HAL RIDES INTO TREACHERY
AT one-thirty the gates of the ball grounds were thrown open.
A long programme lay before the assembled regulars, so the tournament
was to begin at two o'clock.
The same performance was to be repeated in the evening, under brilliant
electric lighting.
As they left the camp tables, however, the men moved about rather
dejectedly.
The unexpected competition with the big circus had spoiled their hopes
of winning round after round of delighted applause from huge crowds.
Yet barely were the gates to the grounds open when the soldiers began to
take notice.
In an instant after opening there was a big rush at the gates. Men and
women, boys and girls, crowded and jostled to get into the grounds.
"They'll stop coming in two minutes, at this rate," grumbled Sergeant
Hupner.
Yet he proved a poor prophet. By quarter of two nearly every one of the
more than twenty thousand seats for spectators had been filled. Five
minutes after that not a seat could be had, even by squeezing. Just
before two o'clock ten thousand more spectators had crowded in, standing
wherever they could find the space.
Outside the crowd still pressed. Thousands simply had to be turned away.
Every officer present now wore a quiet smile that hid his delight under
an orderly appearance.
"I wonder if the circus has a crowd like this?" gasped Sergeant Hupner,
his astonished gaze roving over the densely packed masses of humanity.
An artillery band was playing at its loudest and gayest.
"I wonder," repeated Sergeant Hupner, "if the circus is playing to a
crush like this."
No; it wasn't. Over under the Howe and Spangleton big-top, with its
plain and reserved seats for eighteen thousand people, consternation
prevailed.
The Army had proved the winning attraction for Denver's
amusement-seeking crowds!
Only some eleven hundred and fifty people had paid to see the afternoon
performance at the circus. In chagrin, the management hurriedly passed
in free some two hundred more loungers on the lot.
"I never even dreamed of a streak of luck like this!" grumbled
Proprietor Howe to his partner, Spangleton.
"I hope we'll never meet it again. What has struck us this blow under
the belt?"
"The confounded regular Army," growled Howe. "I've just telephoned over,
and I hear that folks are packed in so tightly at the Army show that the
people are able to breathe only half the usual number of times to the
minute."
"Then they'll hit us just as bad to-night," growled Spangleton. "Howe,
with the Army to play against, we'd save money by pulling down our tents
now and striking the rails for the next stand."
Just a minute or so before two o'clock the artillery band left the
bandstand and marched back to camp.
Now, all in an instant, the military parade formed.
At the head was the cavalry band, followed by a squadron (two troops or
companies) of splendidly mounted fighting men, their accoutrements
jingling.
As the cavalry, its band blaring joyously, passed out before the people,
the Signal Corps men followed on foot. Now the artillery, preceded by a
mounted band that was just now silent, swung into line. Right behind the
artillery, with its men perched up on the seats, their arms folded, or
else driving the horses from saddles, came more men on foot, the
ordnance detachment.
Now a third band, the Thirty-fourth's, marched on to the scene, silent,
like the artillery musicians. After the third band in the line came the
first battalion of the Thirty-fourth--at its head Colonel North and
Major Silsbee, with their respective staffs, all on horseback. And now
behind them marched, with the precise, easy rhythm of the foot soldier,
the four companies, A, B, C and D, all moving like so many fine,
automatic, easy-jointed machines.
The mounted detachments had brought forth rounds of rousing applause as
they swept by, but when the infantrymen--the real, solid, fighting wall
of the Army came in view, its men moving with the perfectly gaited,
steady whump, whump! of superbly marching men, the spectators began to
yell in frantic earnest.
The cavalry band ceased its stirring strain. Instantly the mounted drum
major of the artillery swung about on his horse, holding up his baton,
then bringing it down with the signal, "play."
As the artillery band blazed forth in a glory of rousing melody the
noise of people's feet increased.
By the time that the infantry marched past the central portion of the
great mass of civilians it was the turn of the Thirty-fourth's band.
Every spectator, nearly, was now standing, stamping, waving. Cheer after
cheer went up.
It seemed as though human enthusiasm could not know greater bounds.
Faint echoes must have reached the distant, nearly empty circus big-top.
Yet the breathless thousands had caught, as yet, but the first tame
pageantry of this glimpse of the glory of armed men.
Just before B company, as it swung along at the good old regular gait,
one excited onlooker hurled a well-filled wallet--the only sign left him
for showing his utter enthusiasm.
File after file of foot soldiers stepped over this wallet, yet, if one
of the infantrymen knew it was there, not one of them let any sign
escape him. Discipline was absolutely perfect. These marching men of
rifle and bayonet swept on, heads up, eyes straight forward, every file
in flawless, absolute alignment.
And so the wallet was passed over and left behind while the crowd,
staring at this unexpected scene of soldierly discipline, went wilder
than before, in a frantic acclaim that was granted from the soul.
A policeman, standing at the edge of the crowd, picked up the wallet,
returning it to its somewhat disappointed owner.
When the parade had swept around the field, each band playing in its
turn, the crowd settled back with a sigh, as though satisfied that the
greatest sight on the programme had been witnessed.
Yet hardly was there a pause. A troop of cavalry came forward, now, at
the trot. All the evolutions of the school of the troop, mounted, were
now gone through with. All the swift, bewildering changes of the
cavalryman's manual of arms were exhibited.
Single riders and squads exhibited some of the prettiest work of the
cowboy, for the American cavalryman has learned his riding and his
daring from the best work of generations of cowboys.
Men rode two, and then three horses, at once, standing on bareback and
leaping their animals over gates, ditches and hedges.
Down at the far end of the wheel a squad of cavalrymen halted,
dismounted, unlimbered their carbines, and began firing at a squad of
cavalrymen who galloped toward them from the other extremity of the
field. Three of the men fired upon toppled and fell from their saddles
to the dust with wonderful realism, while startled "ohs!" came from the
eager onlookers.
Just behind this detachment rode more cavalrymen at the gallop. Three of
these men, without seeming effort, swung down from their saddles, while
their mounts still galloped, picked up the "dead or wounded," and then
these horses, guided by their riders, wheeled and made fast time with
the mock "casualties" to the rear.
It was a wonderful sight. Now, the audience began to come somewhere near
its actual limits of enthusiasm.
Other yet more wonderful feats of skill and precision by the cavalry
followed. Ere the "yellow-legs" had retired, momentarily, from the field
of display, every small boy in the crowd--and many a large one--had
decided that the life of the trooper must be his.
Then the flying artillery came on to the field, amid clouds of dust, the
urgings of drivers, the sharp commands of officers and the pealing
commands of bugles. For the first time in their lives the spectators
realized how like lightning the American artillery moves, and how
speedily it gets into deadly action. It was a pity that none of the fine
marksmanship with the field cannon could be shown. The audience had to
be satisfied with salvo after salvo fired with blank cartridges at
imaginary enemies.
Then next the scene swiftly changed to a well-simulated one of battle,
in which all arms engaged. "Under heavy fire" the engineers threw a
bridge swiftly across a wide ditch representing a stream. While this was
going on Signal Corps men laid wires and had telephone and telegraph
instruments in operation from the firing line to the rear.
More of it came when the squadron of cavalry, at one end of the field,
and backed by the signal and ordnance detachments, now bearing rifles,
impersonated a hostile advance, firing volleys and "at will" at the
artillery and infantry, posted to repulse them.
It took the breath of the spectators away. For now they gazed upon the
grim realities of war, save for the actual deaths and manglings which
all knew must follow such fierce firing when done in reality.
It was some minutes afterward before the smoke cleared away from over
the field sufficiently to allow all to see the next spectacles. But all
onlookers now felt the need of a brief rest from such sensations.
There were a host of features to the rousing programme, and not a
spectator but thrilled and throbbed, and thanked his lucky stars that he
was here, at the show, the spectacle of a lifetime!
Feature after feature followed, in a swiftly-moving, tightly-packed
programme lasting three hours. The riot drill, showing with vivid
effect how a battalion of regular infantry can move through a densely
packed mob, brought forth tumultuous cheers. When the cheering had
subsided such shouts as these were offered by excited spectators:
"Bring your anarchists here to-night, and show them this!"
"Never get into a riot unless you go with the regulars!"
It was truly an Army afternoon. All such afternoons are, for the average
American knows truly nothing about his own Army. When he sees it
actually at work he becomes, for the time at least, an "Army crank."
There were many features in which only one, or a few men, figured
importantly. One of these was now about to be offered. On the programme
it bore the title, "the bicycle dispatch rider."
No name was set opposite this title, but the man who had been selected
for the work was Sergeant Hal Overton.
At the far side of the field the scene had been arranged. It represented
a hill road, over which the dispatch bearer must ride at breakneck
speed. For picturesque purposes Hal wore a surgeon's field case, hanging
over one shoulder by a strap. In actual war time his real dispatches
would have been hidden somewhere in his clothing, his shoes, or
what-not place of concealment.
Of a sudden the Thirty-fourth's band turned loose into a dashing gallop
played at faster time than usual. It was the signal for Sergeant Hal to
mount his wheel and ride as for life.
Something in the speed, the dash, the evident purpose of the young
soldier caught the hearts of the spectators as soon as Hal started. He
had not gone fifty yards on his way before the cheering once more burst
forth.
At the outset were some little gaps in the path, representing brooks and
rills. Over these Sergeant Hal sped as if they did not exist, while
little upward spurts of water helped out the illusion.
Ahead of the young military bicyclist now appeared a plain fence, some
four feet high. Hal Overton rode at this with all the speed his flying
feet could impart to the pedals. He appeared bent on violent collision
with the fence.
Indeed, he rode at the palings as though he could not stop. Yet, when
almost in the act of collision, Sergeant Hal made a flying leap from his
wheel, which he tossed over the fence. In two incredibly swift movements
he was over the fence. His wheel hardly seemed to have fallen at all, so
swiftly did the young sergeant have it going again. He made a flying
leap to the saddle, and was again pedaling desperately, while five or
six shots to the rear filled out the illusion of a dispatch bearer being
pursued by enemies.
That trick at the fence instantly took hold of the younger male portion
of the audience. Denver boys saw wherein young soldiers were taught
things about bicycle riding that were not known among civilians.
Hardly was Sergeant Hal going at full speed again when another obstacle
loomed up in his way. This was an intrenchment front, sloping as he
approached it, but with a sheer drop of some three feet on the other
side.
Straight up the slope dashed Hal Overton. For a fraction of a second, as
he left the top of the barrier, his wheel looked more like an odd
airship, but now the forward wheel struck the ground beyond once more,
the rear wheel swiftly following, and the dispatch rider was going
onward faster than ever.
The small boys now led in the noise that came from the spectators'
seats.
Just ahead lay the greatest peril of the path for the military dispatch
rider. Here, in the hill scene, had been cut an actual gully, some
eighteen feet deep, and fully twelve feet across.
Just a few minutes before a squad of soldiers had placed across this
gully the trunk of a tree, shorn of its limbs and trimmed down close.
As Sergeant Hal now approached this tree trunk, which was not, at its
thickest part, more than a foot in diameter, his purpose dawned upon the
watching thousands.
This tree trunk represented the only possible way of getting over the
gully.
Surely, the young rider would slow down, dismount, take the wheel on his
shoulders and cross the slim bridge on foot.
But the crackling out of more shots behind him told the onlookers that
the young dispatch rider in Uncle Sam's khaki uniform must make great
haste.
Hal lay on harder than ever on his pedals. His speed carried to the
onlookers the reality of a desperate race of life and death.
Close to the nearer edge of the gully stood a solitary figure, that of
Corporal Noll Terry, who had had charge of the men laying the tree trunk
across the gully.
Noll still stood by, watching, ready to be at hand if anything happened.
One other man watched, though from a considerable distance.
This man was Private Hinkey, who alone knew the secret of his willing
industry since reaching this camp.
Hinkey, unseen by others, had managed treacherously to "fix" the log in
a manner that had defied detection.
[Illustration: Sergeant Hal's Forward Wheel Struck the Log.]
"There'll be an end to the sergeant kid, in two seconds more!" gloated
the rascal.
Sergeant's Hal's forward wheel struck the log, throwing full weight upon
it. There was a snapping crackle, then a shriek from thousands.
For the log had snapped in two, and Sergeant Hal Overton, thrown head
downward, was on his way to a broken neck at the bottom of the gully.