Trumpeter Fred: A Story of the Plains

  CHAPTER IX.

  LURKING FOES.

  Church was over. The bugler had just sounded mess call, and the soldiersin their neat "undress" uniform were just going in to dinner, when a manon a "cow pony"--one of those wiry, active little steeds so much in usearound the cattle-herd--came full speed into the garrison and threwhimself from the saddle at Major Edwards' gate. It was the telegraphoperator at the railway station. In his hands were two brown envelopes,and Major Edwards, as he stepped forward to meet him, saw in his facethe tell-tale look of a bearer of bad news.

  "I've no idea whose horse that is, major. There were a half dozen of 'emin front of a saloon there in town, and I jumped on the first I saw.These have just come--one from Laramie, one from Omaha. I droppedeverything at the office to fetch them to you."

  Edwards tore open first one and then the other. The first read:

  "Couriers in front of Captain Wallace report large war parties along the Platte, and some across, raiding the Sidney road. Four teamsters killed, scalped, and mutilated three miles south of river. Bodies found. Warn back everybody attempting to go that way."

  The second was from the office of the department commander himself:

  "Indians in force south of Platte, on Sidney road. If Colonel Gaines and Captain Cross have started, send couriers at once to recall them."

  The major's face was dark with dismay.

  "They have been gone nearly four hours," he exclaimed. "Even if I hadswift riders ready, who could catch them in time?"

  "I've been a trooper all my life, sir," came sudden answer. "Give me ahorse and carbine and let me go."

  The major might have known 'twas Sergeant Waller.

  True to his word, and arranging with the officers of the court-martialto return in case his further testimony was required, Captain Charltonset forth at daybreak on Saturday, intending to push straight through toRed Cloud as fast as mules could drag or horses bear him. To theNiobrara crossing the road was hard and smooth, when once they clearedthe sandy wastes of the Platte bottom. He had a capital team, a lightambulance, and a little squad of seasoned troopers to go with him asescort. It was a drive of nearly ninety miles, but he proposed restinghis animals an hour at the Niobrara, another hour at sunset; feeding andwatering carefully each time, and so keeping on to the old Agency untilhe reached his troop late at night.

  No danger was to be apprehended until the party got beyond the Rawhide,and not very much until they were across the Niobrara, but Charlton andhis half a dozen troopers had been over each inch of the ground time andagain, and very little did they dread the Sioux.

  After midday the little party had halted close beside the spot whereBlunt's detachment had made their bivouac so short a time before. Herewere the ashes of their cook-fires and the countless hoof-prints of thehorses. Here, too, was the trail in double file, leading away northwardacross the prairie--a short cut to the Red Cloud road. Charlton followedit with his keen eyes, and noted with a smile how straight a line itsyoung leader must have made for the "dip" in the grassy ridge a mileaway, through which ran the hard, beaten track. Blunt prided himself onthese little points of soldiership, as the captain well remembered, andwhen charged with guiding at the head of a column, was pretty sure tofix his eyes on some distant landmark and steer for that, with littleregard for what might be going on at the rear.

  The ambulance mules, tethered about the tongue, were busily crunchingtheir liberal measure of oats. Each cavalry horse, too, buried his nosedeep in the shimmering pile his rider had carefully poured for him uponthe dry side of the saddle-blanket. The men were contentedly eatingtheir hard-tack and bacon and drinking their coffee from huge tin cupswith the relish of old frontiersmen. One trooper, a few yards away outon the prairie, kept vigilant watch. Pondering deeply over the strangeand unaccountable charge that had been laid at his young trumpeter'sdoor, the captain was slowly pacing down the bank, puffing away at thebriar root pipe that was the constant companion of his scouting days.Suddenly he heard the sentry call, and, turning, saw him pointing to theground at his feet.

  "What is it, Horton?" he asked, going over toward him.

  "Pony tracks, sir. The Indians have been nosing around here since ourmen left."

  There were the prints of some half a dozen little unshod hoofs dottingthe sandy hollows in the low ground near the stream, and easilytraceable among the clumps of buffalo grass beyond. Charlton could seewhere they had gathered in one spot, as though their riders were then inconsultation, and then scattered once more along the bank. Two hundredyards away stood the lonely log cabin, all that was left of what hadbeen the ranch, and following the trail, the captain presently foundhimself nearing it. Two tracks seemed to lead straight thither, andbefore he reached it were joined by several more. Close to the abandonedhut the ground was worn smooth and hard; yet in the hollows wereaccumulations of dust blown from the roadway up the stream. Around herethe pony tracks were thick, and just within the gaping doorway werefootprints in the dust--some of spurred bootheels and broad soles, onestill more recent of Sioux moccasins. Through the solid log walls twosmall square windows had been cut and narrow slits for rifles, in thedays when the occupants had frequent occasion to defend their prairiecastle. The opening to the subterranean "keep" was yawning under theeastern wall, its wooden cover having long since been broken up forfuel. Charlton stood for a moment within the blackened and dustydoorway, and glanced curiously around him.

  Except for the new footprints it looked very much as it did when he hadfirst taken occasion to inspect the interior, earlier in the summer.There was nothing left that anyone could carry away, and he wondered whythe Indians should have troubled themselves to dismount and prowlabout. An Indian hates a house on general principles, and enters oneonly when he expects to make something by it. Those recent boot-prints,nearly effaced by the moccasins, were doubtless those of some of Blunt'sparty. Curiosity had prompted some time-killing trooper to stroll outhere and take a look at the place. The sunshine streaming in at the opendoorway made a brilliant oblong square upon the earthen floor andlighted up the grimy interior. The steps cut down to the dark "dugout"were crumbling away, and it was impossible to see more than a few feetinto the passage leading to the underground fortress, where as a finalresort in an Indian siege the little garrison could take refuge. Alantern or a candle would show the way, but Charlton had neither. Takingout his match-case, however, he bent down, struck a light, and peeredin. Somebody had done the same thing within the last day or two, forthere were the stub ends of two matches just like his in the dust at thebottom of the steps, and there, too--yes, he lighted another match andstudied it carefully--there was the print of cavalry boots going in andcoming out again. Whoever was his predecessor, he had more curiositythan the captain. Charlton had seen prairie "dugout" forts before, anddid not care to waste time now.