later in the great barn-like barracks, he hung his
accoutrements over the bed assigned him in the far corner, and,
revolver belt still buckled about his waist, stood at the open window,
striving to determine which of those winking lights shone from the
house where he had seen her. There had been something in the eagerness
of her voice which he could not forget, nor escape from. She had
seemed to care, to feel an interest deeper than mere curiosity. The
Sergeant's heart beat rapidly, even while he sternly told himself he
was a fool. A hand touched his shoulder, and he wheeled about to grip
Wasson's hand.
"Well, 'Brick,' old boy," said the scout genially, although his thin
face was as solemn as ever; "so you fellows have come back to be in the
shindy?"
"We 've been in it all summer, Sam," was the reply. "It's been lively
enough south of the Cimarron, the Lord knows. I 've been riding patrol
for months now. But what's up? No one seems to know why we were
ordered in."
"It's all guess-work here," and Wasson sat down on the narrow bed and
lit his pipe. "But the 'old man' is getting something under way,
consolidating troops. Your regiment is going to be used, that's
certain. I 've been carryin' orders between here an' Wallace for three
weeks now, an' I 've heard Sheridan explode once or twice. He 's tired
of this guerilla business, an' wants to have one good fight."
"It is getting late."
"That's the way he figures it out, accordin' to my notion. We 've
always let those fellows alone during the bad weather, an' they 've got
so they expect it. The 'old man' figures he 'll give 'em a surprise."
"A winter campaign?"
"Why not? We can stand it if they can. O' course, I 'm just guessin';
there 's no leak at headquarters. But Custer 's up there," with a wave
of the hand to the north, "and they 've got the maps out."
"What maps?"
"I only got a glimpse of them out of the tail of my eye, but I reckon
they was of the kintry south of the Arkansas, along the Canadian."
Hamlin sat down beside him, staring across the big room.
"Then it's Black Kettle; his band is down on the Washita," he
announced. "I hope it's true."
"They 're arrangin' supply depots, anyhow; six companies of infantry
are on Monument Creek, and five troops of cavalry on the North Canadian
a'ready. Wagon trains have been haulin' supplies. There 's some stiff
work ahead when the snow flies, or I miss my guess."
Hamlin sat silent, thinking, and the scout smoked quietly, occasionally
glancing toward his companion. Finally he spoke again, his voice
barely audible.
"That little girl you sent in with us is here yet."
The Sergeant was conscious that his cheeks flamed, but he never looked
up.
"Yes, I saw her as we came in."
"She 's asked me about you once or twice; don't seem to forget what you
did for her."
"Sorry to hear that."
"No, yer not; could n't no man be sorry to have a girl like that take
an interest in him. 'T ain't in human nature. What did yer tell her
about me?"
"Tell her!" surprised. "Why, I only advised her to hang close to you
if anything happened. I didn't exactly like the style of the
Lieutenant."
"Thet's wat I thought. Well, she's done it, though thet has n't pried
her loose from Gaskins. He 's hauntin' her like a shadow. It 's
garrison talk they 're engaged, but I ain't so sure 'bout thet. She
an' I hev got to be pretty good friends, though, o' course, it's
strictly on the quiet. I ain't got no invite to officers' row yit.
She 's asked me a lot 'bout you."
"Interesting topic."
"Well, I reckon as how she thinks it is, enyhow. Yesterday she asked
me 'bout thet scrimmage yer hed down on the Canadian. She 'd heerd
'bout it somehow, an' wanted the story straight. So I told her all I
knowed, an' yer oughter seed her eyes shine while I wus sorter paintin'
it up."
"Oh, hell; let's drop it," disgustedly. "The Lieutenant here yet?"
"Sure; his company is down on Monument, but he got special detail. He
's got a pull, Gaskins has."
"How is that?"
"His old man is Senator, or something, an' they say, has scads o'
money. Enyway, the kid finds the army a soft snap. First scoutin'
detail he ever had when you met him. Did n't hunt no danger then, so
fur as I could see. Nice little dude, with a swelled head, but popular
with the ladies. I reckon McDonald ain't objectin' none to his chasin'
after Miss Molly; thet's why he 's let her stay in this God-forsaken
place so long. Well, 'Brick,' I reckon I 've told all the news, and
hed better move 'long."
"Hold on a minute, Sam," and Hamlin, suddenly recalled to earth,
reached for the haversack hanging on the iron bedpost. "Moylan, the
fellow who was killed in the coach with us, had this bag. According to
Miss McDonald, he bought it here just before starting on the trip. See
this inscription; those are the initials of an old acquaintance of mine
I 'd like to trace. Any idea where Moylan found it?"
Wasson held the bag to the light studying the letters.
"Fourth Texas--hey? That your regiment?"
The Sergeant nodded, his lips tightly pressed together.
"Must hev come from Dutch Charlie's outfit," the scout went on slowly.
"He picks up all that sorter truck."
"Where is that?"
"In town thar, under the bluff. We 'll look it up to-morrow."