MYSTERIOUS HOOF-PRINTS.
It was Saturday night that, from far up the Platte, the news came to
Captain Wallace of the dash made by the Sioux for the Sidney road. For
two days previous he had been hunting Indians upstream toward the
Rawhide, and had found a perfect network of pony tracks and had had some
very distant glimpses of flitting warriors. His scouts had told him that
the Sioux and Cheyennes were swarming over the country to the northwest
of him, and that none had appeared to the east. It was his business,
therefore, to move against them, and move he did, trusting that Forrest
and the Grays would be alert along the southern verge of the
reservations that no formidable parties could slip southward in his
absence.
But this was simply part and parcel of the Indian scheme. Having lured
him two days' march away from the Sidney crossing, these enterprising
warriors kept him occupied, while their confederates, making a wide
detour around Forrest, slipped across the Platte and swooped down upon
the poor fellows with the freight wagons. Only one of their number
managed to escape, and he, madly riding westward, came upon some
herdsmen who promptly joined him in his flight. They had seen the
cavalry going up the north bank a day or two before, and they never drew
rein until they found them. Wallace at once sent couriers westward to
Fort Laramie with the news, and at break of day started downstream with
his whole troop. They had not marched five miles before they came upon
the hoof-prints of a single horse, and just beyond the point where these
hoofprints crossed their trail, the tracks of half a dozen Indian ponies
met their eager eyes. One old sergeant, reining out of column to the
right, followed the shod tracks over to the river bank, and a
lieutenant spurred out and joined him when he signaled with his
broad-brimmed scouting hat. The rest of the troop moved stolidly ahead.
Presently the young officer overtook the column and reined in beside his
captain.
"Where did they go, Park?"
"Straight into the stream, sir, and evidently to the other side.
Sergeant Brooks says 'twas a troop horse with a light rider, and that he
had to swim across. The river is six feet deep out there, but it was his
only way of escape. The Indians couldn't have been far behind, and yet
they didn't follow. Their tracks turn down the bank on this side. Brooks
is following them now."
"Who on earth could have come through here at such a time? Why, the
country has been running over with Indians!"
"That's what puzzles me, sir, but Brooks says there is no mistake. It's
the cavalry shoe, of course. It's just after pay day at Robinson. Could
it have been a deserter?"
"No man in his senses would have dared such a thing," is the impatient
answer. "It may be some other infernal trick to get us away from our
legitimate business. What we've got to do is reach that Sidney road by
sunset. By Jove! if I'm court-martialed for this business, it won't
surprise me." And the captain's horse evidently felt the sudden grip of
the knees, for he took a sudden spurt and set most of the troop at the
nerve-wearing jog-trot. Mr. Park said nothing more, but for the life of
him he could not help thinking of those lone hoofprints and of that
solitary rider. Who could he be?
It is time we got back to him. Only one man or boy, known to us at
least, could have come that way. It was Trumpeter Fred.
Daybreak Friday had found him a few miles south of the Niobrara, and
close to the Laramie road. At noon Friday he had halted at the Rawhide
to rest his horse and take a bite of luncheon, but all his young soul
was athrill with eagerness; every faculty was alert. Warned of the
recent presence of Indians on every side, he was yet seeking to gain
the Platte before nightfall; cross to the south bank, where there was
comparative safety; ride southeastward until his horse was exhausted,
picket him where grass and water were near at hand, sleep till dawn
again, and then push on. He must reach the Sidney road before Sunday
morning and strike it far below the river.
But here, as he neared the valley, a sight had met his eyes which made
his young heart leap. The banks of the Rawhide were dotted here and
there by fresh pony tracks, and, coming from the distant ridges to the
east, they had gone in as though to water, and then turned down toward
the Platte, the very way he wanted to go. An hour, with his horse
hidden behind him in a shallow ravine, Fred Waller was lying prone upon
the ground, and peering over a ridge into the low, level wastes
stretching far to the southeast, bordering the Platte to the very
horizon. What most attracted his gaze was a little dust cloud, miles
away downstream, into which tiny black dots were moving, with other
little dots scurrying about at some distance from the main cluster. No
need to tell him they were Indians.
[Illustration: FLAT ON THE GROUND WAS PEERING OVER THE RIDGE.]
It was some minutes before he could determine which way they were really
going, but when he finally saw that they were bound down the valley, the
boy's heart beat high with hope. He could venture down to the Platte
as soon as they had passed entirely out of sight, and find some place to
cross well to the west of them. An hour he waited and still they were in
view. Then they seemed to disappear in a little clump of timber. He
waited fifteen to twenty minutes, and they were still there. Then it
suddenly dawned upon him that the whole band were resting in the shade
while their scouts searched the neighborhood. He was five or six miles
from the river, and every inch of ground in front was open. He knew well
that their eyes were keener than his, and should he make a dash for it
they would certainly see and give chase. What he could not detect, and
did not dream of, was that miles still further away down the Platte
another dust cloud was slowly advancing--Wallace's troop coming
upstream--and their scouts were watching that.
At last, after another hour of anxiety, he determined to slip away
westward, go up the Rawhide a few miles until he could gain the shelter
of some low-lying ridges, crossing the stream, and making a wide
circuit, sweep around to the Platte. He might still reach it before dark
and find a ford, or at least a place to swim across; he could trust "Big
Jim" for that. But even as he would have put this plan in execution, he
saw to his dismay a new move among the warriors. Four little dots came
riding from the timber and pushing back up the valley. These were only
the advance. In half an hour the whole band came jogging leisurely out
of the shadows, and little dots farther east came streaking across the
flats to join them. Fred saw that the whole war party was now retracing
its steps and coming back upstream, and that now, if he waited, he might
pursue his original intention of crossing at the shallows, ten miles
below the mouth of the Rawhide. And so, patiently and pluckily, he kept
his ground,--"Big Jim" contentedly filling himself with buffalo grass
the while,--and not until the sun was low in the west did Fred realize
their real intent. Just as the scouts, far in advance of the main
party, reached the winding banks of the Rawhide, they seemed to hold
brief consultation; one of them plunged through to the western side, the
other three turned and came straight toward the watching boy.
Great Heavens! It meant that the whole party was coming up the Rawhide,
and before dark would find and follow his track. Fred's first impulse
was to mount, and giving Jim the spurs, ride on the wings of the wind
back to the north--back to the Niobrara, where he had left the troop in
bivouac. There at least was safety, for they could not trail him in the
dark. But the second thought covered him with shame. Go back--go back
now! Never, so long as he had a chance for life and hope. Away from
here, and instantly, he must speed on his mission, and in another moment
his girth was tightened, and "Big Jim," astonished, was racing away
eastward, but keeping the sheltered ridge between him and the Platte.