SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.
Lieutenant Blunt's position on this bright July morning was most
embarrassing. Personally he had known the pet trumpeter of "B" troop
less than a year; for, as was said in the previous chapter, in point of
actual experience on the frontier the boy was the superior of the young
West Pointer, who had joined only the preceding autumn. Finding young
Fred so great a favorite among the officers and men, Mr. Blunt was
quite ready to accept the general verdict, although his first impression
of the youngster was that he was a trifle spoiled. On the other hand no
other man in the troop had so favorably impressed the new officer as the
"left principal guide," Sergeant Dawson, whose dashing horsemanship,
fine figure and carriage, and sharp, soldierly ways had attracted his
attention at the first outset. Then Dawson's manner to him was so
scrupulously deferential and soldierly on all occasions--sometimes the
old war-worn sergeants would be a trifle supercilious with green
subalterns--that Blunt's moderate amount of vanity was touched. He was
always glad, when his turn came round as officer of the guard, to find
Sergeant Dawson on the detail, and he recalled, when he came to think
over the events of his first half year with the regiment that very
summer, that it was when on guard he began to imagine Fred Waller was
"somewhat spoiled." Twice the boy "marched on" as orderly trumpeter when
he and Dawson were on the guard detail for the day, and both times the
sergeant had found fault with the musician, and had most respectfully
and diplomatically, but in that semi-confidential manner which shrewd
old soldiers so well know how to assume to very young subalterns, given
Mr. Blunt to understand that the boy "needed looking after." Months
later, when Blunt and Rayburn were discussing the probabilities of
promotion, when the sergeant-major of the regiment took his discharge
and there was lively competition among the soldiers for this, the finest
non-commissioned post in the regiment, Blunt warmly advocated Dawson's
claim. "He is the nattiest sergeant in the whole command," he said, "and
the smartest one I know."
"Oh, yes!" answered Rayburn with a certain superiority of manner and a
quiet sarcasm that provoked the junior officer; "there's no question
about Dawson's smartness. One after another every 'plebe' in the
regiment starts in with the same enthusiasm about Dawson. I had it
myself about eight years ago. But the trouble with him is he isn't a
stayer; he can't stand prosperity."
But Blunt preferred to hold to his own views and his faith in the second
sergeant of the troop. And so it happened that on this eventful morning
he sent Sergeant Graham at once to investigate as to the amounts stolen
during the night, and directed that Sergeant Dawson, who was in command
of the herd and picket guard, should come to him immediately.
The sun was just rising above the low treeless ridges on the horizon as
the lieutenant stood erect and looked about him. Close at hand the
Niobrara--"the Running Water"--was brawling over its stony shallows, and
the smoke of tiny cook-fires was floating upward into the keen, crisp,
morning air. Northward the slopes were bare and treeless, too, but
closely carpeted with the dense growth of buffalo grass. Only a few
yards out from the bivouac, hoppled and sidelined, the troop horses were
cropping the still juicy herbage, and three or four soldiers, carbine in
hand and garbed in their light-blue overcoats, were posted well out
beyond the herd on every side, watching the valley far and near for any
signs of Indian coming. Below the bivouac, and further from the Laramie
road, was an old log hut, once used as a ranch and "bar" for thirsty
souls traversing the well-worn way to the reservation; but the tide of
travel had first shifted to the Sidney route, and then been stemmed
entirely, so far as the line to or near the agencies was concerned, and
the proprietor had taken himself and his fiery poison to better-paying
fields. Far away to the southwest the blue cone of Laramie Peak stood
boldly against the sky. Nearer at hand, though a day's ride away, old
Rawhide Butte rose sturdily from the midst of surrounding prairie
slopes. Upstream, among some sparse cottonwood, a bit of ruddy color
among the branches caught the lieutenant's quick eye. Some Indian
brave, wrapped in his blanket, had been laid to rest there out of reach
of the snarling coyotes, one of whom could be dimly discerned slinking
away under the bank, just out of easy rifle range.
Off to the south lay the same bold, barren, desolate-looking expanse of
rolling prairie. Blunt could not suppress a shudder as he thought of the
terrible risk the boy had run in his mad break for the settlements
beyond the Platte. Of course he could go nowhere else. North, east, and
west, all was Indian land, and no lone white man could live there. Of
course he was making for the cattle ranges and settlements in Nebraska.
Such at least were the lieutenant's theories. He had spent only one year
on the frontier, but had been there long enough to know that among the
cowboys, ranchmen, and especially among the "riff-raff" ever hanging
about the small towns and settlements, a deserter from the army was apt
to be welcomed and protected, if he had money, arms, or a good horse.
Once plundered of all he possessed, the luckless fellow might then be
turned over to the nearest post and the authorized reward of thirty
dollars claimed for his apprehension; but if well armed and sober, the
deserter had little trouble in making his way through the toughest
mining camps and settlements.