A CHARGE
David Bond was on his knees in the bed of his wagon, beneath the high
board cross. Before him he held an open Bible. But he was not reading.
His head was uncovered. His beard was lifted. His eyes closed in prayer.
Beside him knelt Squaw Charley, with hands pressed together, as if
reverent; with shoulders bent lower than their wont; with shifting,
downward look. North of the barracks, on the road that led from the
steamer-landing, the two had met in the early hours to say good-by.
Swift on the first hint of coming trouble, the evangelist had made ready
for his long journey to the west. Shadrach was shod, his master fitting
the plates to the shaggy hoofs. The runners were taken from the green
box and replaced by the red wheels. Canned food, salted meat, hardtack,
and forage were boxed or sacked at the sutler's. The harness was
greased. A new nail was driven home through the base of the sagging
cross.
During these preparations, the post joined in an effort to damp the aged
preacher's hopes and to check his going. He was needed at Brannon, they
said, so that the regiment could be rid of Matthews. His belief that he
could talk peace terms to the hostiles was ludicrous. As for the
Jamieson women, they were dead, or they would have been returned long
since to save the four condemned from hanging. And his own life was to
be uselessly endangered. Already, out upon the prairie, Indian scouts
were keeping watch. He might be able, though alone and unarmed, to pass
them and reach the coulees beyond. But he would only fall into the
murderous clutches of the savages swarming there.
David Bond smiled when they argued. His faith was as firm as the bluffs
that ramparted the fort, and his old heart was unafraid. With him,
against the rest, ranged two men--Robert Fraser and young Jamieson. They
believed, as he did, that, knowing the tongue, and having friends among
the Sioux, he would be in no peril; that, by now, the captive mother and
daughter were on American ground again, and would be given over to his
care more readily than to another's; that the arrival of troops before
the enemy's camp would be fraught with risk for the defenceless two; and
that an attempt to take them by force would be their death-signal.
Colonel Cummings was harrowed by Jamieson's months of anguish and
illness, and angered by the indifference and dawdling of the captors in
the face of his demand and threat. His heart was set upon punishment,
now, not treaty. He felt that he was being played with. And he longed to
find the red Sioux and thrash them soundly. A word about the
evangelist's trip put him out of patience. He regarded it as futile and
rash. Yet he did not forbid it--he dared not. For there was Jamieson's
old-young face and whitening head; and a hidden spark of hope that would
not die.
He owed it to his conscience and position, however, to discourage David
Bond. "There will be sharp fighting this summer," he told him. "A
hundred good men like you couldn't stop it. The cause lies too deep,
and it is too well founded. In the matter of the women, you will also
fail. They did not come as the price of four chiefs. Will they come
because you ask for them politely? They won't. And you will be
slaughtered."
"Then I shall die in a noble cause," answered the preacher, simply. "The
Indians know me. I am their friend. I have spent my life with them,
taught them, advised, converted. What is all my labour worth, Colonel,
if I cannot go among them in times of distress?"
"Worth this," said the colonel, "that you should know when to use your
common sense. I tell you, you will meet with treachery. Friend, or no
friend, this year the Indians are hunting scalps."
"I put my trust in God," murmured David Bond.
"Don't put your trust in redskins," retorted Cummings, crossly.
Whereupon he tramped away.
"Waste of breath--nothing else," he declared to his wife. "I'm clean put
out with the old fellow. He's daft on going. Now, why doesn't he stay
here, instead of sticking his throat to the knife? There's plenty to do.
But, no. Off he must rush on a wild-goose chase. Well, he'll have one,
mark that! He's either ripe for an insane asylum or he's a religious
adventurer--and I'm hanged if I know which!"
It was the bluster that covers an aching wound; that is a vent for
outraged helplessness. And David Bond understood.
When he asked leave to address the stockade, the commanding officer
willingly consented. The attitude of the hostages on that occasion
startled and disturbed the whole post. For the evangelist might as well
have harangued the cottonwood grove across the river. He asked the
braves for messages to their brothers. By way of reply, they got up, one
after the other, from where he had found them, grouped in the sun before
the council-tent, and strolled insolently to their lodges. Soon he was
discoursing to empty space, and to a line of squaws who threw him
malignant glances and jeered at him. He left, surprised, saddened, but
unshaken.
Impudence, bold hatred, and defiance--these were following the smoke
from Medicine Mountain. They formed a cue that pointed to one fact: The
prisoners were disappointed. They had been expecting, not peace and
reservation life, but freedom and battle.
David Bond felt a double need for his quick departure and his services
among the gathering war-bands. He hastened his few remaining tasks and
set the day for the start. Now, the day was come. His farewells had been
said at the shack and at headquarters. Breakfast over and Shadrach put
to the shafts, he would take his way up the river. But first there must
be laid upon Squaw Charley a final and a solemn charge.
The prayer finished, he put out a hand and touched the Indian. Then he
opened his tear-blurred eyes and looked at him, his face softening and
working. The Squaw did not budge. His palms were still pressed tight. He
blinked at the wagon-bed.
"Charles," said the evangelist, earnestly, "you and I love the little
family over yonder. They have been good and kind. I want you to watch
over them while I am gone, and be faithful to them. The father is
crippled and weak, and he has no friends. Charles, you must be a friend
to him, and to the girls. No matter what happens, do not fail them.
There will be another guarding. Guard with him. Something may call him
away; someone may kill him. Take his place. If danger comes, tell of it
at the Fort. Do you promise, Charles? do you promise?" He leaned
forward, entreating.
The outcast moved from side to side uneasily.
"Promise, promise," said David Bond. "You must give up anything for
them, even your life. Remember that--even your life. I have told you
often, and you have not forgot: 'Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friends.'"
Again the Indian moved uneasily.
"'For his friends,'" repeated the evangelist. "Ah! they have been your
friends!" He put his fingers beneath The Squaw's chin and lifted it. The
two looked long into each other's eyes. Then they arose and parted.
Later, when the last buckle of Shadrach's harness was fixed, David Bond
climbed to the seat and took up the reins. A score of troopers about the
head of the white horse stepped aside and formed a little lane. Here and
there, a man reached up. Here and there, too, were awkward attempts at
wit. "Hope y' 've made yer will, parson," called one. "Look out them
locks o' yourn don't go t' trick out some big buck," admonished a
second. "Good-by," cried a third, saluting with great formality; "tell
ol' St. Peter he'll git a bunch of us some time this summer."
To all, the evangelist returned his blessing.
The interpreter shoved forward through the growing crowd and made a show
of friendliness. "Gran'pa," he said, "you're pritty game, all right.
Most old war-hosses like you'd be stayin' home and enjoyin' their
pension."
David Bond threw up his head resentfully. "Pension," he said, and shot a
searching look into Matthews' face. "I am not a man who sells his
principles for money. What I give to my country, I give free."
The crowd cheered him, swinging their caps.
Then there was a hush. A shrunken figure was hurrying up, stretching out
thin hands to detain him. No one scoffed now. But one stout trooper put
an arm about Jamieson to steady him while he talked.
"Mr. Bond, the Colonel thinks I oughtn't to go with you. He wants me to
wait for the ambulance. But he's fooling--he's fooling. He means me to
stay behind, and I know it. So I've come to say that I look to you to
find mother and Alice. Tell them to hurry. For I can't stand
this--long." The grey head dropped to the trooper's shoulder.
"Jamieson," said the evangelist, "if God spares my life I shall meet
your mother and sister. I shall cheer them and help them. I believe I
shall save them. If they are given to me, I shall come straight back. Do
not go with the command. Stay behind, Jamieson. I'll bring them to you."
"I'll stay, then. I believe----"
The preacher smiled down, and to every side. Then he clucked to
Shadrach. The tugs straightened. The wagon rolled slowly out of the
post.
The sunlight shone upon the green box and the red wheels, and upon the
staunch old driver, who never once looked back. Above him, emblem of the
sublime Martyr, sagged the high board cross.