AWAY TO THE RESCUE!
That night Fred Waller slept fitfully on the open prairie, with "Big
Jim" tethered close at hand. Saturday morning found him ten miles to the
east and ten miles further from the river than the point where he
watched the Sioux the previous evening. Hungry and worn with anxiety as
he was, the poor boy's heart sank within him when he cautiously peered
over the ridge into the valley. After an early morning ride, he saw the
dust clouds near the stream, and felt that he was still cut off. Noon
was near when, far as he could see up or down, the valley was clear; and
then creeping out from his lair, he again mounted and rode straight for
the Platte. Warily he watched in every direction, but no intruders came.
He was spurring over the flats only a mile from the river before the
first sign of pursuit was made. Then, far back toward the bluffs he had
left, Fred spied a little party of warriors coming after him full tilt.
Never stopping for more than one glance he gave Jim the rein, urging him
to full speed; marked, as he flashed across it only a few hundred yards
from the bank, the trail of a cavalry command going up the valley and
wondered whose it could be; then he and Jim went crashing through the
gravel at the water's edge and plunged boldly into the running stream.
Deeper and deeper brave old Jim pushed in until the waters foamed about
his broad and muscular breast; then Fred threw himself from the saddle,
and keeping tight hold of the pommel and steadying his carbine with the
same hand, "Swim for it, old man!" he shouted to his gallant horse, and
in another minute he and Jim were floating with the current, yet rapidly
nearing the other shore. Three minutes and, dripping wet but safe, they
were scrambling up the south bank and speeding away over the bounding
turf with the baffled pursuers still two miles behind.
And these were the tracks that Wallace found as he came hurrying back
downstream.
Saturday again Fred Waller and his faithful horse spent on the open
prairie, for in the darkness he found it impossible to make his way. The
moon was gone by one o'clock, and her light had been all too faint
before. But Sunday, just a little after noon, he had come in sight of
the goal he had sought through such infinite pluck and peril--the Sidney
road; and as he gazed at it from afar, peering at it as usual from
behind a sheltering bluff, his heart sank into his boots. He had come
too late; there on that distant trail were the tiny columns of blue
smoke floating skyward which told of burning wagons, now in crumbling
ruins. Worse than that, here close at hand, over on the other side of
the long, shallow swale, were twoscore Indian warriors in all their
barbaric finery, excitedly watching the coming of other victims.
With a moan of anguish Fred Waller marked, a mile beyond and rapidly
approaching them, a four-mule ambulance with a single soldier cantering
along behind.
"Oh, my God, my God!" he groaned aloud. "I am too late, after all."
But the wagon halted on the distant hills. The Indians, absorbed in
their cat-like watch, were eagerly gesticulating and excitedly pointing
to some object far beyond. Several of their numbers lashed their ponies
into a tearing gallop and sped away in wide circuit to the southward,
keeping the bluffs between them and the wagon. Others followed part of
the distance. He knew the maneuver well; already they were planning the
surround. In helpless agony he watched, for he was powerless to
aid--powerless even to warn. He seized his ready carbine, loosened the
cartridges in his belt, and looked eagerly to Jim's girths. Then once
again he faced the southeast, and saw, far away across the waves of
prairie, a little puff of dust and a little black dot--a rider--coming
full tilt in the wake of the wagon.
"Who can it be?" he wondered. "Can he possibly know of this ambuscade?"
All too late! A sudden flashing signal from the leader, and all at an
instant with trailing feathers, with war cry and the thunder of a
hundred hoofs, the painted band has whirled across the ridge in front
and is down in the dip beyond. Every Indian has vanished from his view
and whirled into sight of the victims on the crest beyond.
In an instant, too, Fred Waller is in saddle, and spurring on to the
ridge which they have just left, and then once more he reins in where
he can just peer over the crest. He notes with a cheer of joy that the
charge is checked--that the Indians have veered off and are now dashing
in a great circle around the central point on the height beyond. He sees
the wild stampede and tangle of the mules, the overthrow of the
ambulance; the quick, cool, resolute reply of the attacked. He marks
with a glow of mad delight, of reviving hope, that there is not a woman
or child with the party.
"Thank God!" he cries aloud, "It isn't Mrs. Charlton." He waves his hat
with exultation as he sees a pony stumbling in death upon the prairie,
and his rider limping painfully away; he knows now that they are
soldiers, holding their own for at least a time, and that all depends on
getting aid for them before nightfall. Far up the valley on the other
side he had marked at noon a dust-cloud sailing slowly toward him. It
must be the Sorrels or the Grays, hastening back to clear the Sidney
road. Here is the thing to do: gallop back, recross the river, meet and
guide them to the rescue. There is still time to get them here before
the sun goes down--if only the besieged can hold out that long.
[Illustration: IN FULL FLIGHT.]
One more glance he takes at the stirring picture before him, longing to
drive a shot at the nearest Indians, and as he gazes there comes
staggering, laboring into sight from around a point of bluff beyond the
beleaguered party, a horse all foam and blood, who goes plunging to
earth only a few yards away from the ambulance, and rolls stiffening and
quivering in his death agony; but the gray-haired old rider has leaped
safely to the ground, and his carbine flashed its instant defiance at
the yelling foe. Even at that distance there is no mistaking the
well-known form. Fred Waller's wondering eyes have recognized at
once--his father.
Now indeed he speeds away for help! Now indeed, has Jim to run for more
than life! Turning his back upon the thrilling scene, the little
trumpeter goes like a prairie gale, whirling back to the valley of the
Platte.
* * * * *
The sun is sinking behind the bluffs, and its last rays fall on a
bullet-riddled ambulance; on the stiffening bodies of a half dozen
slaughtered animals--a horse and some mules; on a grim, determined
little band of soldiers--two of them sorely wounded. The red shafts
gleam on a litter of empty cartridge-shells and tinge the canvas top of
the overturned wagon. Out on the rolling prairie several hundred yards
away, the turf is dotted here and there by Indian ponies, the innocent
victims of this savage warfare. Such Indian braves as have fallen have
long since been picked up by their raging comrades and borne away.
Despite their numbers, never once yet have the savages managed to reach
the defenders. Time and again they have swooped down in charge only to
be met by cool, well-aimed shots that tumbled some of their numbers to
the turf and sent the others veering and yelling into the old familiar
circle. At last they are trying the expedient of long-range shots from
different points of the compass, hoping to kill or cripple the whole
party by sundown. The bullets clip the turf and scatter the dust all
over the ridge. There is practically no shelter, for the ground is too
hard to dig. Old Sergeant Waller is prostrate with a bullet through the
thigh. Colonel Gaines has bound his handkerchief tightly around his arm.
The driver lies flat on his face--dead. Every now and then the others
turn longing eyes southward, hoping for some sign of infantry coming
from the post, so many a mile away. They know well that Edwards will
have levied on every wagon in Sidney to bring them; but not a whiff of
dust-cloud do they see. One of the soldiers gives a low moan and clasps
his hands to his side; and Cross mutters between his set teeth, "Five
minutes more of this will settle it."
But what means this sudden scurry and excitement among the besiegers?
Why do they crowd and clamor there at the north? What can they see over
that ridge beyond the little stream? Presently others join them. Then
more and more. Then there are whoops of rage; a few ill-aimed,
scattering shots. Three or four of the red men ride daringly, tauntingly
down, as though to resume the attack, and shout vile epithets in vilest
English in response to the shots with which they are greeted, and then
they too go riding away. "Lie down, you idiots!" yells Captain Cross to
the two soldiers who would spring up to cheer, but a moment more and
even the wounded wave their feeble hands and join in the triumphant
shout. The ridge is cleared of every vestige of the foe. The warriors
go speeding away eastward toward the Platte. Far out over the prairie,
to the northeast, a troop of blue horsemen are driving in pursuit, and,
over the neighboring crest, come a half dozen friendly forms and faces,
spurring their foam-flecked horses in the race.
"Look up, sergeant! Look up, old man! Here's Fred himself. Didn't I tell
you he was no deserter?" It was Cross' voice, and it is Cross' strong
arm that lifts the wondering, trembling veteran to his feet. The young
fellow has leaped from his horse and is springing toward them. With
wondrous look of relief, of inexpressible joy, of gratitude beyond all
words, of almost Heaven-born rapture mingling with the sunshine in his
old face, the sergeant stretches forth his trembling arms and cries
aloud, "My boy! my boy!"