Trumpeter Fred: A Story of the Plains

  CHAPTER XI.

  HEMMED IN BY SAVAGE FOES.

  Back at the cavalry camp there was no little subdued chat and wondermentamong the troopers. Lounging in the shade of the trees along the stream,and puffing away at their pipes, playing cards, as soldiers will, andpoking fun at one another in rough, good-natured ways, the men were yetfull of the one absorbing theme--Fred Waller's most unaccountabledisappearance and the loss of so much of their hard-earned money.

  "I would have bet any amount," said Corporal Wright, "that when the oldman"--the captain is always the "old man" to his troops--"got back hewould ride over Sergeant Dawson roughshod for letting Waller slip awayon his guard; but I listened to him this morning and he talked to himjust like a Dutch uncle. I tell you Dawson felt a heap better after itwas over. He said the captain never blamed him at all."

  Noon came, so did an orderly telling Mr. Blunt that the captain wishedto see him over at the telegraph office, and to order the horses fed atonce. Forty-eight big portions of oats were poured from the sacksforthwith. Dawson and Donovan were not yet back.

  "Leave theirs out," said Sergeant Graham, "they'll be back presently.This means business again, and no mistake. Where's the trouble now, Iwonder?"

  Shall we look and see? Far to the south, far beyond the bold bluffs ofthe White River, far beyond the swift waters of the Niobrara,--"L'Eauqui Court" of the old French trapper,--far across the swirling flood ofthe North Platte, and dotting the northward slopes, swarms of naked,brilliantly painted red warriors in their long, trailing war bonnets ofeagle's feathers are darting about on nimble ponies, or, crouching pronealong the ridges, are eagerly watching a dust-cloud coming northward onthe Sidney road. Behind them, between them and the Platte, are theweltering mutilated bodies of half a dozen herders and teamsters, andthe smoking ruins of their big freight-wagons. Like the tiger's taste ofblood, the savage triumph in the death of their hapless foes has temptedthem far beyond their accustomed limits. Knowing the cavalry to bescouting only north of the Platte, they have made a wide detour andswooped around to this danger-haunted road, eagerly watching for thecoming of other white men, who, like the last, should be ignorant oftheir presence and too few in number to cope with such a foe. Here alongthe ridge north of the little "Branch" of the Platte, half a hundredyoung warriors crouch and wait. Farther back, equally vigilant, otherbands are hiding among the breaks and ravines near the river, whiletheir scouts keep vigilant watch for the coming of cavalry. Forrest'sGrays and Wallace's Sorrels cannot be more than a day's ride away, andwill be hurrying for the road the moment they know that the Indians haveslipped around them. Wallace, up the Platte, has already heard.

  It is three o'clock this hot, still Sunday afternoon, and they have beensix hours out from Sidney, driving swiftly and steadily northward, when,as they reach the summit of a high ridge and stop to breathe theirpanting team, Colonel Gaines takes a long look through his field glass.Just in front is the shallow valley of the little stream now called the"Pumpkinseed" though pumpkins were unheard-of features in the landscapeof fifteen years ago.

  Off to their right front, several miles away, lie the low, broad bottomlands of the Platte. Across the Pumpkinseed, a mile distant, anotherridge, like the one on which they halted, only not so high; to thewestward a tumbling sea of prairie upland--all buttes, ridges, ravines,coulees--but not a living soul is anywhere in sight. Far as hispracticed eye can sweep the horizon and the broad lowlands of the Plattenot a sign of living, moving object can Colonel Gaines detect. Turningaround, he trains his glass upon the tortuous road they had beenfollowing, and along which the dust is slowly settling in their wake.Something seems to attract his gaze, for he holds the binocle steadilytoward the south. Naturally Captain Cross and the two soldiers followwith their eyes; the third infantryman has dismounted, and isreadjusting the girths of his saddle.

  "What is it?" asks Cross.

  "I can't make out," is the reply, "Something is kicking up a dust there,some miles behind us. A horseman, I should say, though I've seen nobody.Wait a few minutes. He's down in a swale now, whoever it is."

  HE TOOK A LONG LOOK THROUGH HIS GLASSES.]

  Everybody turns to look and listen. Those were days when such a thingas a single horseman following in pursuit had a meaning that is lackingnow.

  Three, four minutes they wait in silence; then the colonel suddenlyexclaims:

  "I have him--a mere dot yet!"

  Presently he lowers his glasses, and dusts the lenses with hishandkerchief. His face is graver.

  "Whoever that is, he is riding for all he is worth," he says. "I halfbelieve he wants to catch us."

  Another long look. Utter silence in the party. A mule in the wheel teamgives an impatient shake of his entire system, and chains, tugs, andswing-bars all rattle noisily.

  "Quiet there, you fool!" growls the driver angrily, and with athreatening sweep of his long whip-lash. Then the silence becomesintense again, and every man strains his eyes over the prairie slopesshimmering in the heat of the July sun. Suddenly an exclamation burstsfrom two or three pairs of bearded lips. Far away, but in plain sight inthat rare atmosphere, a speck of a horseman darts into view over adistant ridge, sweeps down the slope at full gallop, and plunges out ofsight again in a low dip of the rolling surface.

  "No man rides like that unless there is mischief abroad," mutters Cross,as he swings out of the wagon to the ground. "Give me my rifle,Murray."

  Then, sudden as thunderclap from summer sky, with wild, shrill clamor,with thunder of hoofs, and sputter of rapid shots; with yell and tauntand hideous war cry, from the very ground itself, from behind everylittle ridge; up from the ravines, down from the prairie buttes; hurlingupon them in mad, raging race, there flashes into sight of theirstartled eyes a horde of painted savages.

  "The Sioux! The Sioux!" yells the driver, as he leaps from his box.

  "Hang on to your mules!" shouts Cross. "Down with you, men! Fire slow!They'll veer when they get in closer. Now!"

  Bang! goes Cross' piece. Bang! bang! the rifles of the nearestsoldiers. The mules plunge wildly, and are tangled in an instant in thetraces. Over goes the wagon with a crash. Bang goes Gaines' bigSpringfield as he coolly spreads himself on the ground. An Indian ponystumbles and hurls his rider on the turf, and Cross gives an exultantcheer. Yet all the same he knows full well that now it is life or death.The little party is hemmed in by a host of savage foes.