A hundred miles away,--a hundred as the crow flies, and not by the
tortuous route the cavalry had to follow, through a region that, all in
an hour's march, shifted its scene from the dull monotone of barren
waves of prairie to bold, beautiful heights and deep sheltered ravines
and cañons, the winding thread of the Mina Ska went foaming and leaping
over its stony bed, taking occasional cat-naps in wide, shadowy
shallows, only to wake up again to wilder riot under the frowning,
fir-crested cliffs of the Black Rock Range. For many a long, sunshiny
mile it had come floating placidly eastward, issuing from the great
water-shed of the continent, drifting leisurely between low-lying,
grassy banks all criss-crossed with ancient buffalo-trails, or the
recent footprints of long-horned cattle, past the broad plateau, crowded
by the wooden walls of Fort Ransom, past the roofs and spires of
bustling Butte, a prairie metropolis, a railway and cattle town that
rivalled Braska, past long miles of gleaming tangents of the
transcontinental railway until it met the bold bluffs east of Alkali
Station and was shouldered from its course and sent on long, tortuous
_détour_ to the northeast, until, beyond the great reservation of the
red men in the loveliest hill country of the wild frontier, it once more
turned sharply eastward at the point described in the sonorous language
of the plains as "the Big Bend of the Mina Ska." Midway between its
sweeping curve near Alkali and the sharp deflection at the big bend
there came flowing into it from the westward, through the very heart of
the Dakota lands, the clear, translucent waters of the Wakpa Wakon,--the
Spirit River of the Sioux, all along whose storied shores for mouths had
clustered the thronging villages of the tribe, living through the long,
fierce winter in sheltered comfort, fed, warmed, inspired by the spoils
and stories of the great campaign the year gone by. But now as though by
magic had the tepees vanished. Only around the protecting agency, miles
to the west, miles deeper in among the tumbling hills, were the lodges
now clustered, hundreds of them, with their swarming occupants,--old
men, old crones, Indian mothers, wives, sweethearts, maids, young boys,
children, and pappooses,--all confidingly clinging to the protecting
hand of the Great Father and claiming his bounty; while the husbands and
fathers, the stalwart young warriors of the Sioux themselves, were
skulking through the Bad Lands across the Ska, eagerly, warily watching
the coming of the little cavalry column from the distant Chasing Water,
while even in greater numbers their wild red cohorts patrolled the deep
valley, the overhanging heights of the Ska itself, watching every move
of the coming force from Ransom, bent on luring both, if possible, far
within their borders, far in among those tangling, treacherous ravines
and cañons, and, there surrounding, to massacre the last man.
Southwestward, at Painted Lodge Butte, after a long, long march through
the heat and glare of the long June day, Colonel Winthrop had ordered
his men to bivouac for the night. Riding steadily eastward by the
"foot-hill" trail from Ransom, they had reached Willow Springs on Friday
noon, purposing to camp there until the following dawn, but so alarming
were the reports of the few fleeing settlers whom they met that the old
colonel decided after an hour's rest to push on again. Without being
trammelled by precise orders, the general tenor of his instructions was
to march on down the Ska, and strike and punish any Indian war-parties
he could find, and clear the valley as soon as possible. Major Chrome,
with four troops, two of the Eleventh, his own, and two of the --th,
Atherton's regiment, was ordered to march across country from the
Chasing Water, and join Winthrop in the valley of the Ska. One hundred
miles, as has been said, had Chrome to march to reach the valley at the
nearest point, nearly opposite the mouth of the Spirit River. Nearly two
hundred if he followed the stream would Tintop have to cover in going
from Fort Ransom to that point, but he had started on a Wednesday
morning, twenty-four hours ahead of Chrome. Each well knew he would
probably have to fight his way. Each meant, according to his own lights,
to do his best, and each resorted to measures radically different.
Winthrop, active, eager, nervous in temperament, pushed forward boldly,
rapidly, bent on "getting there," as he expressed it, and hitting hard
before the reds could slip back to their holes. Chrome, slow,
phlegmatic, cautious, advanced by carefully-studied marches, with scouts
far ahead and flankers far dispersed. Arguing that Winthrop, with one
hundred and fifty miles or more to go, and a bigger crowd to handle, and
with Indians on his flank every inch of the way, would not be able to
reach the Spirit River crossing inside of seven days,--Chrome parcelled
out his own march accordingly. Starting with all speed from the
cantonment, according to his instructions from Major White, he soon
slowed down to a pace more in accordance with his own views. "If we get
there Monday or Tuesday even," said he, "we'll be 'way ahead of Tintop."
And this was at the close of the second day's march, when he could point
to less than a total of forty-four miles covered. The country was still
open, the trails distinct, the Indians reported in the distance were in
small parties, probably from the Ogallalla reservation. To Cranston and
Truman, as well as to the captains of the --th, there seemed every
reason to push ahead. It was urged among them that, at last, Truman
should speak, and Truman did, as the captains of the --th positively
declined. "We have known Colonel Winthrop well, sir," said Truman, "and
we believe he will make long marches, perhaps forced marches, to throw
himself between the raiders and the reservation. Just as soon as a big
force gets there, they will scatter for the far north and northwest. The
only chance of punishing them is to get there at once while there is
still something left for them to kill or burn,--something to tempt them.
I fear, major, that unless we make better time we'll be too late for the
ball."
Chrome listened placidly and without impatience of any kind. Yes, he
admitted, that was what White himself said. White was fuming with wrath
because he wasn't given command of a field column instead of being sent
west to cover the Pawnee Station road. "Small blame to him!" muttered
Cranston. "Why on earth couldn't this tortoise have been left to that
work and old Whitey given to us?" No! Major Chrome meant to advance with
caution and deliberation. If the Indians saw them coming precipitately,
they might be equally precipitate in their flight, and thereby defeat
the general's plans of having Tintop get in their rear, at which
characteristic opinion Captain Canker, of the --th, a man of many moods,
but a fighter, turned gloomily away, and was heard soon afterwards
swearing viciously. It was the old story of the army of lions with a
sheep at their head.
And then came a calm, cloudless, radiant June Sunday, a day as perfect
and serene aloft as was that June Sunday of the year gone by on whose
high noon there rose the mad clamor of the battle on the Little Horn,
whose pitiless sun looked fiercely down upon the slaughtered ranks of
Custer and his gallant Seventh, and just as the red went out of the
western sky, and the sharp, jagged line of the Warrior Buttes melted
into softer purple, there came galloping in from the distant outpost an
excited trooper, who gave a paper to Major Chrome. The officers were
seated about him at a tiny fire, and Cranston quickly lighted a candle
lantern and the major read. It was from the officer of the picket.
"Thunder Hawk and Rides Double just in from over toward the Ska. They
say they have seen 'plenty warriors' all day and are sure there has been
a big fight far across the valley. We could plainly see Indian
signal-smokes an hour ago, and Hawk says a heavy dust-cloud rose between
him and the sunset." It was signed "Davies."
"Now, _there_, gentlemen!" said Chrome, "if we had pushed ahead any
faster Davies couldn't have kept up with us, and this evening he's
commanding the advance. If we had hurried, those Indians would have
hurried too and got clear away before Tintop could have got behind them
and struck them as he has. See how well it worked?" And Chrome glanced
contentedly about him.
"That's all well enough, sir, so far as it goes," growled Captain
Canker, "but where do we come in on this campaign? What will be said of
our failure to get into the fight?"
"What a growler you are, Canker! Why, man, in matters of this kind
individual ambition must give place to concerted plans. It's the _team_
work, the _combinations_ that tell." And here the silent circle became
engrossed in pipes or in whittling, or in the contemplation of the very
ground at their feet, though from under the broad brims of their
scouting hats veteran campaigners exchanged meaning glances. Canker only
growled the more sulkily.
"What I'm afraid of, Major Chrome, is that Colonel Winthrop may have
wanted us this very day, and forty miles wouldn't have reached him."
"My heaven!" said Cranston, later that night, tossing upward his
clinched fists and nervous straining arms, "I feel like a man in a
nightmare. One long winter of incessant friction and undecided
clashings with Devers, and now this mad eagerness to be doing something
choked and smothered by this incubus at our head. If to-morrow brings no
relief I want to quit for good and all."
But the long weeks of indecisive warfare, in camp as in the field, were
destined to have their climax at last. Well for the little battalion,
perhaps, was it, after all, that officers and men alike were boiling
over with repressed, pent-up fury for action, for when the morrow came
it called each soldier into line, and gave him giant work to do.
Somewhere towards one o'clock in the morning, under the glitter and
sheen of the myriad stars overhead, while, all but the guard, the
troopers slept peacefully upon the prairie turf and, all but a few early
risers, their chargers, too, were drowsing undisturbed by the occasional
querulous yelp of the coyote,--somewhere, far out over the dim, shadowy
slopes to the westward, there rose upon the night the faint sound of a
trumpet call, seemingly miles away. In his extreme caution Chrome had
posted little parties full a mile out from the bivouac, north, east, and
west, and it was while slowly riding to the westernmost of these that
the officer of the guard first thought he heard the sound. A corporal of
Cranston's troop was at his heels. "Yes, sir," he said, in answer to the
low, eager question, as the two reined in their horses, "I could almost
swear I heard it. I couldn't make out the signal though--could only hear
a note or two." They found the picket alert, even excited. They, too,
had heard something very like a faint trumpet call very far to the west,
and Davies waited no longer. "You remain here, corporal. I'll call the
captain." And in a few moments he was bending over Cranston. The latter
was awake in a minute, and together they hastened out afoot, past
snoring troopers or snorting steeds, and stood some hundred yards
outside the inner sentry line.
"Hay left Scott with 'A' and 'I' troops Wednesday, as we know," said
Cranston, "but it's impossible he could have caught us yet, though he
took the cutoff. That night trumpeting's a trick of the --th. They tried
it twice last summer."
"I know, sir, and may not that be some of them trying to find us?"
"Well, hardly. You know Atherton only had one troop left at Russell, the
other five were sent up toward the Big Horn ten days ago. Listen! There
it goes again!"
Yes, unmistakably, faint, far, but clear, the notes of a cavalry trumpet
could be heard, and, while Davies hurried to rouse the major, Cranston
stirred up his boy bugler. It took a minute or two to make Chrome
comprehend the situation. "Why," said he, "who'd be ass enough to be
marching or drilling with trumpet calls this hour of the night and in
the midst of a campaign?"
Cranston reminded him how scattered troops of the --th, his own
regiment, had found each other by night the previous year; how Truscott
announced the coming of his relieving column to Wayne's beleaguered
squadron; and Chrome slowly found his legs and faculties, but wouldn't
believe his subordinates. He demanded the evidence of his own senses,
and unwillingly accompanied them to the point beyond the lines,
Cranston's trumpeter sleepily following. It was full five minutes before
again the call was heard, and then it seemed farther away than before,
too far away for Chrome, who still could not believe it.
"Let my trumpeter hail them," urged Cranston, "then they'll answer." But
Chrome said that wouldn't do; it would wake up or startle everybody in
camp, and so declined.
"It's all your fancy," he said. "There are none of our fellows with
Tintop, and----"
"But he knows you, with at least two troops of the --th, are somewhere
out here, sir, and he takes a regimental way of trying to communicate
with you. I beg you to listen one moment more. _There!_" And this time
even Chrome was convinced, and the next instant guards and pickets,
sleeping troopers, and drowsing steeds all came staggering to their
feet, roused by the shrill blast from Cranston's trumpet sounding
"Forward!"
And half an hour later there came jogging wearily into camp, guided for
a time only by the call, and finally met and escorted by the picket, a
sergeant and trumpeter from old Tintop himself, and the letter they bore
put an end even to Chrome's inertness. In brief, terse words it told the
story. He and his command had had a sharp, stubborn fight with a big
force of hostiles that very day, with considerable loss to both. "If you
had been here with your men," Tintop said, "I believe we could have
cleaned them out entirely." The main body, however, had retired toward
the agency at the head of Spirit River, but a band of Uncapapas and
Minneconjous, that had cut loose from all, had gone on down the Ska,
making for a junction with some of Red Dog's people at the confluence of
the streams. Tintop held that Chrome must be there by this time, but if
detained from any cause this was to tell him to strike, strike hard and
instantly with every man at his back, and that he, Winthrop, would
support as soon as possible.
Fording the Ska above the narrows of the valley, the faithful messengers
had plunged into the open country to the east, so as to keep well in
rear of the fleeing Indians, then sounding officers' call, the night
signal of the --th, as they came, rode eastward through the starlight,
scouring the broad prairies for the comrade column.
Half an hour later the command was saddling. Coffee had been hurriedly
served. The packers were lashing their bulky sacks and boxes to the
_apparejos_ and turning loose the patient little burden-bearers. Old
Thunder Hawk, grave and dignified, had been standing in consultation
with Chrome and his troop commanders. He knew the point where the
hostiles were probably in camp, and placed it, as did Tintop's scouts,
close to the confluence of the Wakpa Wakon and the Ska. Thunder Hawk was
of the Ogallallas, therefore not a tribesman of the renegades, but he
was a Sioux, and therefore a brother. He had counselled peace to his
people, and they had rewarded him with taunts and jeers. He had
accompanied the column, formally enrolled as a scout, and he would be
guide and adviser to the white chief, yet shrank from personal part in
the coming battle. He had been asked how many miles it was to the forks
and replied fifteen, "but," said he, "it is much farther by the way the
chief should go."
"We want to go the shortest way," was Chrome's short reply. "The
quickest way to reach and strike them."
Already Cranston seemed to divine what the old Indian meant to
counsel,--"The longest way round is the shortest way home," in fact, as
Hawk calmly explained. They knew the white soldiers were coming from
Ogallalla. They expected them from the southeast,--had seen them coming
from that direction and, falling back to the stream before them, were
watching for their coming on the following morn. Their scouts could not
be more than a few miles in front of them now. They would be up and away
the moment they heard of the near approach of the column. Then it would
be a stern chase into the heart of the hills, and there, reinforced by
renegades from all sides, they might be able to turn upon and overwhelm
their pursuers. There was only one likely way of striking them where
they were, and that was by making wide circuit to the north, fording the
Ska far behind their camp, and then, turning up-stream, attack them from
the north or northeast. Chrome saw the point and yielded. When at 1.30
the little command mounted and moved away it was at brisk, steady walk,
"column half right," with the pole star high aloft but straight ahead.
Ten minutes out and they struck the trot. "Bedad!" said Trooper Riley,
at the rear of column, "Old Chrome Teller's had his nap out at last."
Many's the time a cavalry column, after an all-night march, finds
itself jaded and drowsy just as a blithe young world is waking up to
hail the coming day. Far different is the feeling when, refreshed by a
few hours' sound and dreamless sleep, warmed with that soldier comfort,
coffee, and thrilled by the whispered news of "fight ahead," the troop
pricks eagerly on. Then the faint blush of the eastern sky, the cool
breath of the morning breeze, the dim gray light that steals across the
view, all are hailed with bounding pulse and kindling eyes. It was just
at the peep of day, after a glorious burst over the bounding turf, that
Chrome's little battalion, some two hundred and forty strong, riding in
broad column of fours, and guided by old Thunder Hawk himself, turned
squarely to the left at the head of a long, dark, winding ravine, and,
diminishing front to two abreast, and steadying down to the walk again,
dove out of sight among the tortuous depths. Thirty minutes more and the
Ska was foaming about the horses' bellies as they boldly forded the
stream, every man whipping out and raising carbine as his steed plunged
in. Then, turning southwestward, close under the bluffs of the Indian
shore, they rode within the reservation lines at last, with the dawn no
longer at the sabre hand, but at the bridle. Peering out through the dim
ghostly light, long miles to the south, were the Uncapapa scouts,
watching for the first sign of the coming of the column that, slipping
away from before them in the darkness of midnight, had ridden in wide
circuit around and across their front, burrowed into the earth at the
first blush of the morning sky, reappeared dripping on the left bank of
the bordering stream, the Rubicon of the reservation, and now was
swiftly bearing down upon the devoted village from a quarter utterly
unsuspected.
"Just 4.15," said Cranston, glancing at his watch as soon as it was
possible to see. "How do you feel, Davies?"
"Better than I have for a month, though tired. I told Burroughs no harm
could result. That scratch is almost entirely healed. How far ahead are
they supposed to be, captain? It'll be broad daylight, even in this deep
valley, in a quarter of an hour."
Sanders, acting as Chrome's adjutant, came riding back from the head of
column at the very moment and reined about alongside his own troop
commander. "I'd rather be here in my old place, sir, and you're in big
luck to have it, Parson. The major says he wants to capture their whole
pony herd, if it takes three troops to do it, and 'C' is to charge the
village and rout out the bucks."
It so happened that Cranston's troop was bringing up the rear of
column,--only the pack-mules and their guard being behind,--a long
distance behind at the moment, for the pace had been trot or lope for
ten miles until the command reached the shelter of the ravine.
"I was in hopes there was no village," said Cranston; "that we'd only
strike the wickyups of a war-party. Do you mean village, Sanders?"
"Thunder Hawk says he's afraid so, sir. He thinks the Uncapapas and
Minneconjous who were rounded up last fall really want to get away and
join the bulk of their tribe who are summering in Canada with Sitting
Bull. If so this was their chance, and they've got their women and
children with them."
Cranston's face seemed to grow paler in the gray gathering light.
"There's no help for it, then," he said; "but I hate that sort of thing.
How near are we?"
"Within two or three miles," Hawk says. "He and Bear and two others have
galloped out ahead. We'll know by the time we've reached that bluff
yonder." And he pointed to a magnificent rose-tipped palisade of rock
that jutted out across their path. "That's Good Heart Butte, and the
Wakon comes in just around it. It's ten to one we'll find them right
there. Where're you going, Cullen?" he called to a trooper who came
cantering back past the flank of the column.
"To hurry up the pack-train, sir. It's the major's orders," sung out the
trooper, only momentarily checking his horse. It always annoys the
officers of a marching column to have messengers galloping up and down
along their flanks, but this was the major's own orderly, and no man
might rebuke but the chief himself.
"Reckon I'd better get up to the front again," said Sanders, as he
spurred away and left the friends together. Cranston looked back at his
leading four. His veteran first sergeant was commanding a platoon, and
it was a junior sergeant who rode with the head of column, and next him
a stunted little Irish corporal, for by the inexorable rule of the
cavalry the shorter men rode at the flanks of the troop. Midway down the
column the guidon-bearer was just unfurling and shaking out its silken
folds, but without raising it so as to attract the attention of possible
spies. Forward, in the ranks of the two companies of the --th, uniforms
were rare and no guidons visible;--long campaigning in Arizona had
taught the uselessness of both in Indian warfare, but the Eleventh had
their traditions, as had the Seventh, and rode into action with a
certain old-fashioned style and circumstance that lent inspiration to
the scene. Turning out of column for a moment the captain rode slowly
alongside, looking over his men as they passed him by. There was always
something trim, elastic, jaunty about his troop, and they knew it, and
even on long marches in hard campaigns the men would instinctively
"brace up" and raise their heads and square their dusty shoulders when
they felt the captain's eye upon them. He couldn't help seeing how
eagerly and with what trust and faith in their leader many of his sixty
glanced at him as though to question what work he might have in hand for
them to-day. Side by side with the guidon-bearer rode Corporal Brannan.
"Another chance for our prodigy," smiled Cranston to himself. "I wonder
if it will be as warm in Chicago as it promises to be here. More than
one mother there will be kneeling little dreaming, even as she prays for
his safety, what scenes her boy may be battling through this day." The
thought sent a lump into his throat and softened the soldier light in
his eye. "You'd rather be here than at the agency guard, I fancy,
Brannan?"
"Indeed I would, sir, if we get a fight out of 'em."
"We'll get it, I think, and speedily, too. Look to your pistols, men.
We're to charge them."
One could almost feel the thrill that leaped along the column. Every
horse seemed to start and paw and dance as though impatient for the
word. Some faces flushed, others lost a shade or two of tan, as some
faces will in presence of sudden peril or the news of stirring battle
just ahead. Out from the holsters came the blue-brown Colts, each man
twirling the cylinder, testing the hammer and trigger, and counting his
shots, even while holding the weapon steadfastly "muzzle up." Nervous
troopers have been known to kill a comrade or his horse at just such
times.
"Look to it that each has six shots ready, and remember the old rules
now, men. Stop for nothing unless some one falls. Charge through and
rally on the farther side. Careful about the women and children if there
are any. Return pistol now." And here again came Sanders galloping back,
his face aglow, his eyes snapping.
"Treed 'em, captain," he shouted, gleefully. "A thundering big,
loose-jointed village, too, tepees and all. It covers a ten-acre lot and
more. Must be a thousand ponies in the herd right around the point. The
major says to come ahead with 'C.'"
Just here the ground was open and fairly level, the trail cutting across
a bend in the stream. Just ahead towered Good Heart Butte, with its
glistening, gilded crest throwing a black shadow half-way up the
billowing westward slopes. Over at the east across the stream, bold and
beautifully rounded, the bluffs went rolling away, knoll after knoll,
shoulder after shoulder heavily wooded and fringed at their bases and in
the deep ravines, and away over those natural ramparts, far out to the
southeast, still rode and peeped and peered the young braves, but ever
in the direction of the far Ogallalla, marvelling that no sign appeared
of the threatening foe. Not half a mile in front, along a low ridge, a
little group of scouts, Hawk, Bear, and two half-breed Sioux, were
lying, peeping at the village still sleeping in fancied security.
Chrome, riding a trifle heavily, and speaking with just a tinge of
excitement in his tone, came jogging back from the ridge to meet his men
just as Cranston's troop trotted up from the rear of column, parallel
with their comrades of the --th, at whose head rode Canker with that
injured expression on his face that was habitual to him at no time more
than when he thought somebody else was going to get into a fight ahead
of him. He couldn't understand why Chrome should have picked out
Cranston for the dash on the village and retained him for so much less
conspicuous a duty. Everybody, however, who knew Canker knew he had
absolutely no dash at all. Brave and determined he might be, but
Canker's idea of a charge was a steady advance in line, to be instantly
checked and corrected and done over again if the men lost either touch
or "dress."
"We haven't a moment to lose, gentlemen," sang out the major. "The
village is already waking. Cranston, you charge through and stir 'em up
all you can. Truman, you support Cranston in line, but don't follow in
unless he's checked. Captain Canker, take the two troops and round up
that pony herd; it's half a mile long. Just as quick as you've rallied
beyond the village, Cranston, you face about and stand off any Indians
who rip out on that side. What I want is to drive every pony across the
Wakon and up the Ska valley, where we'll find support. Get them on the
jump and we're all right. Now I'll ride somewhere between Canker and
Truman. All ready now?" "What I want to know, major, is this," began
Canker, always on the lookout for some point or flaw.
"Well, you can ask what you want as we advance, captain. Are you ready,
Cranston?"
"Ay, ay, sir," answered Cranston, in the hearty, nautical fashion he so
much liked that it had become habitual with him.
"Then shove ahead. We're backing you now. Now, Canker, what is it?"
But no one else cared what Canker wanted. All eyes were on Cranston and
his troop. Quickening the pace he led the way, keeping in fours until
clear of the head of column, then rapidly forming line. "Now, Davies,
just keep them so," he ordered, as he rode diagonally over in front of
the first platoon, "while I gallop ahead and get a peep over that
ridge."
Another minute and, curveting with impatience even after their
twenty-mile spurt, the handsome bays were dancing in one long line over
the springy turf, Davies and two stalwart sergeants in front of the
three platoons. They saw their soldierly leader whip off his hat as he
rode up the slope, rein cautiously in and peer eagerly over, saw him
gesticulating as he conferred with old Hawk, who lay on his stomach a
dozen yards farther to the front and to the right, where the ridge was a
little higher. Every man knew that just ahead of him, over that curtain,
lay in overwhelming force the mass of their red enemies. Not one of
their rank had yet set eyes on the point of attack. Not one man knew how
many lodges, much less how many braves, would leap into view the instant
they went bounding over the crest; yet not a soul faltered, for, turning
with confident, eager mien, their captain signalled come on, and Davies
ordered "Trot!"
"It's all right, lads," cheerily rang Cranston's voice, as he rode
circling down to place himself at their head. "The ground's open and
level. We can go through like a blizzard. Draw pistol! Now, not a sound
till I say charge, but take the pace from me."
Up the gentle slope they go, many horses already plunging and tugging at
their bits, the glorious excitement of the rider communicating itself,
as it must and will where horse and man are in sympathy. Right behind
Cranston rides his second sergeant commanding the second platoon, the
streaming guidon, lowered still, a little to his left and rear. Already
the men are opening out a trifle, for this is to be no charge upon
serried masses of disciplined troops, no crash of cavalry upon cavalry,
where the line which rides with the greater impetus, the closer touch,
the more accurate alignment, hurls the greater shock and weight upon the
foe. Here no naked sabre flames in air,--a useless blade in Indian
battle,--but all through the plunging rank are keen old campaigners
whose eyes blaze from underneath the slouching hat brims, whose muscular
brown hands grasp the pistol butt, who ride with close gripping thighs,
for well they know that once over the crest, "gallop" and "charge" will
follow in quick succession, and there will be but an instant in which to
see and think or plan. Indeed, from a cavalry point of view it really is
not a charge at all, not even a charge as foragers, but rather a wild
dash into and through a straggling, swarming village of Indian lodges,
every man for himself when once turned loose, the whole object being to
carry terror, panic, and confusion to the half-waking warriors, and so
cover the major's main effort, which is to whirl away with him every
pony in the valley. This done the red renegades are crippled for good
and all, and their outbreak is at an end.
All eyes are on Cranston's gallant troop then as it goes sweeping up the
gentle slope. Already Truman's men are galloping front into line so as
to follow and support. Already Chrome is spurring eagerly forward to
watch the effect. Already Canker, grim, cynical, dissatisfied, but
obedient, is launching his leading troop well over to the right front,
at swift gallop, too, so as to head off such fugitives--Indians or
ponies--as may attempt to scurry away westward; but still the eyes of
all men seem to follow Cranston, for his, after all, is the perilous
part. Already Thunder Hawk and Bear have run back down the slope to leap
into saddle, for the earth begins to quiver and shake under the bounding
hoofs, and with another moment all the valley will wake to the ringing
battle-cry. "My God!" mutters little Sanders, lunging along after his
major, "why ain't I with my own instead of loafing here?"
And now they see Cranston glancing back over his shoulder and carrying
hand to holster. Up like a centaur he bounds against the sky line, up
after him the long rank of ragged hat brims and blue-shirted,
broad-belted, manly forms, up the plunging line of hard-tugging bays,
their black tails streaming in the morning wind, and then Cranston's arm
flings up aloft; up into plain view streams and flaps the silken
guidon,--the stars and stripes in swallow-tailed miniature that the
troopers loved to see,--and then the thud gives way to thunder, for as
one man "C" troop strikes the gallop with the thronging Indian village
not five hundred yards ahead.
Scattered over the low level between the receding bluffs and the rapid
stream, loosely covering a stretch of nearly half a mile along the
shores, with their ragged crown of pole tops wrapped in smoky hide or
canvas, their spreading bases littered with the rude crates,
"parfleches" and travois, some fourscore Indian wigwams burst into view
as the line darts over the crest. "Oh, murther! Six to wan at least,"
gasps an old growler in the right platoon, and Davies whirls about in
saddle. "Silence there, Donovan!" is all he says.
And now can be seen wild scurry and confusion. Four or five dingy forms
dart in and out among the tepees. Three or four Indian boys are lashing
in from the almost countless herd of ponies. Startled by the tremor and
thunder, the nearest of these sturdy little beasts, with tossing heads
and manes, have taken alarm, and are already beginning an aimless
scamper that in another moment will spread to the entire flock. Not a
moment to lose, indeed! One more backward glance does Cranston fling as
his magnificent bay quickens his stride, and the long line instantly
responds. One half nod, half smile to Davies, for the Parson rides like
moss trooper of old, with grim set face, despite the eager light in his
keen, blue-gray eyes.
"Open out now a little, men! Gently, keep your rank!" for the chargers
are tugging madly, straining for a race. A terrified squaw, clasping her
baby to her breast, bursts from the nearest tepee, pauses one instant
as though paralyzed, and then, with unerring instinct, holding her
little one on high, runs straight forward, mutely appealing, straight
for the galloping line. "Open out! Look out for the kid! Let her
through, lads," are the low, hurried cautions. Somewhere on the near
skirt of the village a wild war-whoop rings out on the air, a mad cry of
warning, then bang, zip, comes the first shot from the tepees, whistling
over Cranston's shoulder and skimming a mile away down-stream. No need
of further caution now. Now is the time. Cranston's voice rings like the
bugler's clarion mingling in the order "Charge!" and the welkin rings,
the rocks re-echo to the grand burst of cheers with which "C" Troop goes
tearing, thrashing into the heart of the village, swallowed up instantly
in a dense cloud of dust. For a moment cheer and yell and rallying and
war-cry, mingling with the thunder of hoofs and the sharp crackling of
revolver and rifle, drown all other sounds. Then the screams of Indian
women and children add to the clamor, and, with slashing knives, the
startled braves hew their way out through the tepees. Then the thunder
is swelled by the mad rush of the pony herd away from the driving storm.
The cheer is renewed by Canker's men, yelling and hat waving at the
heels of the herd. The dust-cloud in the village is but a flimsy veil to
the dense volume that goes floating skyward and southward, for practised
hands have prevailed, and the red man's most precious possessions, all
but a scattered few stampeding to and fro among the wigwams, are swept
from his maddened sight.
And then comes the rally on the flats beyond. Sweeping and circling in
the effort to control their excited horses, the troopers, exultant, come
reining up into line long pistol-shot south of the terror-stricken
village. Off to the west the great dust-cloud is slowly settling to
earth, and through it Truman's men, in perfect order, with carbines
advanced, can be seen moving by the flank, but interposing ever between
the village and the captured herds. Cranston, easily reining his pawing
charger, sits facing the reforming centre of his panting line. The
guidon-bearer is there all right and waves aloft the fluttering folds,
and the boy trumpeter tries to sound the recall, but makes a mess of it,
and throws the forming rank into convulsions of unrebuked chaff and
laughter. The captain is proud of his men and unbends for the occasion,
but, all the same, he eagerly counts the files, looking for this
familiar bearded face or that. Both sergeant platoon commanders are
there. The second and third platoons re-form without much delay and with
hardly a missing face. It's the first that proves to be the last. They
had to charge through the thickest part of the village,--the westward
side, where more Indians were awake and alert, roused by the cries of
the herd guards. The dust-cloud is still settling. Galloping forms still
issue from it and the western skirts of the village, from the clumps of
Cottonwoods, from under the banks, whither the mad dash of some horses
had carried their riders. But Cranston's face loses its smile, a world
of anxiety suddenly replaces it, for shots and yells ring from the midst
of the village still, and the chief of the first platoon is not here to
rally his men.
"Who's missing there, sergeant?" he calls, spurring over to where a
trooper comes riding heavily forward, drooping a little as he rides.
"Four or five, sir. Donovan was shot from his horse and the lieutenant
went back for him."
"_Quick_, trumpeter! Ride to Captain Truman and tell him to whirl about
and help us. _Now_, men, follow for all you're worth!"
And when the dust-cloud settles on the flats south of the Minneconjou
village, only one of "C" Troop remains to greet the eyes of the
battalion adjutant, sent back with Major Chrome's impatient query as to
why on earth the Eleventh doesn't come on. It is Sergeant Grant, who has
toppled out of saddle--dead.