CHAPTER XX
THE SIOUX SURROUNDED
In the hush of the wintry night, under a leaden sky, with snowflakesfalling thick and fast and mantling the hills in fleecy white, Webb'scolumn had halted among the sturdy pines, the men exchanging muttered,low-toned query and comment, the horses standing with bowed heads,occasionally pawing the soft coverlet and sniffing curiously at thisfilmy barrier to the bunch grass they sought in vain. They had feastedtogether, these comrade troopers and chargers, ere the sun wentdown,--the men on abundant rations of agency bacon, flour and brownsugar, found with black tailed deer and mountain sheep in abundance inthe captured village, and eked out by supplies from the pack train,--thehorses on big "blankets" of oats set before them by sympathetic friendsand masters. Then, when the skies were fairly dark, Webb had orderedlittle fires lighted all along the bank of the stream, leaving the menof Ray's and Billings' troops to keep them blazing through the longnight watches to create the impression among the lurking Sioux that thewhole force was still there, guarding the big village it had captured inthe early afternoon, and then, in silence, the troopers had saddled andjogged away into the heart of the hills, close on the heels of theirguides.
There had been little time to look over the captures. The main interestof both officers and men, of course, centred in Mr. Hay, who was foundin one of the tepees, prostrate from illness and half frantic from feverand strong mental excitement. He had later tidings from Frayne, itseems, than had his rescuers. He could assure them of the health andsafety of their wives and little ones, but would not tell them what wasamiss in his own household. One significant question he asked: Did anyof them know this new Major Flint? No? Well, God help Flint, if ever he,Hay, got hold of him.
"He's delirious," whispered Webb, and rode away in that conviction,leaving him to Ray and Billings.
Three miles out, on the tortuous trail of the pursued, the column haltedand dismounted among the pines. Then there was brief conference, and theword "Mount" was whispered along the Beecher squadron, while Blake's menstood fast. With a parting clasp of the hand Webb and "Legs" hadreturned to the head of their respective commands, "Legs" and hisfellows to follow steadily the Indian trail through the twisting ravinesof the foothills; Webb to make an all-night forced march, in wide_detour_ and determined effort, to head off the escaping warriors beforethey could reach the rocky fastnesses back of Bear Cliff. Webb's chiefscout "Bat," chosen by General Crook himself, had been a captive amongthe Sioux through long years of his boyhood, and knew the Big Hornrange as Webb did the banks of the Wabash. "They can stand off athousand soldiers," said the guide, "if once they get into the rocks.They'd have gone there first off only there was no water. Now there'splenty snow."
So Blake's instructions were to follow them without pushing, to let themfeel they were being pursued, yet by no means to hasten them, and, ifthe general's favorite scout proved to be all he promised as guide andpathfinder, Webb might reasonably hope by dint of hard night riding, tobe first at the tryst at break of day. Then they would have theretreating Sioux, hampered by their few wounded and certain prisonerswhom they prized, hemmed between rocky heights on every side, and sturdyhorsemen front and rear.
It was eight by the watch at the parting of the ways. It was 8:30 whenBlake retook the trail, with Sergeants Schreiber and Winsor, the latterborrowed from Ray, far in the van. Even had the ground been hard andstony these keen-eyed soldier scouts could have followed the signsalmost as unerringly as the Indians, for each had had long years ofexperience all over the West; but, despite the steadily falling snow,the traces of hoofs and, for a time, of _travois_ poles could be readilyseen and followed in the dim gray light of the blanketed skies.Somewhere aloft, above the film of cloud, the silvery moon was shining,and that was illumination more than enough for men of their years on thetrail.
For over an hour Blake followed the windings of a ravine that grewcloser and steeper as it burrowed into the hills. Old game trails are asgood as turnpikes in the eyes of the plainsman. It was when the ravinebegan to split into branches that the problem might have puzzled them,had not the white fleece lain two inches deep on the level when "Lo"made his dash to escape. Now the rough edges of the original impressionwere merely rounded over by the new fallen snow. The hollows and rutsand depressions led on from one deep cleft into another, and by midnightBlake felt sure the quarry could be but a few miles ahead and Bear Cliffbarely five hours' march away. So, noiselessly, the signal "Halt!" wentrearward down the long, dark, sinuous column of twos, and every manslipped out of saddle--some of them stamping, so numb were their feet.With every mile the air had grown keener and colder. They were glad whenthe next word whispered was, "Lead on" instead of "Mount."
By this time they were far up among the pine-fringed heights, with thebroad valley of the Big Horn lying outspread to the west, invisible asthe stars above, and neither by ringing shot nor winged arrow had theleaders known the faintest check. It seemed as though the Indians, intheir desperate effort to carry off the most important or valued oftheir charges, were bending all their energies to expediting theretreat. Time enough to turn on the pursuers when once the rocks hadclosed about them,--when the wounded were safe in the fastnesses, andthe pursuers far from supports. But, at the foot of a steep ascent, thetwo leading scouts,--rival sergeants of rival troops but devoted friendsfor nearly twenty years,--were seen by the next in column, a singlecorporal following them at thirty yards' distance, to halt and beginpoking at some dark object by the wayside. Then they pushed on again. Adead pony, under a quarter inch coverlet of snow, was what met the eyesof the silently trudging command as it followed. The high-peaked woodensaddle tree was still "cinched" to the stiffening carcass. Either theIndians were pushed for time or overstocked with saddlery. Presentlythere came a low whistle from the military "middleman" between thescouts and a little advance guard. "Run ahead," growled the sergeantcommanding to his boy trumpeter. "Give me your reins." And, leaving hishorse, the youngster stumbled along up the winding trail; got hismessage and waited. "Give this to the captain," was the word sent backby Schreiber, and "this" was a mitten of Indian tanned buckskin, softand warm if unsightly, a mitten too small for a warrior's hand, if everwarrior deigned to wear one,--a mitten the captain examined curiously,as he ploughed ahead of his main body, and then returned to hissubaltern with a grin on his face:
"Beauty draws us with a single hair," said he, "and can't shake us evenwhen she gives us the mitten. Ross," he added, after a moment's thought,"remember this. With this gang there are two or three sub-chiefs that weshould get, alive or dead, but the chief end of man, so far as 'K'Troop's concerned, is to capture that girl, unharmed."
And just at dawn, so gray and wan and pallid it could hardly be toldfrom the pale moonlight of the earlier hours, the dark, snake-likecolumn was halted again, nine miles further in among the wooded heights.With Bear Cliff still out of range and sight, something had stopped thescouts, and Blake was needed at the front. He found Schreiber crouchingat the foot of a tree, gazing warily forward along a southward-slopingface of the mountain that was sparsely covered with tall, straightpines, and that faded into mist a few hundred yards away. Thetrail,--the main trail, that is,--seemed to go straight away eastward,and, for a short distance, downward through a hollow or depression;while, up the mountain side to the left, the north, following the spuror shoulder, there were signs as of hoof tracks, half sheeted by thenew-fallen snow, and through this fresh, fleecy mantlet ploughed thetrooper boots in rude, insistent pursuit. The sergeants' horses wereheld by a third soldier a few yards back behind the spur, for Winsor was"side scouting" up the heights.
The snowfall had ceased for a time. The light was growing broader everymoment, and presently a soft whistle sounded somewhere up the steep, andSchreiber answered. "He wants us, sir," was all he said, and in fiveminutes they had found him, sprawled on his stomach on a projectingledge, and pointing southeastward, where, boldly outlined against thegray of the morning sky, a black and beetling precipice towered fromthe
mist-wreathed pines at its base. Bear Cliff beyond a doubt!
"How far, sergeant?" asked the captain, never too reliant on his powersof judging distance.
"Five miles, sir, at least; yet some three or four Indians have turnedoff here and gone--somewhere up there." And, rolling half over, Winsorpointed again toward a wooded bluff, perhaps three hundred feet higherand half a mile away. "That's probably the best lookout this side of thecliff itself!" he continued, in explanation, as he saw the puzzled lookon the captain's face. "From there, likely, they can see the trail overthe divide--the one Little Bat is leading the major and, if they've madeany time at all, the squadron should be at Bear Cliff now."
They were crawling to him by this time, Blake and Schreiber, among thestunted cedars that grew thickly along the rocky ledge. Winsor, flatagain on his stomach, sprawled like a squirrel close to the brink. Everymoment as the skies grew brighter the panorama before them became moreextensive, a glorious sweep of highland scenery, of boldly tossingridges east and south and west--the slopes all mantled, the trees alltipped, with nature's ermine, and studded now with myriad gems, takingfire at the first touch of the day god's messenger, as the mighty kinghimself burst his halo of circling cloud and came peering over the lowcurtain far at the eastward horizon. Chill and darkness and shroudingvapor vanished all in a breath as he rose, dominant over countlessleagues of wild, unbroken, yet magnificent mountain landscape.
"Worth every hour of watch and mile of climb!" muttered Blake. "But it'sIndians, not scenery, we're after. What are we here for, Winsor?" andnarrowly he eyed Ray's famous right bower.
"If the major got there first, sir,--and I believe he did,--they have tosend the prisoners and wounded back this way."
"Then we've got 'em!" broke in Schreiber, low-toned, but exultant. "Looksir," he added, as he pointed along the range. "They are signallingnow."
From the wooded height ten hundred yards away, curious little puffs ofsmoke, one following another, were sailing straight for the zenith, andBlake, screwing his field glasses to the focus, swept with them themountain side toward the five-mile distant cliff, and presently themuscles about his mouth began to twitch--sure sign with Blake ofgathering excitement.
"You're right, sergeant," he presently spoke, repressing the desire toshout, and striving, lest Winsor should be moved to invidiouscomparisons, to seem as _nonchalant_ as Billy Ray himself. "They'recoming back already." Then down the mountain side he dove to plan andprepare appropriate welcome, leaving Winsor and the glasses to keepdouble powered watch on the situation.
Six-fifty of a glorious, keen November morning, and sixty troopers ofthe old regiment were distributed along a spur that crossed, almost atright angles, the line of the Indian trail. Sixty fur-capped,rough-coated fellows, with their short brown carbines in hand, crouchingbehind rocks and fallen trees, keeping close to cover and warned toutter silence. Behind them, two hundred yards away, their horses werehuddled under charge of their disgusted guards, envious of their fellowsat the front, and cursing hard their luck in counting off as numberfour. Schreiber had just come sliding, stumbling, down from Winsor'sperch to say they could hear faint sound of sharp volleying far out tothe eastward, where the warriors, evidently, were trying to "stand off"Webb's skirmish line until the _travois_ with the wounded and the escortof the possible prisoners should succeed in getting back out of harm'sway and taking surer and higher trail into the thick of the wildernessback of Bear Cliff. "Some of 'em must come in sight here in a minute,sir," panted the veteran sergeant. "We could see them plainly upthere--a mule litter and four _travois_, and there must be a dozen insaddle."
A dozen there were, for along the line of crouching men went suddenthrill of excitement. Shoulders began to heave; nervous thumbs bore downon heavy carbine hammers, and there was sound of irrepressible stir andmurmur. Out among the pines, five hundred yards away, two mountedIndians popped suddenly into view, two others speedily following, theirwell-nigh exhausted ponies feebly shaking their shaggy, protestingheads, as their riders plied the stinging quirt or jabbed with cruellance; only in painful jog trot could they zig zag through the trees.Then came two warriors, leading the pony of a crippled comrade. "Don'tfire--Don't harm them! Fall back from the trail there and let them in.They'll halt the moment they see our tracks! Get 'em alive, ifpossible!" were Blake's rapid orders, for his eyes were eagerly fixed onother objects beyond these dejected leaders--upon stumbling mules,lashed fore and aft between long, spliced saplings and bearing thus arude litter--Hay's pet wheelers turned to hospital use. An Indian boy,mounted, led the foremost mule; another watched the second; while, oneach side of the occupant of this Sioux palanquin, jogged a blanketedrider on jaded pony. Here was a personage of consequence--luckier muchthan these others following, dragged along on _travois_ whose trailingpoles came jolting over stone or hummock along the rugged path. It wason these that Blake's glittering eyes were fastened. "Pounce on theleaders, you that are nearest!" he ordered, in low, telling tones, themen at his left; then turned to Schreiber, crouching close beside him,the fringe of his buckskin hunting shirt quivering over his boundingheart. "There's the prize I want," he muttered low. "Whatever you do,let no shot reach that litter. Charge with me the moment the leadersyell. You men to the right," he added, slightly raising his voice, "beready to jump with me. Don't shoot anybody that doesn't show fight. Nabeverything in sight."
"CHARGE WITH ME THE MOMENT THE LEADERS YELL."]
"Whoo-oop!" All in a second the mountain woke, the welkin rang, to ayell of warning from the lips of the leading Sioux. All in a secondthey whirled their ponies about and darted back. All in that secondBlake and his nearmost sprang to their feet and flung themselves forwardstraight for the startled convoy. In vain the few warriors bravelyrallied about their foremost wounded; the unwieldy litter could not turnabout; the frantic mules, crazed by the instant pandemonium of shoutsand shots,--the onward rush of charging men,--the awful screams of abrace of squaws, broke from their leading reins; crashed with theirlitter against the trees, hurling the luckless occupant to earth. Backdrove the unhit warriors before the dash of the cheering line. Down wentfirst one pony, then a second, in his bloody tracks. One after another,litter, _travois_, wounded and prisoner, was clutched and seized bystalwart hands, and Blake, panting not a little, found himself bendingstaring over the prostrate form flung from the splintered wreck of thelitter, a form writhing in pain that forced no sound whatever frombetween grimly clinching teeth, yet that baffled effort, almost superb,to rise and battle still--a form magnificent in its proportions, yethelpless through wounds and weakness. Not the form Blake thought to see,of shrinking, delicate, dainty woman, but that of the furious warriorwho thrice had dared him on the open field--the red brave well known tohim by sight and deed within the moon now waning, but, only within theday gone by, revealed to him as the renegade Ralph Moreau,--Eagle Wingof the Ogalalla Sioux.
Where then was Nanette?
"Look out for this man, corporal!" he called, to a shouting youngtrooper. "See that no harm comes to him." Then quickly he ran on to thehuddle of _travois_. Something assured him she could not be far away.The first drag litter held another young warrior, sullen and speechlesslike the foremost. The next bore a desperately wounded brave whosebloodless lips were compressed in agony and dumb as those of the dead.About these cowered, shivering and whimpering, two or threeterror-stricken squaws, one of them with a round-eyed pappoose staringat her back. A pony lay struggling in the snow close by. Half a dozenrough soldier hands were dragging a stricken rider from underneath. Halfa dozen more were striving to control the wild plungings of anothermettlesome little beast, whose rider, sitting firmly astride, lashedfirst at his quivering flank and then at the fur gauntleted hands,--evenat the laughing, bearded faces--sure sign of another squaw, and a gameone. Far out to the front the crackle of carbine and rifle told thatWebb was driving the scattered braves before him,--that the comradesquadron was coming their way,--that Bear Cliff had been sought by theSioux in vain,--that Indian wiles and s
trategy, Indian pluck and stayingpower, all had more than met their match. Whatever the fate of LameWolf's fighting force, now pressed by Henry's column, far in thesouthward hills, here in sight of the broad Big Horn valley, the whitechief had struck a vital blow. Village, villagers, wounded and prisonerswere all the spoil of the hated soldiery. Here at the scene of Blake'sminor affair there appeared still in saddle just one undaunted,unconquered amazon whose black eyes flashed through the woolen hood thathid the rest of her face, whose lips had uttered as yet no sound, butfrom whom two soldiers recoiled at the cry of a third. "Look at the handof her, fellers! It's whiter than mine!"
"That's all right, Lanigan," answered the jovial voice of the leaderthey loved and laughed with. "Hold that pony steady. Now, byyour-ladyship's leave," and two long, sinewy arms went circling aboutthe shrinking rider's waist, and a struggling form was liftedstraightway out of saddle and deposited, not too gracefully, on itsmoccasined feet. "We will remove this one impediment to your speech,"continued Blake, whereat the muffling worsted was swiftly unwound, "andthen we will listen to our meed of thanks. Ah, no wonder you did notneed a side-saddle that night at Frayne. You ride admirably _acalifourchon_. My compliments, Mademoiselle La Fleur; or should Isay--Madame Moreau."
For all answer Blake received one quick, stinging slap in the face fromthat mittenless little right hand.