THE INDIAN TRAIL
The weather became colder as the day advanced. Scattered pellets of
snow in the air lashed the faces of the troopers, who rode steadily
forward, the capes of their overcoats thrown over their heads for
protection. The snow of the late storm lay in drifts along the banks
of the narrow stream, and the horses picked their passage higher up
where the wind had swept the brown earth clear, at the same time
keeping well below the crest. As they thus toiled slowly forward,
Hamlin related his story to the Major in detail, carefully concealing
all suspicion of McDonald's connection with the crime. It was growing
dusk when the company emerged into the valley of the Canadian. All
about them was desolation and silence, and as they were still miles
away from the position assigned for Black Kettle's encampment, the men
were permitted to build fires and prepare a warm meal under shelter of
the bluffs. Two hours later the main column arrived and also went into
camp. It was intensely cold but the men were cheerful as they ate
their supper of smoky and half-roasted buffalo meat, bacon, hard-tack,
and coffee.
In response to orders the Sergeant went down the line of tiny fires to
report in person to Custer. He found that commander ensconced in a
small tent, hastily erected in a little grove of cottonwoods, which
afforded a slight protection from the piercing wind. Before him on the
ground from which the snow had been swept lay a map of the region,
while all about, pressed tightly into the narrow quarters, were his
troop officers. As Hamlin was announced by the orderly, conversation
ceased, and Custer surveyed the newcomer an instant in silence.
"Step forward, Sergeant," he said quietly. "Ah, yes; I had forgotten
your name, but remember your face," he smiled about on the group. "We
have been so scattered since our organization, gentlemen, that we are
all comparative strangers." He stood up, lifting in one hand a tin cup
of coffee. "Gentlemen, all we of the Seventh rejoice in the honor of
the service, whether it be upheld by officer or enlisted man. I bid
you drink a toast with me to Sergeant Hamlin."
"But, General, I have done nothing to deserve--"
"Observe the modesty of a real hero. Yet wait until I am through.
With due regard for his achievements as a soldier, I propose this toast
in commemoration of a greater deed of gallantry than those of arms--the
capture of Miss Molly McDonald!"
There was a quick uplifting of cups, a burst of laughter, and a volley
of questions, the Sergeant staring about motionless, his face flushed.
"What is it, General?"
"Tell us the story!"
"Give us the joke!"
"But I assure you it is no joke. I have it direct from the fair lips
of the lady. Brace yourselves, gentlemen, for the shock. You young
West Pointers lose, and yet the honor remains with the regiment. Miss
Molly McDonald, the toast of old Fort Dodge, whose bright eyes have won
all your hearts, has given hers to Sergeant Hamlin of the Seventh. And
now again, boys, to the honor of the regiment!"
Out of the buzz of conversation and the hearty words of congratulation,
Hamlin emerged bewildered, finding himself again facing Custer, whose
manner had as swiftly changed into the brusque note of command.
"I have met you before, Sergeant," he said slowly, "before your
assignment to the Seventh, I think. I am not sure where; were you in
the Shenandoah?"
"I was, sir."
"At Winchester?"
"I saw you first at Cedar Creek, General Custer; I brought a flag."
"That's it; I have the incident clearly before me now. You were a
lieutenant-colonel?"
"Of the Fourth Texas, sir."
"Exactly; I think I heard later--but never mind that now. Sheridan
remembers you; he even mentioned your name to me a few weeks ago. No
doubt that was what caused me to recognize your face again after all
these years. How long have you been in our service?"
"Ever since the war closed."
For a moment the two men looked into each others' faces, the commander
smiling, the enlisted man at respectful attention.
"I will talk with you at some future time, Sergeant," Custer said at
last, resuming his seat on a log. "Now we shall have to consider the
to-morrow's march. Were you within sight of Black Kettle's camp?"
"No, sir; only of his pony herd out in the valley of the Canadian."
"Where would you suppose the camp situated?"
"Above, behind the bluffs, about the mouth of Buffalo Creek."
Custer drew the map toward him, scrutinizing it carefully.
"You may be right, of course," he commented, his glance on the faces of
the officers, "but this does not agree with the understanding at Camp
Supply, nor the report of our Indian scouts. We supposed Black Kettle
to be farther south on the Washita. How large was the pony herd?"
"We were not near enough to count the animals, sir, but there must have
been two hundred head."
"A large party then, at least. What do you say, Corbin?"
The scout addressed, conspicuous in his buffalo skin coat, leaned
against the tent-pole, his black whiskers moving industriously as he
chewed.
"Wal, Gineral," he said slowly, "I know this yere 'Brick' Hamlin, an'
he 's a right smart plainsman, sojer 'er no sojer. If he says he saw
thet pony herd, then he sure did. Thet means a considerable bunch o'
Injuns thar, er tharabouts. Now I know Black Kettle's outfit is down
on the Washita, so the only conclusion is that this yere band thet the
Sergeant stirred up is some new tribe er other, a-driftin' down frum
the north. I reckon if we ride up ther valley we 'll hit their trail,
an' it 'll lead straight down to them Cheyennes."
Custer took time to consider this explanation, spreading the field map
out on his knees, and measuring the distance between the streams. No
one in the little group spoke, although several leaned forward eagerly.
The chief was not a man to ask advice; he preferred to decide for
himself. Suddenly he straightened up and threw back his head to look
about.
"In my judgment Corbin is right, gentlemen," he said impetuously. "I
had intended crossing here, but instead we will go further up stream.
There is doubtless a ford near Buffalo Creek, and if we can strike an
Indian trail leading to the Washita, we can follow easily by night, or
day, and it is bound to terminate at Black Kettle's camp. Return to
your troops, and be ready to march at daybreak. Major Elliott, you
will take the advance again, at least three hours ahead of the main
column. Move with caution, your flankers well out; both Hamlin and
Corbin will go with you. Are there any questions?"
"Full field equipment?" asked a voice.
"Certainly, although in case of going into action the overcoats will be
discarded. Look over your ammunition carefully to-night."
They filed out of the tent one by one, some of the older officers
pausing a moment to speak with Hamlin, his own captain extending his
hand cordially, with a warm word of commendation. The Sergeant and
Major Elliott alone remained.
"If I strike a fresh trail, General," asked the latter, "am I to press
forward or wait for the main body?"
"Send back a courier at once, but advance cautiously, careful not to
expose yourselves. There is to be no attack except in surprise, and
with full force. This is important, Major, as we are doubtless
outnumbered, ten to one. Was there something else, Sergeant?"
"I was going to ask about Miss McDonald, sir."
"Oh, yes; she is safely on her way to Camp Supply, under ample guard.
The convoy was to stop on the Cimarron, and pick up the frozen soldier
you left there, and if possible, find the bodies of the two dead men."
Long before daylight Elliott's advance camp was under arms, the chilled
and sleepy troopers moving forward through the drifted snow of the
north bank; the wintry wind, sweeping down the valley, stung their
faces and benumbed their bodies. The night had been cold and blustery,
productive of little comfort to either man or beast, but hope of early
action animated the troopers and made them oblivious to hardship.
There was little grumbling in the ranks, and by daybreak the head of
the long column came opposite the opening into the valley wherein
Hamlin had overtaken the fugitives. With Corbin beside him, the
Sergeant spurred his pony aside, but there was little to see; the
bodies of the dead lay as they had fallen, black blotches on the snow,
but there were no fresh trails to show that either Dupont, or any
Indian ally, had returned to the spot.
"That's evidence enough, 'Brick,'" commented the scout, staring about
warily, "that thar wus no permanent camp over thar," waving his hand
toward the crest of the ridge. "Them redskins was on the march, an'
that geezer had ter follow 'em, er else starve ter death. He 'd a bin
back afore this, an' on yer trail with a bunch o' young bucks."
From the top of the ridge they could look down on the toiling column of
cavalrymen below in the bluff shadow, and gaze off over the wide
expanse of valley, through which ran the half-frozen Canadian.
Everywhere stretched the white, wintry desolation.
"Whar wus thet pony herd?"
Hamlin pointed up the valley to the place where the swerve came in the
stream.
"Just below that point; do you see where the wind has swept the ground
bare?"
"Sure they were n't buffalo?"
"They were ponies all right, and herded."
The two men spurred back across the hills, and made report to Elliott.
There was no hesitancy in that officer. The leading squadron was
instantly swung into formation as skirmishers, and sent forward. From
river-bank to crest of bluff they ploughed through the drifts,
overcoats strapped behind and carbines flung forward in readiness for
action, but as they climbed to that topmost ridge, eager, expectant, it
was only to gaze down upon a deserted camp, trampled snow, and
blackened embers of numerous fires. Hamlin was the first to scramble
down the steep bluff, dismount, and drag his trembling horse sliding
after. Behind plunged Corbin and Elliott, anxious to read the signs,
to open the pages of this wilderness book. A glance here and there, a
testing of the blackened embers, a few steps along the broad trail, and
these plainsmen knew the story. The Major straightened up, his hand on
his horse's neck, his eyes sweeping those barren plains to the
southward, and then turned to where his troopers were swarming down the
bluff.
"Corbin," he said sharply, "ride back to General Custer at top speed.
Tell him we have discovered a Cheyenne camp here at the mouth of
Buffalo Creek of not less than a hundred and fifty warriors, deserted,
and not to exceed twenty-four horses. Their trail leads south toward
the Washita. Report that we shall cross the river in pursuit at once,
and keep on cautiously until dark. Take a man with you; no, not
Sergeant Hamlin, I shall need him here."
The scout was off like a shot, riding straight down the valley, a
trooper pounding along behind him. Major Elliott ran his eyes over the
little bunch of cavalrymen.
"Captain Sparling, send two of your men to test the depth or water
there where those Indians crossed. As soon as ascertained we will ford
the river."