The moon was throwing black shadows into the deep cleft in the San Saba,
where the Crockett trail twisted along beside the swift-running rivulet,
that rose in the heart of the hills and bubbled merrily away until lost
in the westward valley and the brook that found its source at the
springs far out under the foot-hills towards the Bravo. Slowly, wearily,
warily, half a dozen troopers on jaded horses were feeling their way up
the pass, a veteran corporal full thirty yards ahead of his fellows
leading on. With the advance rode an officer whose shoulder-straps,
gleaming on the shell jacket sometimes worn in the mounted service
immediately after the war, seemed almost too bright and new to accord
with the dust-grimed chevrons and trimmings of his comrades. New and
brilliant, too, were the hilt and scabbard of the sabre that dangled by
his side. New and "green" the men of his command had believed him to be,
in cavalry matters at least, when first he joined them some weeks
before, but the most casehardened old customer among their seasoned
troopers had abandoned that view before ever they started on this scout
after a gang of notorious outlaws, and now a new and very different
theory was grinding its way into their tired brains,--that the "Doughboy
Dragoon," as they had earlier dubbed him, "Captain Gallyhad," as one of
them heard he was called, could give them points in covering the front
of a column that were worth knowing, even if they had been learned in a
doughboy regiment and among the Sioux. It would be a smart "Friday" that
managed to ambuscade old Brooks's column that cloudless, moonlit,
breezeless night, for, with that veteran's full consent, as well as to
his infinite relief, Captain Barclay had himself gone forward with the
advance the moment they began to wind in among the hills, and there at
the post of danger he had held his way, alert and vigilant, despite long
hours in saddle that had told heavily on more than half the command,
calm and brave despite the fact that their welcome to the westward
portal of the Pass was the sight of poor Blarney running to them for
shelter, sympathy, and companionship, covered with the blood of his
beloved rider.
And what was that rider's fate? It was now almost eleven o'clock, and no
man knew. Only briefly had they halted and flocked about the panting
steed, for stern was the need that held them to their course. With
awe-stricken faces and compressed lips they looked into each other's
eyes, as though to ask, What next? Who next? The major, tender-hearted
as a woman, well-nigh choked with distress and anxiety as he turned to
Barclay for counsel; and long before the rearmost of the column had
reached the spot the decision had been made. The leaders were again
pushing on. Young Brayton, with half a dozen troopers, had been
despatched southwestward along the _falda_, ordered to search high and
low for Lawrence, dead or alive. There was only one theory,--that,
pushing eagerly ahead to the relief of Cramer's crippled troop, the
gallant ex-captain had taken no thought of personal danger; the old
instinct of leadership had possessed him, and, foremost of his little
squad, he had been picked off by lurking bushwackers of the outlaws,
crouching like Indians in the shelter of the rocks, and had fallen
another victim of their desperado efforts. "One more fight in Texas,"
indeed. Poor, brave, warm-hearted Ned! That one more fight, reported in
Washington by an indulgent department commander, might bring about
immediate measures for his restoration to the army; but was it worth the
risk? Was it worth what might befall those motherless children, praying
for father hour after hour that livelong day? Should it have been
permitted, had there been any one to prevent, in view of the fact that
no longer was there soldier duty to lead him on? The government had
released him from all that, had bidden him go. It had no further use for
the services of such as he; it had turned him loose upon the world, with
heavy stoppages against the stipulated _bonus_. "Oh, what right had he,"
cried Brooks, "to forget those babies back at Worth, well knowing as he
must that no man's life is worth a hair in front of the rifles of that
outlaw gang, much less an enemy such as Lawrence has shown himself to
be?" The major's heart and head were heavy as once more the order
forward was given. With every inclination to turn from his course with
his entire command, to hasten in search of Lawrence's little party and
Cramer's halted men, he well knew that should the paymaster and his
precious thousands fall into the outlaw hands of the Friday gang he
would be held responsible, even though San Saba's cantonment sent with
him a force of forty men.
Once within the jaws of the Pass, the little detachment had closed on
the head of column, the advance guard, Barclay's leading section, riding
on and dispersing itself under his instructions, while Brooks held the
other sections until Winn's men were all closed up, bringing with them
the little squads that had scouted towards the short cut of the San
Saba and had found no living soul in sight, yet had followed fresh
hoof-tracks coming their way for miles. Whoever they were, the scouts of
the gang were well ahead; whoever he was, "Friday" by this time knew the
troops were coming. Then, with the flankers scouring the slopes well out
to right and left wherever possible, Brooks's main body too had entered
the winding defile and was lost in the bowels of the earth.
At eleven o'clock a watcher, gazing back into the broad shallow
depression in which lay Crockett's, and then northward to the low-lying
hills along the trail to Worth, could have seen no gleam of light far or
near that would speak of human habitation or life or movement, no sign,
in fact, of life of any kind; yet no sooner was the last shadowy form of
horse and trooper swallowed up in the black gloom of the defile, no
sooner had the last faint click of iron-shod hoofs died away in the
hidden distance, than there slowly rose from behind the shelter of a
clump of rocks, far out to the right of the trail, a crouching figure
that went almost on all-fours to the edge of the rivulet, slunk away
down the bank, dodging swiftly, softly, from boulder to boulder, until
it disappeared around a little shoulder of bluff five hundred yards
away, was lost to view a moment, then reissued into the moonlight, this
time in saddle, swinging, cowboy fashion, a _riata_ about its head as it
rode. Spinning up the slopes and out of the stream-bed, away it went,
careering up the billowy rise to the south, and was presently lost to
view a second time behind some castellated rocks along the crest. Three
minutes more, and these began to glow along their eastward face with the
light of some unseen fire that flared for perhaps a minute somewhere
about the hidden base of the group, and then, far away to the southeast,
far out among the buttes and knolls in the heart of the range, there was
a sudden flash of brilliant light, just as though some one had touched
off in front of a reflector a pound or so of rifle powder. The hills for
one second were lighted up, then as suddenly relapsed into gloom. The
blaze at the ledge so close at hand was promptly doused, and the night
rolled on, calm, placid, and unbroken.
When the first streak of dawn crept into the orient sky, Barclay's
shadowy scouts were issuing from the San Saba on the farther side and
halting for the coming of the main body. Neither those who led the
advance nor those out on either flank, where flankers were at all
possible, had seen a sign of outlaw, cowboy, even of human being,
outside their own array. Not only had the Friday gang vanished from the
neighborhood of the Pass, but, what was most mysterious, not a sign had
appeared of paymaster or escort, who were due at Crockett's early this
very morning. Brooks, picking out the lightest rider in his weary
column, sent him on the liveliest horse to warn Pennywise and his
escort, provided he could find him at the San Saba camp, of what had
taken place, notify him that they would here await his coming, and
meantime ordered dismount, unsaddle, and graze, and in two minutes every
charger was divested of his load, and many of them were kicking and
rolling on the turf.
Twenty-four hours had the command been in saddle, except for the
required halts and a long two hours during the dead of night, when
leading their wearied steeds or crouching beside them at rest, while
Barclay and his scouts explored the overhanging heights and listened
eagerly for sound of coming troopers from the eastward. But for the
waning moon there would have been hours of total darkness. Ninety miles,
all told, had they travelled, and now, wearied though they were, nine
out of ten of the men were chafing with wrath that the wily gang had
managed to escape them. Whither were they gone, and where on earth was
the paymaster, were the questions. Certainly not through the Pass, for
there were no fresh hoof-prints. Could it be that, balked in their plan
to overwhelm the escort by this coming of at least an equal force, the
gang had turned back angered and thrown themselves on Cramer's crippled
party with the view of getting away with the horses, arms, and
equipments? Certainly none of Cramer's people had made their way by the
game trails over the range to join them, but there was reason for that:
Lawrence had never succeeded in reaching Cramer.
Sad, wearied, and depressed, Major Brooks seated himself on a
saddle-blanket to take counsel with his officers, now reduced to
three,--Barclay, Winn, and the doctor. He missed Mullane, stanch old
fighter that he was, for Mullane knew most of the country thoroughly,
and had been posted for months at the Rio San Saba, now only some twenty
miles to the east. He sorely missed Lawrence, for on him he had often
leaned. He was beginning to take vast comfort in Barclay, to be sure,
but now Barclay, Winn, the doctor, men and horses, the entire command,
in fact, had come to a stand-still. There was no use in going farther
east; there the country was comparatively open and rolling, and the gang
would hardly dare attack forty troopers on the wide prairie. Besides,
the nearest water in that direction was twenty miles away; the little
rivulet rising in the heart of the hills was ten miles behind them, and
already horses were thirsting and men emptying their canteens. Blankly
the major stared up into Barclay's drawn and almost haggard face. "Can
you think of anything we ought to do?" he asked, and, in asking, Brooks
was a far better soldier than the man who, having exhausted his own
resources, thought it _infra dig._ to invite suggestions from his
juniors.
"Just one, sir. Sergeant McHugh tells me he once came out here hunting
with Captain Mullane, and that they took a light spring wagon right over
the range southeast of Crockett's, the way Cramer went. It is a much
longer way round, but a more open way. The trail must lie some eight or
ten miles off here to the south, or west of south. Could it be that the
gang only started from the place of Cramer's ambuscade as though to go
to the Pass and then veered around again and covered that trail, and for
some reason have been expecting the paymaster that way after all?"
Worn and weary as he was, Brooks staggered to his feet at once, his face
going paler still. "By heaven, Barclay, if that's possible, they've had
uninterrupted hours in which to deal with Pennywise already! It is
possible," he added, with misery in the emphasis of his tone. "I
remember having heard of that trail, but never thought it practicable
for an ambulance. Then there is work before us yet. Call Sergeant
McHugh," he cried. The word was passed among the wearied groups, where,
squatting or lying, the men had thrown themselves upon the ground, and
presently, rubbing his red eyes, a stocky little Irish sergeant came
trudging up to his commander and silently touched the visor of his worn
old cap.
"Can you guide us by the shortest route from here to the trail you spoke
of to Captain Barclay?" asked the major.
Mac turned and gazed away southwestward along the line of the San Saba
hills.
"I don't think we could miss it, sir, if we followed the foot-hills."
"Then we must try it," said Brooks, decidedly, half turning to the
silent officers as he spoke. "Let the horses graze ten minutes more and
get all the dew and grass they can, then we'll push for it."
And so, just before five, hungry, weary, and weak,--some of the men at
least,--the little squadron clambered into saddle and once more moved
away. No need to leave any one to say which way they'd gone; the trail
showed all that. Silently they headed for the broad valley of the Bravo,
miles away to the invisible west. Once across a little rise in the
_falda_, Brooks struck the slow trot he had learned long years before
from the beloved major of his old regiment, and doggedly the column took
it up and followed. Not a mile had they gone when the sun came peering
up over the heights far in their wake; for a few minutes the dew flashed
and sparkled on the turf before it died beneath that fiery breath, and
still no man spoke. Sound sleep by night, a cold plunge at dawn, and the
hot tin of soldier coffee send the morning tongues of a column _en
route_ "wagging like sheep's tails," say the troopers, but it takes a
forced all-night march, following an all-day ride, followed by a morning
start without either cold plunge or hot coffee, to stamp a column with
the silence of a Quaker meeting. Let no man think, however, the fight is
out of its heart, unless he is suffering for a scrimmage on any terms.
Men wake up with a snap at sound of the first shot; dull eyes flash in
answer to the bugle challenge, and worn and wearied troopers "take a
brace" that means mischief to the foe at the first note that tells of
trouble ahead. Just two miles out there came the test to Brooks's men,
and there was none so poor as to be found wanting.
Two miles out, and the column woke up at the cry, "Yon comes a courier!"
and coming he was, "hell to split," said Sergeant McHugh, from afar off
over the rolling prairie to the southwest. Five minutes brought him
within hail,--a corporal from the camp on the Rio San Saba, on foaming
horse, who came tugging at both reins, sputtering and plunging, up to
the head of column, and blurted out his news. "I thought you was the
escort, sir,--the paymaster's escort. They left camp at nine last night,
and at two this morning Corporal Murphy got back, shot, and said they
were corralled in the hills on the old trail. The captain is coming
along with twenty men, and sent me ahead. They must be ten miles from
here yet, sir."
"The paymaster, or the captain?" asked Brooks, his heart beating hard,
but his face imperturbable.
"Both, sir, I reckon; one one way and the other the other."
Then Brooks signalled over his shoulder. "We've got to gallop, Barclay.
It's neck or nothing now." And some horses even then were drooping at
the trot.
Six o'clock now. Six miles from the eastward mouth of the Pass, and
spurs were plying here and there throughout the column, for many found
their horses lagging sorely. Barclay on his splendid blooded bay was far
out to the front, the corporal courier with him, for theirs were the
only mounts that could stand another forcing of the pace. Rearward,
three or four horses, exhausted, were being gathered up by a burly
sergeant, and with their weary riders led slowly along the trail.
Six-fifteen:--Barclay and his corporal were but dots along the _falda_
now, and moving swiftly. Then at a higher point, in plain view, one dot
began circling to the left at speed. Every man knew what that meant, and
the signal was answered by another spurt. The sun was telling at last.
The dew had dried, but along the turf there was but little dust to rise,
and Brooks could keep most of his men together. Far off to the left, all
eyes could see now the sign that told that rival rescuers were gaining.
The little squad from the San Saba camp came spurring along the beaten
trail, betrayed by the cloud of dust that rose above them. Young
Connolly, the guidon-bearer of Barclay's troop, unfurled his color and
set it flapping in the rising breeze in trooper challenge; and down the
column set and haggard faces lighted up with the gleam of soldier joy.
It was to be a race,--a race to the rescue. Six-thirty, and over a low
ridge went Brooks and Winn, close followed by their orderlies; far away,
midway up the opposite slope, stretched a slender, twisting, traversing
seam,--the winding trail to Crockett's. The black dots in the lead were
now three in number, darting towards two others, black dots, too, some
four miles away and to the right front, right in among the hills. "Keep
it up, lads! the quicker to water and rest!" are the major's words now,
and spurs set home again, despite equine grunts in protest. Six-forty,
and the dots in front are blacker and bigger and popping about, three of
them, at least, in lively motion, checking suddenly, then darting to and
fro, and the cry bursts from the leader's lips, "By God, they're at it!
Now, lads, for all you're worth, come on!" Six-forty-five, and, rounding
a projecting spur, a shoulder from the range, Brooks, Winn, and the
doctor burst in view of a scene that banishes the last thought of
weariness. Barely a mile or so away, a rocky ledge lies beyond and
parallel with the trail. Its jagged crest is spitting smoke and fire.
Its smoother slopes, towards the east, are dotted in places by the
bodies of dead or dying horses, and in places, too, by other, smaller
forms, apparently stiff and motionless. Off the trail, as though dragged
there by affrighted and agonized animals, lies an overturned ambulance,
its six draught-mules outstretched upon the turf about it; so, too, are
other quadrupeds, troop-horses evidently. Well back of the ruined wagon,
some trusty soul has rallied the remaining troop-horses, while most of
their riders, sprawled upon the turf or behind improvised rifle-pits,
stick manfully to their duty. "Friday's" ambuscade, in the still hours
of the night, has cost the government heavily in horses, men, and mules,
but old Pennywise's precious safe is guarded still, and every rush the
outlaws make to get it is met by relentless fire. Six-fifty, and,
leaving on the field six outlawed forms that will never fight again, the
baffled relics of the Fridays are scurrying away into the fastnesses of
the range before the labored rush and sputtering fire of Brooks's men,
and Galahad, with his corporal comrade, far in the lead, gets the last
compliments of the departing gang. Another gallant horse goes down, and
Galahad's for the time goes free, his rider falling fainting from
exhaustion and loss of blood.