PROOF POSITIVE OF GUILT
And the first words spoken came from the lips of Sergeant Drum--like
many another old campaigner among the old-time regulars, a privileged
character.
"Didn't I tell ye those fellers were lyin'? Here's their wagon now,
that was burnt over their heads!"
At intervals of several paces, as they could best find points from
which to see without being seen from the northern side, the little
detachment lay sprawled along the crest, the brown barrels of the
carbines well forward. Graham and Connell, peering through their
field-glasses, their elbows resting on the turf, were side by side
about the centre. Behind them, nearly a hundred paces down the
southward slope, stood the horses in an irregular line, a corporal
remaining in charge, keenly watching the movements of his superiors,
yet keeping constant control of the four horse-holders, who, like
himself, remained in saddle. There could be no telling what moment they
might be needed.
For an odd and perplexing situation was this in which the young
commander was placed. Ordered to follow back the trail of the fugitive
hunters to the point where they claimed to have been "jumped" by
hostile Indians; ordered to find, if possible, the remains of the
victims, men and horses, and of the burned wagon and "outfit"; ordered
also to search for signs by which the assailants might be discovered,
the command had come suddenly in sight of a wagon and horses that
answered the description of those said to have been destroyed, and if
that wasn't a white man driving them, both binoculars were at fault.
But what did it mean that the captors should be coming southwestward
with their booty? Why had they not burned the wagon? They could never
use it at the reservation. Many young men, of course, were out and
afield with the ghost-dancers, but the elders, the native police, and
the agent would quickly hear of it, and trouble would follow for
somebody. George Sword, Sioux chief of police and stanch adherent of
General Crook--"Wichahnpi Yahmni" (Three Stars), as they called him
whom so long the Sioux had honored, and whom now they were so deeply
mourning--George Sword was a man who did his duty well; Geordie, as a
boy, had known him, and known how the general trusted him. A wagon like
this would be of no more use to the captors than a locomotive; yet here
they were, a dozen of them, urging it on, while others of their kind,
afar back down-stream, were darting about, little black dots of
horsemen scampering over the distant slopes, evidently watching some
parties still farther away and invisible to the lurking cavalry.
Could it be that they were trying to repeat an old-time deed of
chivalry told to this day of their fathers--restoring lost property to
the legitimate owners? Could it be that, knowing the presence of the
squadron on the Mini Chaduza, and the probability of the frightened
owners having found refuge there, these Indians were now actually
driving thither? They were still on their reservation. There was
nothing but the fugitives' statement to warrant the belief that the
camp had been attacked and burned. There was nothing, in fact, to
justify an attack upon the present possessors. They would probably
scatter, rush to the reservation, tell their tale to the agent, and the
press and the peace societies would presently be flooding the country
with columns concerning the murderous onslaught on a friendly people
made by a reckless soldiery.
Yet something had to be done, and that right speedily; for now, instead
of breasting the long slope, and coming, as at first, straight toward
the ridge, the Indians were lashing the leaders in gradual turn to the
westward. Now they were skirting the foot of the incline and moving
parallel to the ridge, and then it was that Geordie saw the reason.
They had made the wide sweep outward in order to circle the head of a
ravine which, starting only a few hundred yards out to the left front,
went winding deeper and steeper through the "bench" until it finally
opened out into the creek bottom a long mile away.
Yes, the whole scheme was evident now. They had captured the camp and
the wagon with its contents, and, knowing the difficult country and
crossings along the lower Fork, were scurrying with their booty around
the great southward bend, hoping to get away to the west, reach the
trail of the war-party that had evaded the cavalry, and follow on with
their prize. Or else, still keeping within the reservation line, to
drive on westward for the valley of the Wounded Knee and their red
brethren of the Pine Ridge Agency, the Brulés of old Spotted Tail's
(Sinte gleshka's) long famous band.
Yet there, too, this wagon would be a white elephant. Why had they not
divided among themselves the simple contents of a hunter's camp outfit,
cut loose with the horses, and burned the big vehicle, which they could
not use?
Then all in a moment the truth flashed upon Geordie. Years before he
had heard of such traffic, heard the fierce denunciation lavished by
officers and men upon the miscreants who, for love of gold, would sell
to Indians, at fabulous price, the means of murdering their fellow-men.
All on a sudden his voice was heard:
"Back to your horses, men! Mount, sergeant, and follow. Come on,
Connell! That's why it takes four horses to lug it--that wagon is
loaded with lead!"
One minute more and from the lips of one wary Indian, well out on the
"bench," went up a shrill whoop of warning. Away up the the grassy
incline, from over the ridge and spurring straight for the wagon, now
at the head of the ravine, came two lithe young horsemen, riding like
the wind, the right hand of the foremost far uplifted in the signal
known the plains over--to halt. Behind these two came an orderly
trooper full gallop. Behind these three, presently, there popped into
view a score of slouch-hatted, blue-bloused, sturdy dragoons, and with
many a screech of wrath and disgust, away went the last of the Sioux,
scooting for the shelter of the creek bank beyond. Shoot they longed
to, yet dare not. The word had not yet gone forth. The medicine-men
still said nay. The time was not yet ripe. A few days more must they
suffer until Si Tanka and his braves were met, until, in overwhelming
force, they could turn on the scattered and helpless settlers. That was
easier warfare than fighting soldiers, and counted for just as much in
scalps and glory. Away they went to the cotton-wood bottom, and one
wellnigh exhausted, thoroughly demoralized white man collapsed on the
driver's seat, and four sweating, staggering horses pulled up, panting
and blowing, and the score of blue-coated riders came thundering on, to
rein up in triumph around a silent but obviously excited brace of
lieutenants, one of whom simply pointed into the depths of the wagon
body. From under a lot of dingy camp equipage peeped out three or four
little boxes the soldiery knew at sight. Sergeant Drum spurred
alongside and whisked off what was left of the cover, and a dirty
blanket or two, and there was a larger box, half filled with magazine
rifles. There were ten boxes of Winchester cartridges, one thousand to
the box. There was the secret of the "hunter's camp." They had been
selling arms to the Sioux.
"Good find, that, Geordie," grinned Connell, as his comrade sat
pencilling a brief despatch to the major, while three of the men, with
liberal sprinklings from their canteens and brisk fanning with their
hats, were striving to revive the collapsed wagoner.
"I need his story," said our plains-wise Pops. "Pull him to, if
possible," and then went on with his writing.
"SOUTH FORK, WHITE RIVER,
"_October_ -- '90, 9 A.M.
"_Lieutenant H.H. Willard, Adjutant Detachment
--th Cavalry._
"SIR,--I have to report that we have just intercepted a small
party of Sioux driving off a four-horse wagon, which contains
eleven Henry and Winchester rifles and at least ten thousand
rounds of ball cartridges. This is probably the 'outfit' of the
fugitives who reached bivouac this morning, reporting it burned
and their comrades killed.
"One of the latter, at least, is alive, but we found him
unconscious, although unharmed. He was driving the wagon. The
Indians scattered, but are now assembling in the cotton-woods a
mile distant. More seem coming to join them. If attacked, we
will hold out; but I wish to push on and ascertain what befell
the others. We cannot, however, leave the wagon, nor have I
force enough to leave a guard.
"Very respectfully,
"G.M. GRAHAM,
"_Second Lieutenant --th Cavalry_,
"_Commanding detachment_."
Then came a significant P.S., at sight of which, little over an hour
later, Major Berry's eyes snapped, and so did his speech.
"Bring those two scoundrels here!" said he, and a hangdog-looking pair
they were when presently lined up before the bearded commander, while
no less a personage than Captain Garrett, at the head of forty
troopers, was setting forth on the trail of his much-envied subaltern,
to relieve him, if surrounded and attacked by the Sioux; to relieve
him, in any event, of the care of the wagon, but under no circumstances
to relieve him of his command or duties. Unless menaced by strong
parties of the Sioux, Mr. Graham was to go ahead with a dozen
additional men, carry out his orders, and Captain Garrett with the rest
should bring that wagon to camp.
Then with Geordie's report and postscript in hand, the major stood
glowering at the fugitives of the morning, now most ruefully yet
furtively studying his face. They suspected something amiss when warned
awhile before that they were not to try to ride off. They knew there
was mischief to pay now.
"You two sku--specimens," began the major, ominously, "told me you were
only accidentally on the Sioux reservation. You swore you were simply
out hunting antelope."
"That's God's truth, major," whined the taller of the two, though the
other seemed ready to parley and plead.
"That's an infernal lie!" was the answer. "You told me the Sioux
'jumped' your camp, killed your partner, and burned your wagon." And
with menace in his burning eyes the veteran officer paused for a reply.
"'Fore God, major, that's how it looked to us. 'Course it was
pitch-dark--"
"Pitch-dark--in bright moonlight! This is worse, and more of it.
You're a pair of black-hearted villains! You went there deliberately.
You went with a wagon-load of arms and ammunition to sell to Sioux
Indians just bound for the war-path. You'd swing for that if there was
any law in the land, but swing you shall--anyhow!"
"You dassn't touch us!" burst in the leader, sudden spirit and defiance
in his tone, well knowing how powerless were the military in face of
civil law. "We're no poor devils of dog-robbers. We demand protection
and a fair trial--a jury of our peers; that means no hide-bound gang of
soldiers. You can't prove we sold so much as a shot, an' you know it,
an' you're only trying to bluff."
"That's enough, _you_!" was the startling answer. "Sergeant of the
guard, shoot these men like dogs if they attempt to escape. We sha'n't
waste time trying to prove you sold arms. What we can prove, and will
prove, and by your own man, too, and hang you high as Haman for it, is
that Pete Gamble, deputy sheriff, caught you at your devilish work, and
you shot him dead from ambush!"