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TRUMPETER FRED
[Illustration: CAPT. CHARLES KING, U. S. A.]
TRUMPETER FRED
_A STORY OF THE PLAINS_
BY
CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U. S. A.
AUTHOR OF "FORT FRAYNE," "AN ARMY
WIFE," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
F. TENNYSON NEELY
PUBLISHER
NEW YORK CHICAGO
1896
Copyright, 1896,
BY
F. TENNYSON NEELY
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A DANGEROUS MISSION, 17
II. THE OATH OF ENLISTMENT, 26
III. A ROBBER IN CAMP, 40
IV. SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES, 47
V. TRAILING THE TRAITOR, 56
VI. CONCLUSIVE EVIDENCE, 67
VII. TELEGRAPHIC DISPATCHES, 75
VIII. LOYAL FRIENDS, 87
IX. LURKING FOES, 101
X. IN SUSPENSE, 113
XI. HEMMED IN BY SAVAGE FOES, 124
XII. MYSTERIOUS HOOF-PRINTS, 135
XIII. AWAY TO THE RESCUE! 148
XIV. INNOCENT OR GUILTY, 164
XV. COURT-MARTIAL, 179
XVI. PRISON AND PROMOTION, 188
[Illustration: TRUMPETER FRED.]
TRUMPETER FRED.
CHAPTER I.
A DANGEROUS MISSION.
There were only thirty in all that night when the troop reached the
Niobrara and unsaddled along the grassy banks. Rather slim numbers for
the duty to be performed, and with the captain away, too. Not that the
men had lack of confidence in Lieutenant Blunt, but it was practically
his first summer at Indian campaigning, and, however well a young
soldier may have studied strategy and grand tactics at West Point, it is
something very different that is needed in fighting these wild warriors
of our prairies and mountains. Blunt was brave and spirited, they all
knew that; but in point of experience even Trumpeter Fred was his
superior. All along the dusty trail, for an hour before they reached the
ford, the tracks of the Indian ponies had been thickly scattered. A war
party of at least fifty had evidently gone trotting down stream not six
hours before the soldiers rode in to water their tired and thirsty
steeds. No comrades were known to be nearer at hand than the garrison at
Fort Laramie, fifty long miles away, or those guarding the post of Fort
Robinson, right in the heart of the Indian country, and in the very
midst of the treacherous tribes along White River. And yet, under its
second lieutenant and with only twenty-nine "rank and file," here was
"B" Troop ordered to bivouac at the Niobrara crossing, and despite the
fact that all the country was alive with war parties of the Sioux, to
wait there for further orders.
"Only twenty-nine men all told and a small boy," said Sergeant Dawson,
who was forever trying to plague that little trumpeter. It was by no
means fair to Fred Waller, either, for while he was somewhat undersized
for his fifteen years, his carbine and his Colt's revolver were just as
big and just as effective as those of any man in the troop, and he knew
how to use them, no matter how hard the "Springfield" kicked. He rode
one of the tallest horses, too, and sat him well and firmly,
notwithstanding all his furious plunging and "buckings," the day that
Dawson slipped the thorny sprig of a wild rosebush under the saddle
blanket.
From the first sergeant down to the newest recruit, all the men had
grown fond of little Fred in that year of rough scouting and campaigning
around old Red Cloud's reservation--all of them, that is to say, with
the possible exception of Dawson, who annoyed him in many ways when the
officers or first sergeant did not happen to be near, and who sometimes
spoke sneeringly of him to such of the troopers as would listen, but
these were very few in number.
Fred was the only son of brave old Sergeant Waller, who had served with
the regiment all over the plains before the great war of the rebellion,
and who had been its standard-bearer in many a sharp fight and stirring
charge in Virginia. Now he carried two bullet wounds, and on his bronzed
cheek a long white seam, a saber scar, as mementoes of Beverly Ford,
Winchester, and Five Forks, and through the efforts of his war
commanders a comfortable berth as ordnance sergeant had been secured for
him at one of the big frontier posts along the railway. Fred was the
pride of the old soldier's heart, and nothing would do but that he, too,
must be a trooper. The boy was born far out across the plains in sight
of the Chihuahua Mountains, had followed the regiment in his mother's
arms up the valley of the Rio Grande to the Albuquerque, then eastward
along the Indian-haunted Smoky Hill route to Leavenworth. When the great
war burst upon the nation little Fred was just beginning to toddle about
the whitewashed walls of the laundresses' quarters--his father was
Corporal Waller then--and his baby eyes were big as saucers when he was
carried aboard of a big steamship and paddled down the muddy Missouri
and around by Cairo and up the winding Ohio to Cincinnati. He was even
more astonished at the railway cars that bore the soldiers and a few
women and children eastward and finally landed them at Carlisle. There
at the old cavalry barracks the little fellow grew to lusty boyhood,
while his father was bearing the blue and gold standard through battle
after battle on the Virginia soil. And when the war was over and the
regiment was hurried out to "the plains," and again to protect the
settlers, the emigrants, and the railway builders from the ceaseless
assaults of the painted Indians, little Fred went along, and his soldier
education was fairly begun.
Old Waller was now first sergeant of "B" troop. The regimental
commander and most of the officers were greatly interested in the
laughing, sun-tanned, blue-eyed boy, who rode day after day on his wiry
Indian pony along the flanks of the column, scorning, though barely
seven years old, to stay in the wagons with the women and children.
Everybody had a jolly word of greeting for Fred, and kind-hearted
Captain Blaine set his "company tailor" to work, and presently there was
made for the boy a natty little cavalry jacket and a tiny pair of yellow
chevrons. "Corporal Fred" they called him then, and, though he strove
hard not to show it, grim old Sergeant Waller was evidently as proud
and pleased as the child. He taught the little man to "stand attention"
and bring up his chubby brown hand in salute whenever an officer passed
by, and most scrupulously was that salute returned. He early placed the
boy under the instruction of the veteran chief trumpeter, and made him
practice with the musicians as soon as he was "big enough to blow," as
he expressed it. And then, too (for there were no army schools, or
schoolmasters in those days), regularly as the day came round and the
sergeant's morning duties were done, he had his boy at his knee, book or
slate in hand, patiently teaching him the little that he knew himself,
and wistfully looking for some better instructor.