LURKING FOES.
Church was over. The bugler had just sounded mess call, and the soldiers
in their neat "undress" uniform were just going in to dinner, when a man
on a "cow pony"--one of those wiry, active little steeds so much in use
around the cattle-herd--came full speed into the garrison and threw
himself from the saddle at Major Edwards' gate. It was the telegraph
operator at the railway station. In his hands were two brown envelopes,
and Major Edwards, as he stepped forward to meet him, saw in his face
the tell-tale look of a bearer of bad news.
"I've no idea whose horse that is, major. There were a half dozen of 'em
in front of a saloon there in town, and I jumped on the first I saw.
These have just come--one from Laramie, one from Omaha. I dropped
everything at the office to fetch them to you."
Edwards tore open first one and then the other. The first read:
"Couriers in front of Captain Wallace report large war parties along
the Platte, and some across, raiding the Sidney road. Four
teamsters killed, scalped, and mutilated three miles south of river.
Bodies found. Warn back everybody attempting to go that way."
The second was from the office of the department commander himself:
"Indians in force south of Platte, on Sidney road. If Colonel Gaines
and Captain Cross have started, send couriers at once to recall
them."
The major's face was dark with dismay.
"They have been gone nearly four hours," he exclaimed. "Even if I had
swift riders ready, who could catch them in time?"
"I've been a trooper all my life, sir," came sudden answer. "Give me a
horse and carbine and let me go."
The major might have known 'twas Sergeant Waller.
True to his word, and arranging with the officers of the court-martial
to return in case his further testimony was required, Captain Charlton
set forth at daybreak on Saturday, intending to push straight through to
Red Cloud as fast as mules could drag or horses bear him. To the
Niobrara crossing the road was hard and smooth, when once they cleared
the sandy wastes of the Platte bottom. He had a capital team, a light
ambulance, and a little squad of seasoned troopers to go with him as
escort. It was a drive of nearly ninety miles, but he proposed resting
his animals an hour at the Niobrara, another hour at sunset; feeding and
watering carefully each time, and so keeping on to the old Agency until
he reached his troop late at night.
No danger was to be apprehended until the party got beyond the Rawhide,
and not very much until they were across the Niobrara, but Charlton and
his half a dozen troopers had been over each inch of the ground time and
again, and very little did they dread the Sioux.
After midday the little party had halted close beside the spot where
Blunt's detachment had made their bivouac so short a time before. Here
were the ashes of their cook-fires and the countless hoof-prints of the
horses. Here, too, was the trail in double file, leading away northward
across the prairie--a short cut to the Red Cloud road. Charlton followed
it with his keen eyes, and noted with a smile how straight a line its
young leader must have made for the "dip" in the grassy ridge a mile
away, through which ran the hard, beaten track. Blunt prided himself on
these little points of soldiership, as the captain well remembered, and
when charged with guiding at the head of a column, was pretty sure to
fix his eyes on some distant landmark and steer for that, with little
regard for what might be going on at the rear.
The ambulance mules, tethered about the tongue, were busily crunching
their liberal measure of oats. Each cavalry horse, too, buried his nose
deep in the shimmering pile his rider had carefully poured for him upon
the dry side of the saddle-blanket. The men were contentedly eating
their hard-tack and bacon and drinking their coffee from huge tin cups
with the relish of old frontiersmen. One trooper, a few yards away out
on the prairie, kept vigilant watch. Pondering deeply over the strange
and unaccountable charge that had been laid at his young trumpeter's
door, the captain was slowly pacing down the bank, puffing away at the
briar root pipe that was the constant companion of his scouting days.
Suddenly he heard the sentry call, and, turning, saw him pointing to the
ground at his feet.
"What is it, Horton?" he asked, going over toward him.
"Pony tracks, sir. The Indians have been nosing around here since our
men left."
There were the prints of some half a dozen little unshod hoofs dotting
the sandy hollows in the low ground near the stream, and easily
traceable among the clumps of buffalo grass beyond. Charlton could see
where they had gathered in one spot, as though their riders were then in
consultation, and then scattered once more along the bank. Two hundred
yards away stood the lonely log cabin, all that was left of what had
been the ranch, and following the trail, the captain presently found
himself nearing it. Two tracks seemed to lead straight thither, and
before he reached it were joined by several more. Close to the abandoned
hut the ground was worn smooth and hard; yet in the hollows were
accumulations of dust blown from the roadway up the stream. Around here
the pony tracks were thick, and just within the gaping doorway were
footprints in the dust--some of spurred bootheels and broad soles, one
still more recent of Sioux moccasins. Through the solid log walls two
small square windows had been cut and narrow slits for rifles, in the
days when the occupants had frequent occasion to defend their prairie
castle. The opening to the subterranean "keep" was yawning under the
eastern wall, its wooden cover having long since been broken up for
fuel. Charlton stood for a moment within the blackened and dusty
doorway, and glanced curiously around him.
Except for the new footprints it looked very much as it did when he had
first taken occasion to inspect the interior, earlier in the summer.
There was nothing left that anyone could carry away, and he wondered why
the Indians should have troubled themselves to dismount and prowl
about. An Indian hates a house on general principles, and enters one
only when he expects to make something by it. Those recent boot-prints,
nearly effaced by the moccasins, were doubtless those of some of Blunt's
party. Curiosity had prompted some time-killing trooper to stroll out
here and take a look at the place. The sunshine streaming in at the open
doorway made a brilliant oblong square upon the earthen floor and
lighted up the grimy interior. The steps cut down to the dark "dugout"
were crumbling away, and it was impossible to see more than a few feet
into the passage leading to the underground fortress, where as a final
resort in an Indian siege the little garrison could take refuge. A
lantern or a candle would show the way, but Charlton had neither. Taking
out his match-case, however, he bent down, struck a light, and peered
in. Somebody had done the same thing within the last day or two, for
there were the stub ends of two matches just like his in the dust at the
bottom of the steps, and there, too--yes, he lighted another match and
studied it carefully--there was the print of cavalry boots going in and
coming out again. Whoever was his predecessor, he had more curiosity
than the captain. Charlton had seen prairie "dugout" forts before, and
did not care to waste time now.