Gate City had found a hero and wished to worship him, but its hero
proved as intractable as he was reticent. For three days after the
capture of Nevins the community was agog with rumor and excitement. To
begin with, the captive "had the cheek of a brass monkey," said the
sheriff, and swore stoutly that he was a wronged and injured man. So far
from being a prisoner he should be on a pinnacle, rewarded by a generous
and grateful government for important services rendered. Who but he had
followed and found the renegade major and wrested from him full
confession and the key of the safe, which in turn had been forcibly
wrested from him through the malevolent jealousy of that upstart
Engineer; but never, said Nevins, would he now betray Burleigh's
hiding-place or impart his confession until full reparation was made for
the wrongs and indignities heaped upon him. The sheriff was fairly
dazed.
"Who were all the fellows you had with you," he demanded, "if they
weren't some of Hank Birdsall's crowd, come there to raid the
quartermaster's department depot?" Nevins' indignation was fine to see.
He denied all knowledge of the presence of any such. He demanded an
interview with Folsom. He utterly refused at first to accord one to his
wife, as Naomi Fletcher, Folsom's housekeeper was now understood to be.
That woman was in league with his enemies, he swore. That woman wrote
and bade him come and then had Folsom and Loring and other armed men
there to pounce upon him. Folsom came and had a few words with him, but
told him bluntly that he wouldn't believe his preposterous story, and
would have nothing to do with him until he withdrew the outrageous
accusations against both his wife and Loring. That woman's a million
times too good for you, said Folsom. Then Nevins concluded he must have
a talk with Loring, and, on his message being conveyed that officer,
the bearer was bidden to say that Mr. Loring refused to have anything
whatever to do with him, whereat the captive ex-captain ground his teeth
with rage and made the jail-yard ring with malediction. Events succeeded
each other with marvelous rapidity. Folsom's visit was early the morning
after the capture, and by noon he was bowling along on a seventy-mile
ride to the ranch in the Laramie valley, hurried thither by the news
that Birdsall's gang had run off many of his son's best horses and that
Hal Folsom himself was missing. Loring galloped by the side of the
ambulance several miles, conferring with the old frontiersman all the
way, then turned back to resume his work at the depot. Eagerly he wired
dispatches to the General, which were forwarded from Cheyenne to the
Platte, telling of his important capture, smiling quietly as he wrote.
Had he not promised to produce the mysterious Newhall himself? Admirable
service, indeed, had the young Engineer rendered. The testimony of
Folsom, Loring, Jimmy Peters and one or two wakeful citizens all proved
that there must have been a dozen of Birdsall's gang in town that night.
There could be only one explanation, for a price was on the head of
every man. They had come with "Newhall" and the key straight from some
distant lair in the Black Hills of Wyoming, the big-shouldered range
that stretches from the Laramie near its junction with the Platte
southward to Colorado. They were bent on a sudden rush upon the corral
in the dead of night, the forcing of the gate and the office door, then,
with "Newhall" to unlock the safe, they would be up and away like the
wind, with money enough to keep them all in clover--and whisky--until
the last dollar was gambled or guzzled. Loring's suspicions had proved
exactly correct. Loring's precautions in having the office brightly
lighted and a show of armed men about had held the would-be robbers at
bay during the early hours of the night, and then his prompt action in
hurling himself on the mysterious stranger who came stealthily in at
Folsom's back gate, had finally and totally blocked the game.
But, just in proportion as Loring turned out to be right, old Pecksniff
turned out to be wrong, for he had refused a guard for the depot, and
therefore was it now Pecksniff's bounden duty to himself to pooh-pooh
the precautions of the Engineer and belittle the danger. Not for a
moment would he admit that armed desperadoes had come at Nevins' back.
As for the key in his possession, with all respect to the statements of
Mr. Loring, the story of the unfortunate captain was just as plausible,
and that key should have been delivered to him, the commander at Fort
Emory, instead of being taken possession of by the Engineer. True,
Nevins had been dismissed in disgrace, and in a question of veracity
between the two men there was little doubt that Loring's would prevail.
But a very peppery, fidgety, unhappy old man was Colonel Stevens for
many days, prating about this independence of action of stripling
officers right under his nose. But the worst came on the day when the
little troop of cavalry at Fort Emory was still further depleted by the
detachment of a sergeant, two corporals and eight troopers, ordered to
report with pack-mule and ten-days' rations to Lieutenant Loring, of the
Engineers, and Colonel Stevens had not been consulted again. The senior
colonel in the department, he had seen his command cut down, company by
company, until only a bare squad, said he, remained to guard the most
important post in Wyoming. (Which it wasn't by any means, but he had
been led to think so.) And now young whipper-snappers just out of West
Point were running away with his men right under his nose!
But Loring's orders came to him direct from Omaha. He had need of every
precaution. He was now going on a mission that demanded the utmost
secrecy, and the colonel could no more conceal a movement than a sieve
could hold water.
Quitting the quartermaster's depot one summer night at twelve, the
little detachment rode silently out across the southward prairie, swung
round to the east when the dim lights of town were a mile behind, took
the trot over the hard, bounding turf, and at dawn were heading
straight for the breaks of the Laramie. Halting for rest and coffee when
the sun was an hour high, they again pushed on until noon, when they
unsaddled in a grove of leafy cottonwoods in a little fork of the
Medicine Bow, watered the weary horses and gave them a hearty feed and
themselves as hearty a dinner, and then picketing and hoppling their
steeds, who were glad enough to roll and sprawl in the sand, all hands
managed to get some hours of sound sleep before the sun was sinking to
the edge of the Sweetwater Range. Then came the careful grooming of
their mounts, then a dip in the cool waters, then smoking tins of
soldier coffee and sizzling slips of bacon. Then again the saddle and
the silent trail, with the moon looking down from the zenith on their
warlike array. Heavily armed was every man, each, even the lieutenant,
with carbine and brace of Colts, and on they rode through the still,
soft night air, chatting in low tones, no man knowing but every one
believing that the taciturn, blue-eyed young officer in the lead was
heading them for a lair of the Birdsall gang. It was too far south just
then for Sioux.
Another morn and they had crossed, during the dark hours, the broad
plains of the Laramie and were winding up among the hills. Another rest
and, spurring from the rear, there overtook them a bronzed,
weather-beaten frontiersman whom Mr. Loring greeted without show of
surprise, and when again they moved on it was he who rode at the
lieutenant's left, up, up a winding trail among the frowning heights,
until just as every man was wondering when on earth they could hope for
a bite, the noiseless signal halt was given, while the leaders
dismounted and peered over a shoulder of bluff ahead, held brief
consultation, then down the ravine to the left rode the stranger, and
back to his men came Loring, his eyes kindling.
"There is a camp half a mile ahead where I have to make an arrest," said
he quietly. "Keep close at my heels. We'll have to gallop when we get in
view. Draw pistol. Don't fire unless they do. They probably won't."
And they didn't. Half a dozen startled men, gambling about a blanket;
two or three sleeping off a drunk, and one hunted, haunted wretch
nervously pacing up and down among the pines, were no match for the dash
of a dozen blue jackets coming thundering into view. There was no
thought of fight. Those who could catch their horses threw themselves
astride bareback and shot for the heart of the hills; two or three
scrambled off afoot and were quickly run down, one a heavily-built,
haggard, hollow-eyed man shook from head to foot as the lieutenant
reined up his panting and excited horse and coolly said:
"You are my prisoner, Burleigh."
Nor was there attempt at rescue. Mounting his four captives on their
horses, their feet lashed to the stirrups, their hands bound, all the
abandoned arms, ammunition and provisions destroyed and the camp burned,
Loring led promptly away up the range toward the north until clear of
the timber, then down the westward slope toward the Laramie valley once
more, searching for a secure place to bivouac. Far to the north the
grand old peak loomed against the blue gray of the Wyoming skies. Off to
their left front, uplifting a shaggy crest from its surrounding hills, a
bold butte towered full twenty miles away, and toward that jagged
landmark Loring saw his sergeant peering time and again, with
hand-shaded eyes.
"What do you see?" he presently asked.
"Smoke, sir, I think. Will the lieutenant look with his glass?"
Silently Loring unslung his binocular and gazed. His eyes were keen, but
untrained. "Take it yourself, sergeant," he said; and the veteran
trooper reined out to one side and peered long and steadily, then came
trotting up to the head of the column, doubt and suppressed excitement
mingling on his weather-beaten face.
"I couldn't be sure, sir, but it looked for a minute like smoke."
"And that means----"
"Indian signals, sir. That's Eagle Butte, only a couple of miles from
Hal Folsom's ranch."
Loring pondered. It was long since, in any force, the Sioux had ventured
south of the Platte; but now, after their victory at Warrior Gap and the
tremendous reinforcement they had received from all the turbulent
tribes, what was to prevent? John Folsom himself had told him it might
be expected any moment. John Folsom himself had gone to that very spot,
consumed with anxiety about the safety of his son, but confident of the
safety of himself and those he loved when once he could reach the ranch.
"No Sioux," said he, "would raise hand to harm me."
But Loring's men and horses both were sorely wearied now, and at sundown
the little command reached a sheltered nook where grass, wood, and water
were abundant. Here restfully, yet anxiously they bivouacked until three
in the morning, and then once more, refreshed but alert and cautious,
watchful of their prisoners and watchful of the signs ahead, on they
sped for Folsom's ranch. The dawn broke beautifully clear. The trail led
down into the romantic valley of the Laramie at the bend where it begins
its rush through the range. Then, turning westward as they reached the
foot of a steep and commanding height, Loring signaled to his sergeant
and the troopers spurred up alongside. There before them lay the broad
and beautiful valley just lighting up with the rosy hues of the glad
young day. There to the northward, black-bearded with its growth of
pine, the rays of the rising sun just glinting on the topmost crags,
towered Eagle Butte, a plume of smoke-puffs, even at the moment
beginning to soar slowly aloft. There, not a mile away straight ahead
was the steep ridge that, hiding Folsom's from view, stretched down from
the northward foothills to the very bank of the lapping Laramie. There
south of the stream, the gradual slope of the black range, studded here
and there with bowlders that seemed to have rolled down from the
precipitous cliffs under which they were now moving, two seasoned old
dragoons three hundred yards out to the front, covering the cautious
advance. All the broad sweep of rolling landscape far to the west just
lighting up in the slant of the summer sunshine. Not a living thing in
sight save their own little band, yet beyond that ridge, only two miles
away, lay the ranch. All seemingly peaceful and secure, yet, over that
jagged watch tower to the north the war signals of the Sioux were
flaunting, and every hand seemed to seek the small of the gun stock.
Even two of the prisoners plead for "a show in the fight," if there was
to be one, and not five minutes later it came. Borne on the still,
breathless air there rose throbbing from the west the spiteful crack,
crack of rifles, the distant clamor of taunting jeer and yell. Back from
the front came one of the troopers at mad gallop, his eyes popping
almost from his head. "My God! lieutenant, Folsom's ranch is afire and
the valley's thick with Sioux!"
Even then, when every carbine seemed to leap from its socket, men
remembered the groan of despair that rose from Burleigh's lips.
"Look after the prisoners, corporal. Sergeant Carey, you and the first
six come with me!" cried Loring. A gallop of less than a minute brought
them almost abreast of the ridge. Black and billowing a cloud of smoke
was rising, lashed from beneath by angry tongues of red flame.
"It isn't the house, thank God!" cried the sergeant. "It's the
haystacks. But--look at the Indians!"
Look, well they might! All about the corrals they were darting. All of a
sudden there blazed from the ridge line across the stream the fire of a
dozen rifles. All around them the spiteful bullets bit the turf. One
horse madly reared and plunged, his rider cursing heartily. Wildly the
more excitable troopers returned an aimless shot from the saddle, while
others gazed eagerly to the officer for orders. It was his first meeting
with the Sioux. It had been his hope to gain that threatened ranch by
dawn and join its garrison, but where was that hope now? Down along the
banks of the Laramie, lashing their bounding ponies, brandishing their
weapons and yelling like mad, a band of Sioux, full forty strong, came
charging at them, splashing through the shallows and scattering out
across their front in the well-known battle tactics. Not an instant was
there to be lost!
"Jump for those rocks, men!" rang Loring's order. "Cut loose your
prisoners, corporal. They must fight for their lives."
But oh, what chance had so few against so many! Springing from saddle,
turning loose their startled, snorting horses, that go tearing away down
the valley, the old hands have jumped for the rocks, and kneeling and
taking deliberate aim, opened fire on the foremost of the foe. A gaudy
warrior goes down in the flood, and a yell goes up to heaven. Another
good shot slays a feather-decked pony and sends his rider sprawling, and
wisely the others veer away to right and left and scurry to more distant
range. But up the slopes to the south still others dart. From three
sides now the Indian bullets are hissing in. In less than four minutes
of sharp, stinging fight, gallant Sergeant Carey is stretched on the
turf, with a shattered elbow, Corporal Burke and two troopers are shot
dead, Loring, with white, set face and a scorching seam along the left
cheek, seizes a dropped carbine and thrusts it into Burleigh's shaking
hands. "Up with you, man!" he cries. "It's your scalp you're fighting
for. Here, take a drink of this," and his filled canteen is glued to
Burleigh's ashen lips. A long pull, a gasp, and hardly knowing what he
does, the recreant officer kneels at the nearmost rock, aims at a
painted savage leaping to the aid of a fallen brother, and the chance
shot, for a marvel, finds its mark, and with a howl the warrior drops
upon the bank.
"Well done, Burleigh!" shouts Loring. "Fire again!"
Hope, or whiskey, or lingering spark of manhood has fired the major's
eye and nerved his hand. With something like a sob, one of Birdsall's
captured crew rolls over to where the young commander is coolly loading
and firing--and despite their heavy loss the stout defense has had its
effect, and the yelling braves are keeping at wider range.
"I'm done for, lieutenant," he moans. "For God's sake lie flat behind
me," and he feebly points to the slope behind their left rear, where
half a dozen Sioux, dismounted, are skipping to the shelter of the
rocks. Another minute and their bullets are hissing at the backs of the
besieged. Another minute and Burleigh topples over on the sward, the
life blood pouring from his side, and Loring sees that half his fighting
force is gone, even as everything begins to swim before his eyes, and
the hand that strives to sweep away the blur before his sight, leaves
his pallid face smeared with blood. There is a sound of coming thunder
in his ears, the blare of distant trumpet, the warning yell of wary
Indians, the rousing cheer of charging horse, and the earth seems
turning round and rolling up to meet him as he droops, fainting at his
post, the battle won.
Well and gallantly done, was the universal verdict of the frontier on
Walter Loring's maiden fight. Brave, cool and resolute in face of
desperate peril he had proved, and many a sympathizing soldier hovered
about the hospital tent, where day after day he lay in the delirium of
fever that followed his wounds. Yet will it be believed that, when at
last convalescence came and the doctors were compelled to raise the
blockade, the news was broken to him that so soon as he should be
declared strong enough there was still another ordeal ahead. The gallant
General he had served so well had indeed been ordered elsewhere, as was
prophesied at Omaha. "A new king came who knew not Joseph." The senior
colonel was assigned to temporary command of the department, and he, old
Pecksniff, listened to the tales of Nevins, and of that new arrival from
California, Petty, reinforced by Heaven alone knows what allegations
from the lambs of Lambert's flock.
"They found some damned trumpery jewelry in a flat tin case in a trunk
you left with your traps at Omaha," was the indignant outburst of
Lieutenant Dean, who had led the rush of the cavalry to the rescue of
Folsom's ranch and Loring's exhausted party, "and some idiot has
preferred charges on the strength of them."