It was at four o'clock of a blistering afternoon, twelve hours from the
time of their start from the post, that the leaders in the long-extended
column hove in sight of a patch of green down in a distant depression to
the south that marked the site of Crockett Springs. Beyond it, hemming
the broad, shallow valley, there rose a long wave of bare, desolate
heights, rounded and billowing in soft and graceful contours as they
rolled away northeastward, abrupt and jagged towards the south and
southwest, where the stream seemed to have torn a pathway for the sudden
torrents of the springtide that foamed away towards the broader valley
of the Bravo. At the point where, rounding the nose of a low ridge, the
trail twisted into view of Crockett's, the major halted to look back
over his command, still tripping steadily onward in little bunches, each
a dozen strong, each followed by its own little dust-cloud, each
independent, apparently, of the others, yet moving as part of one
harmonious train. Foremost, the group at the head of column had received
accessions. Fuller, the sutler, finely mounted and bristling with arms
of the latest and most approved pattern, backed by two sun-tanned Texans
from his ranch, had overtaken the command at noon, bent on sharing its
fortunes in the tussle anticipated with the outlaws; and they were now
riding with "head-quarters," from which, on the other hand, two figures
were missing,--Lawrence and one of the orderlies. As early as two
o'clock the ex-captain had pushed on ahead, a double object in view, to
warn Cramer's troop of the coming of the Worth command and the tidings
they bore of the Friday gang, also to have a little party mount at once
and gallop northeast, ten miles to the Saba trail,--a short cut from
Worth to the San Saba Pass, used by horsemen in the rainy season.
Captain Cramer might or might not have received warning of the
appearance of the gang in the valley below his camp at the Springs; but
the "Fridays," whoever their leader, would certainly have friends and
confederates on the watch near Worth, friends who would probably take
that very short cut and gallop at speed to warn the gang of the coming
vengeance. Oddly enough, it was not Brooks nor Lawrence who was first to
think of this, but Barclay. It was his modest suggestion at the noon
halt, a suggestion that was put in form of a question, that had opened
the major's eyes. "I remember, sir," said he, "that the Springs lie in
a sort of elbow; the trail runs nearly east and west for many miles
beyond them, and nearly north and south on this side. Is there no way in
which scouts could gallop across our left and give warning to those
fellows?"
"By Jove!" said Brooks, "there's the old San Saba cut-off. What had we
better do, Lawrence?" And Lawrence said, "Send at once a sergeant with a
set of fours to the left, until they cut the trail, in order to prevent
information going to the gang that way, and to report if any horsemen
have already passed, which latter any old frontiersman can tell at a
glance." Mullane, lurching drowsily in saddle all through the last
stage, had thrown himself on the turf and gone sound asleep the moment
the column halted. Only with extreme difficulty could he be aroused and
made to understand what was wanted. Mr. Winn, standing silently by,
turned his back on his temporary commander. He knew the Irish captain
was well-nigh swamped with liquor, and he had no wish to bear witness
against him. Those were days so close to the war that officers, old and
new, still thought more of what a man had done than of what he was
doing, and Mullane had been a gallant trooper. "You 'tind to it,
sergeant," was again the Irishman's comprehensive order to his first
sergeant when at last he grasped the significance of Brooks's words, and
five horsemen rode away at the lope to the left front the moment the
column again mounted. Again did Brooks see fit to caution his leading
troop commander. "I am afraid you have sampled that whiskey once too
often, Mullane. No more of it now, or you'll go to pieces when you are
most needed," he muttered, then rode on to the head of column.
And the prediction came true. At the very next halt Mullane had fallen
into a stupor so heavy that it was found impossible to rouse him. The
assistant surgeon with the column made brief examination, then unslung
and removed the canteen at the captain's pommel, and whispered his
conclusion,--"Better leave his horse and orderly here with him."
"Then," said the major, briefly, "Winn, you command 'L' Troop." And when
again the column mounted, Barclay rode back and directed his leading
section to incline to the right, so that they passed the lonely little
group, the two horses placidly cropping at the scant herbage, the
orderly squatting with averted face, filled at once with shame and
sympathy, the recumbent figure sprawled upon the prairie, its bloated
red visage buried in the blue-sleeved arms. Barclay's rearward sections
instinctively followed the lead, and only furtive glances were cast, and
no audible comments made. The ranks were full of tough characters in
those days, yet imbued with a strange fidelity in certain lines that
reminds one of the dog immortalized by Bret Harte at Red Gulch,--the dog
that had such deep sympathy for a helplessly drunken man. There was
nothing in their code to prevent their stealing from Uncle Sam, their
captain, or any other victim, but to hint that an officer or a friend
was drunk would have been the height of impropriety.
Winn, not Mullane, therefore, led "The Devil's Own," as Mullane's
troop--together with others, no doubt--had been appropriately
designated. Barclay followed at the head of "D." When nearing Crockett
Springs at five o'clock, a dim speck of courier came twisting out upon
the trail to meet them, and Brooks long after recalled the thought that
came to him as he read the despatch that reached him there. It was from
Lawrence:
"Cramer got wind of the gang early this morning, followed with thirty
men into the San Saba, had sharp fight, lost three men and many horses,
and is corralled out there, about fifteen miles southeast. Cramer
himself wounded, Dr. Augustin killed. Courier says most of Friday gang
gone to San Saba Pass. You, of course, must push on to save Pennywise
and his money. I take five men and horses here and hasten to pull Cramer
out of the hole. Think you now justified in attacking gang wherever
found. No doubt who were Cramer's assailants. Expect to reach him before
six and have one more square fight out of Texas. Hastily,
"L."
"By heaven," cried Brooks, as he turned to Fuller and the little party
riding with him, all studying his face with anxious eyes, "it's lucky we
got here with our horses in good shape. Cramer is in a scrape somewhere
out in the Range. Lawrence has gone to his aid, and there'll only be
time for a bite at Crockett's; then we must push on and go ahead to the
Pass." Then, dropping into thought, "Now, which of Laura Waite's victims
will most welcome a square fight,--the man she wronged by dropping, or
the man she wronged by taking?"
Two hours later, refreshed by cooling draughts from the brook that
bubbled away from the Springs, their nostrils sponged out, their saddles
reset, their stomachs gladdened by a light feed, the horses of the two
troops seemed fit for a chase, despite their sixty-mile march since
dawn. A courier, galloping ahead, had borne Brooks's directions that
coffee should be ready for his men, and Cramer's camp guard had found
time to add substantials to that comforting fluid. Only half an hour did
the major delay, but even in that time the horses had a quick rub-down
with wisps of hay, and the men themselves swung into saddle with an air
that seemed to say, "There's fun ahead!" The sun was shining aslant from
low down in the western sky as the column once more jogged away on the
dusty trail, Barclay's troop now in the lead, opening out just as it had
marched most of the day, while Winn, between whom and the new captain
there had passed a few courteous yet rather formal words at one or two
of the halts, gave to Mullane's old first sergeant the charge of the
leading section, and himself rode at the distant rear of column, for by
dusk, if at all, straggling would be likely, and straggling would have
to be suppressed with a firm hand. The sun was at their backs now: away
to the front lay the rift in the hills through which wound the San Saba
road, and off to the right front, well to the southeast, somewhere among
those jagged bluffs just beginning to tinge with gold about their sharp
and saw-like crests, lay the scene of Cramer's morning tussle with the
outlaws, who, as all now realized, must have opened on him from ambush
and shot down several horses and not a few men before the troopers could
reply. No further news had come from him, however. The courier who
brought the first news said he had to run the gauntlet, although only a
few of the gang seemed to be hanging about the scene of the
fight,--their main body, as he had previously reported, having gone in
the direction of the Pass. Brooks well knew that the moment he reached
the foot-hills he would have to move with caution, throwing out advanced
guards and, where possible, flankers. He knew that he would need every
man, and believed that Cramer's people, now that Lawrence had gone to
join them, could take care of themselves; but the courier's story, told
to eager ears, had "told" in more ways than one. His description of the
ambuscade, the way Cramer, the doctor, Sergeant O'Brien, and others at
the head of column were tumbled at the first fire, all had tended to
make the head of Brooks's column an unpopular place to ride,--at least
less popular than earlier in the day. Fuller and his men decided that
their horses would be the better for an hour or two of rest at the
cantonment, and so the column moved on without them.
Longer grew the shadows and loftier the range far to the front, as once
more the pace quickened to the trot, and Brooks and his men jogged on.
The doctor, a gifted young practitioner whom Collabone held in high
regard, seemed still to think that he should have been allowed to take
an orderly and his instruments and gallop out on Lawrence's trail to the
aid of Cramer's wounded. "Then what is to become of mine?" asked the
major, calmly. "I'm sorry for Cramer, sorry his doctor is killed, but we
may need you any moment more than he does. No, Lawrence has gone to him;
he'll do what he can to make the wounded comfortable, leave a small
guard with them, and then guide the rest of Cramer's troop through the
range to the San Saba, join either Pennywise's party or ours, and
between us we ought to give those fellows a thrashing they'll never
forget,--if only they'll stand and take it,--if only," he added below
his breath, "they don't lay for us in some of those deep twisting canons
where twenty men could overthrow a thousand."
The doctor admitted the force of his superior's argument, and said no
word. All the same, however, his eyes kept wandering off from time to
time towards the foot-hills at the southeast, now turning to violet in
shade, "like half-mourning," said the doctor to Galahad, as, only half
content, he dropped back to ride a few moments at the latter's side.
"And it won't be long," he added to himself, "before they'll be shrouded
in deep black. Pray God there's no ill omen in that!"
And now the road began to rise, very slowly, very gently as yet, but
perceptibly, towards the still distant range. The long, spindle-shanked
shadows of the horses had disappeared. The sun, yellow-red, was just
sinking below the horizon through the dust-clouds in their wake, when
one of the foremost troopers, close at Barclay's heels, muttered, "It's
somethin' movin', anyhow, and what is it if it ain't a horse?" And
Barclay and the doctor, turning in saddle, caught his eye. "I seen it a
minute ago away out yonder towards them buttes," continued the soldier,
pointing out across the prairie to their right front, "and I couldn't be
sure then. It's comin' this way, whatever it is, comin' fast. Look, sir!
There it is again!"
And with all their eyes Barclay and the doctor gazed, but could see no
moving object. Only the rolling prairie, growing darker, dimmer every
minute, only the sun-tipped ridge and buttes and shining pinnacles far
away towards the San Saba. And still the relentless trot went on, and
the major's head was never turned; yet his orderly, too, was ducking and
peering from time to time off to the southeast, just where the trooper
had pointed. Barclay, cautioning his sergeant to keep a steady trot,
spurred forward, the doctor following.
"What do you see?" they asked, and the orderly too stretched forth a
grimy gauntlet.
"Thought I saw a horse, sir. Some of 'K' Troop's, maybe, for there was
no rider."
With this corroborative evidence, Barclay hailed the major. "Major, may
I send a man or two out in that direction?" he asked. "Two of our people
report seeing a horse galloping this way."
But, even as he spoke, over a distant divide, popping up against the sky
just long enough to catch the eyes of half a dozen men at once, a black
dot darted into view and then came bounding down the long, gradual
incline, looming larger and larger as it ran; presently the body and
legs could be made out, and then the sweeping mane and tail,--a
riderless horse, a cavalry horse probably, coming at eager speed to join
his comrade creatures in the long column. Cavalry horse undoubtedly, as,
bounding nearer and nearer, the flapping rein, the dangling,
black-hooded stirrups, the coarse gray blanket, and the well-known
saddle could be distinguished, a gruesome sight to trooper eyes,
harbinger of disaster if not of death in almost every case,--a cavalry
charger riderless! And at last, as with piteous neigh the laboring steed
came galloping straightway on, a cry went up from two or three soldier
throats at the instant, a wail of soldier sorrow: "God save us, fellows!
it's Blarney--it's the colonel's own!" Officers and men, they swarmed
about the weary, panting, trembling creature, as hope died in every
heart at what they saw: the saddle and blanket, the old overcoat, rolled
at the pommel, that so often had stood between Ned Lawrence and the
Texas gales, were all dripping with blood, yet Blarney had never a
scratch.