CHAPTER VI.
AT THE FRONT.
Rare indeed is a day in June! Warmth and fragrance, sunshine and roses,strawberries, straw hats, summer costumes, music and moonlight, softzephyrs, softer speeches, softest of swains have we left at the Point.Farewells--sweet, sad, sentimental some of them--have been said. Thecorps of cadets has gone to the Centennial with thousands of sight-seersfrom all over the nation. They hardly had dared hope for such anunaccustomed delight. They had not expected to go, but went. The nationflocks to Philadelphia, but out in the Northwest some hundreds of itsdefenders are flocking in another direction. Come with us and takeanother look at our old friends of the --th. They had expected to go,but didn't.
It is a rare, rare day in June, but where are the soft breezes, thesweet fragrance, the blossoms and the bliss of that month of months atthe dear old Point? Rare indeed is the breeze, cloudless the sky,brilliant, beaming, magnificent, the sunshine, but not a leaf stirs inanswering rustle to the wind. Far and near no patch of shade delightsor tempts the eye. Look where you will,--look for miles and miles overboundless expanse of rolling upland, of ridge and ravine, of dip and"divide," of butte and swale, no speck of foliage, no vision is there ofeven isolated tree. The solid earth beneath our feet is carpeted withdense little bunches of buffalo-grass, juicy, life-giving, yet bleachingalready of the faint hues of green that came peeping through the lastsnows left in May. Tiny wild flowers purple the surface near us, butblend into the colorless effect of the general distance. We stand on awave of petrified ocean, tumbling in wild upheaval close at hand;stretching away to the east in a league-long level flat as the barnfloor of tradition, and bare as the description.
Far to the east the prairie rolls up to the horizon wave after wave tillnone is seen beyond. Far to the north, bare and treeless, too, the sameeffect is maintained. Far to the south, across an intervening low-landone would call a valley elsewhere, the ground rises against the sky,until its monotonous gray-green meets the gray-blue of the southernheaven; but west of south, what have we here? The farthest wave ofprairie surges, not against the naked sky, but against a cold grayrange, whose peaks and turrets are seamed and sprinkled with glisteningsnow. Aye, there they stand, the monarchs of the Rockies; there throughthe short summer sunshine their lofty crests defy the melting rays andbear their plumage through the very dog-days, to greet and welcome thefirst, faint, timid snow-flakes of the early fall. There they gleam andglisten, no longer as we saw them from the Kansas plains, dim in thewestern distance, unapproachable, but close at hand, neighborly,sheltering, for we nestle under their very shoulders. Here, to the west,just behind us, no great day's walk away and seemingly far nearer, injagged outline against the blue of heaven, are the guardians of the oldtranscontinental pass. Here, to the west, where you see the rugged spursjutting out from the range, runs the old trail which the engineers havefollowed, and carried the Union Pacific to its greatest altitude betweenthe oceans. Far out there among the buttes runs that climbing ridge, yetit seems so close, so neighborly with the foreshortening of that strangescenery, that one cannot realize that in its climb it carries the ironrails still two thousand feet farther aloft. For years we have read ofthe Rockies, and is this possible? Do you mean that here, with thisexpanse of level prairie before us, we are up among the clouds, so tospeak,--far up on the very backbone of the continent, and that is why,instead of towering thousands of feet aloft in air, the greatpeaks--Long's and Hahn's and Pike's--seem so near us to the south'ardand no higher at all? Aye, call it prairie level if you will, forstraight to the east it looks as flat as Illinois, but we are standingsix thousand feet higher in air than the highest steeple in Chicago, andour prairie flat is but the long, long slope of mountain-side thatbegins in the Black Hills of Wyoming--back at Cheyenne Pass--and ends atthe forks of the Platte down near Julesburg.
You say it must be up-hill to that ridge that meets the horizon at theeast. Is it? Look over here to our left front, a little to thenortheast. See that tiny lake surrounded by low, wooden buildings, andapproached by the hard, beaten road from the distant town. A pleasureresort of some kind, judging from the streamers and bright flags aboutthe place. It stands on a hill, does it not? and the hill has risengradually from the west, but slopes abruptly again to the east and southto the general level. Did you ever see a lake on a hill before? How doesthe water get there? Springs? No. Mark that slender rivulet that runsfrom far up the ravine at the southwest; it crosses the prairie in thenear distance, and then goes twisting and turning up that apparent slopeuntil it reaches the little lake on the hill. The outlet, you say? Yes.From here it certainly looks so, but step forward a few hundred feet andlook at the rivulet, and by all that's marvellous! the water is runningup-hill.
So it certainly seems, but the explanation is simple. The prairie is nothorizontal by any means. It is a gradual but decided slope to the east,and the top of the little hill two miles away is forty feet lower thanthe point on which you stand.
Then how deceptive is the distance! Across the level to the southeastlies the bustling frontier city. You wonder to see glistening dome andspire far out there under the very shadow of the Rockies. At least youwould have wondered a decade ago in the Centennial year. You note thetransparency of the atmosphere. Science has told you that at such analtitude the air is rarefied. There is no light haze to soften outlinesand to lend enchantment to a distant view. Roof, spire, chimney, allstand out clear and hard, and the coal-smoke from the railway blots thelandscape where it rises, yet is quickly scattered by the mountainbreeze. Between you and the little town lies the prairie over which thestage road runs straight and hard as a pike until, nearing us, it beginsto twist and turn among the foot-hills for a climb across the ridge intothe valley of Lodge Pole Creek beyond. Lodge Pole indeed! The creekvalley has not a stick of timber far as one can see it. Follow it to itssource, two days' trot or tramp up towards Cheyenne Pass, and there youfind them, as the Sioux did twenty years ago, before we bade them seektheir lodge-poles farther north. How far is it to the prairiemetropolis,--a mile and a half, you venture? My friend, were you anartillerist, and were you to sight a two-hundred-pounder to throw ashell into Cheyenne from where we stand, "setting your sights for threethousand yards,"--more than your mile and a half,--the shell would ripup the prairie turf somewhere down there where you see the road crossingthat _acequia_. Cheyenne lies a good four miles away, and is a good dealbigger than you take it to be. But here to the south lies a strangediamond-shaped enclosure,--a queer arrangement of ugly brown woodenbarns and sheds far out all by itself on the bare bosom of the prairie.That is _called_ a frontier fort. It is not a fort. It never has been.Even tradition cannot be summoned to warrant the name. It was builtafter our great civil war, and named for one of the gallant generals whofell fighting in the Shenandoah Valley. It has neither stockade norsimplest defensive work. It is all it can do to stand up against a"Cheyenne zephyr," and a shot fired at one end of it would go cleanthrough to the other without meeting anything sufficiently solid todeflect it from its course. It is a fort by courtesy, as some of ournon-combatants are generals by brevet, and would be as valuable in timeof defensive need. All around it, east, west, and north, sweeps thelevel prairie. South of its unenclosed limits there flows arapid-running stream, down in whose barren valley are placed the longunsightly wooden stables, the big square corrals for quartermaster'sstock, the huge stacks of hay and straw, and vast piles of cord-wood.Farther east along this tortuous stream, and on its left bank, too,midway between fort and city, is another big brown enclosure, in whichare dozens of sheds and storehouses. It is a great supply depot forquartermaster's stores and ordnance, and over it, as over the fort,flutters the little patch of color which stamps the property as UncleSam's. For reasons that can soon be explained only small-sized flags areever hoisted near Cheyenne. By noon of three hundred days a year,straight from the wild pass to the west, there comes sweeping down agale that would snap the stoutest flag-staff into flinders, and thatwhips even a storm-flag threadbare in a few brie
f weeks.
But it is a rare June morning now, too early for the "zephyr," andnature beams and sparkles even over such bare landscape. The air iscrisp, cool, invigorating. Far out on the slopes and side hills greatherds of horses and mules are grazing, guarded by vigilant troopers,some alert in saddle, others prone upon the turf. Out along the roadfrom town comes a train of white-covered wagons slowly crawlingnorthward, with stores and supplies for the army up in the Indiancountry, and down here to our right front, covering the flat betweenfort and depot, blocked out in regular rows and groups, dotting theplain with gleaming canvas, is the camp of the --th regiment of cavalry.For the first time since the war of the rebellion two-thirds of itsentire strength is massed under command of its senior officer.
Morning mounted drill is just over, and the two battalions, havingunsaddled and turned the horses out to graze, are now busily occupiedabout the camp. The soft notes of the trumpet sounding "Officer's Call"has drawn to the colonel's tent a knot of tanned and athletic men inrough field uniform and bristling beards. Those who best know the --thwill be quicker to recognize old friends in this guise than when in theglitter of parade uniform or the accurate and irreproachable eveningdress of civilization. There is not a man in the group who is not quiteat his ease in ball-room attire; most of them have held acquaintancetime and again with the white tie and stiff "choker" of conventionality,but the average gallant of metropolitan circles would turn up hissupercilious nostrils at the bare suggestion were he to see them now.The --th is in its element, however, for the order has come, and withthe coming dawn it will be on the march for the Black Hills of Dakota,and the colonel has summoned the officers to his tent for some finalinstructions. It must be conceded that they look like business in theirdark-blue flannel shirts, their "reinforced" riding-breeches, thesubstantial boots, and the field blouses and broad-brimmed campaign hatsthat Arizona suns and storms have long since robbed of gloss orfreshness. The faces are strong and virile in almost every case. It isten days since the razor has profaned a single chin, and very stubblyand ugly do they look, but long experience has taught them that thesooner the beard is allowed to sprout when actual campaigning is to bedone the greater the eventual comfort. Occasionally some fellow drawsoff the rough leather gauntlet, and then the contrast between hisblistered, wind-and-sun tanned face and the white hand is startling.Every man is girt with belt of stout make, and wears his revolver andhunting-knife,--the sabre is discarded by tacit consent,--its lastappearance for many a long month. Some of the number, indeed, have takenthe order to prepare for campaign work as a permit to doff the uniformentirely. Gruff old Stannard hates the blouse on general principles, andlooks solid and "stocky" in his flannel shirt; not a vestige of "rank"can be found about him. Turner and old Wilkins, Crane and Hunter, are ofhis way of thinking, but others who preserve the military proprieties tothe last are still garbed in the undress uniform coat. Perhaps they arethinking of the good-byes to be said in the garrison to-night. Less thantwenty officers are there who report in answer to the signal, and,having saluted the colonel, dispose themselves on the few camp-stools oron the grass and wait for his remarks.
Some are old friends, and some old friends are absent. It is odd tothink of the --th being here in force without Truscott, or Ray, or oldBucketts, the men we knew so well in Arizona. Colonel Pelham is, ofcourse, not looked for: he is far too old to be in saddle on so hard acampaign as this promises to be. Truscott's troop is not yet here, butis under orders to remain in Kansas for the present, and he, we know, isfar away at the Point. Ray, with one of the captains whom we have yetto meet, and with Mr. Gleason, is still detained on that horseboard,--very reluctantly, too, fretting himself into a fever over it saysome accounts, and other accounts say worse. Bucketts, as quartermaster,is behind at Hays gathering up the fragments that remain and shippingproperty to the new station. Captain Canker is here: he was East withhis wife and little ones, vastly enjoying the surf at Cape May, when thetelegram reached him saying that the --th were off for the wars again,and within twelve hours he was in pursuit. Four of the group now waitingaround the colonel's tent came in just that way.
"Gentlemen," says the colonel, stepping quickly from the tent, "I calledyou here for a word or two. First, there will be forty new horses hereat three this afternoon. They will be distributed according to coloramong the eight companies, five to each. See to it that they are shodfirst thing. There will be twenty in the next lot; they are to be lefthere for Webb and Truscott. Overhaul your ammunition and equipments atonce, and if anything is lacking, you can draw from Cheyenne depot thisafternoon. I presume those of you who are to take station at Russellwill want to go over to see about your quarters, but my advice is thatonly those who have families make any selection: there will be somechanges by the time we get back. We march at six in the morning, so haveeverything cleared up to-day. There will be no further drill. Those whohave business to attend to in town or at the fort can leave camp withoutfurther permission. I shall remain here until we start, and one officerfrom each troop must be in camp, at stables, and during night. That'sall, unless somebody has questions to ask." And the colonel looksinquiringly around.
Apparently nobody has, and the group breaks up. Some few of the olderofficers remained to talk over the prospects at the colonel's tent.Others went to the garrison to rejoin anxious wives and children, and tospend the last day with them in helping get things settled in the newarmy homes to which they had been so suddenly moved. A third party, "theyoungsters," or junior officers, sauntered across the interveningstretch of prairie towards the low wooden building standing just northof the entrance-gate of the fort. In old army days 'twas known as "thesutler's." In modern parlance it is simply called "the store." Themiddle room of which, fitted up with a couple of old-fashionedbilliard-tables, a huge coal stove, some rough benches, chairs, two orthree round tables, and the inevitable bar and cigar-stand, bore on theportals the legend "officers'," as distinguished from the general"club-room" beyond.
Seated around the room in various attitudes of _ennui_ and dejectionwere three or four infantry officers stationed at the post, while at oneof the tables a trio of young lieutenants were killing time aftermorning drill in the fascination of "limited draw." Target practice, asnow conducted, was then unknown, or there would have been no time tokill. The announcement languidly conveyed from the occupant of thewindow-seat, "A squad of the --th coming," produced neither sensationnor visible effect.
A minute more, however, and the door burst open, and in they came, halfa dozen glowing, breezy, vigorous young cavalrymen, ruddy with health,elastic with open-air life and exercise, brimful of good spirits andcordiality, and headed by the declamatory Blake, who made a bee-line forthe bar, shouting,--
"'An if a man did need a poison now, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.'
His name's Muldoon, and he's a fluid man. Step out, Muldoon. What'll yehave, fellers?" he asked, with the sudden transition from the sublime tothe ridiculous, which was one of Blake's delights. "Name your respectivepizens, gentlemen. Come, join us, ye gallants of mud-crushers. What, ho!Poker?" and with one stride he was at the table and peering over thehands: "No use, Sammy,--
'Two queens with but a single ace, Two sharps that beat as one.'
That's no hand to tackle a one-card draw with. Never you mind whetherhe's bluffing or not. There ain't enough in that pot to warrant theexpense of testing the question. Take another deal. _What_ did you say,Muldoon? Whiskey? No! Throw whiskey to the dogs; I'll none of it. Giveme foaming lager. That's right, my doughboy ancient. Didn't I tell youto take another hand? What says the inimitable Pope?--
'Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, And Sammy scoops us with a single pair.'"
"Good heavens! Blake. Give us a rest! Here, swallow your beer, or takesomething to choke you," laughed the victim at the table, while a chorusof groans saluted Blake's unconscionable parodies. "If you were to behere a week longer I vow I'd go mad. The best news I've heard in a yearis that you're ord
ered to march in the morning. What quarters did youchoose?"
"What difference does it make to you, Rags?" put in Mr. Dana. "Youfellows will have the post to yourselves all summer, anyhow. We shan'tget out so much as a chair until we come back from the campaign."
"Well, the married officers have chosen theirs, you know. Stannard'straps are all moved into No. 11, and they are pretty nearly settledalready,--the carpets were all down yesterday. So they were at Turner's.Mrs. Whaling has been helping them unpack for the last three days, andtelling everybody what they had and didn't have. I tell you what,fellows, we're going to have no end of a good time here this summer withyour band and all the ladies while you're roughing it out on the BigHorn. Whaling says he'll bet a hat none of you get back beforeThanksgiving."
"Is it so that Truscott comes here with his troop?" asked one of thecaptains of Lieutenant Crane.
"Well, the troop comes, but as to Truscott, that's another matter."
"I don't understand you, Crane," said Mr. Blake, with sudden change fromhis roystering manner. "I thought you heard Ray say that he knewTruscott would be after us as soon as it was settled that we would takethe field."
"Ray knew no more about it than you do, Blake," was the impatient reply."Ray has a fashion of being oracular where Truscott is concerned asthough he were on intimate and confidential terms with him. Now I, forone, don't believe he had any authority whatever for saying what hedid."
"Well, hold on here," said Blake, deliberately. "My recollection is thatRay only spoke of it as his conviction,--not that Truscott had told himanything; still, he was certain that Truscott would come, and that hewould lose no time in getting relieved either. You know he is at thePoint," he said, in explanation, to the silent infantryman.
"Well, I'm d----d if I can understand it in him," muttered Wilkins, as heburied his broad face in a beer-mug.
"No, Wilkins, I dare say you can't," was the drawling reply, and thesarcasm was not lost among the listeners, though it missed its effect onthe stolid object. "Truscott, Ray, Heath, and Wayne, and Canker, are notthe style of men to spend this summer, of all others, away from theregiment."
"Well, here we are, marching to-morrow, and where are your Ray andTruscott?" asked Wilkins, with as near an approach to a sneer as he dareventure.
Blake rose quickly from his chair, near where the trio still continuedtheir game, though by this time far more interested in the tone of thetalk than in "ten-cent ante." Dana and Hunter, too, were flushing andlooking ill at ease.
"This is no time or place to be discussing regimental matters," said he;"but since the matter has come to it, I mean to give what I believe tobe the general opinion as opposed to that of a limited few. Crane,Wilkins, you are the only men I have heard express any doubts as toTruscott's coming, or Ray's, for that matter. I've got just fiftydollars here to bet against your ten that if this regiment has anyfighting to do this summer they'll both be in it."
"I'm not making bets on any such event, Blake, and I did not mean tointimate that they were not apt to come," said Crane, conscious that hehad been incautious.
"Well, you then, Wilkins," said Blake, impulsively. "I want this thingclinched. It is the third or fourth time I've heard you half sneeringabout these two men. It's bad enough in the regiment, but you aretalking now in a bar-room and among outsiders. By Jove! if there's noother way, I say stop it."
There was an embarrassed silence. This was a new trait in Blake, one ofthe most jovial, whole-souled, rattle-brained fellows imaginableordinarily, but now he seemed transformed. For years the regiment hadbeen serving by itself. Now for the first time it was thrown intocontact with the comparative strangers of the infantry. These gentlemen,too, were ill at ease at the suppressed feeling in the conversation, butWilkins was "mulish" at times, and he had a reserve.
"If you know Truscott's coming it ain't fair to bet," he muttered,sulkily; "but you'd better go slow on backing Ray; that's my advice,Blake, unless you've more money than you know what to do with."
"All the same, I stand by my bet. Do you take it?"
"Oh, dash your bet! Blake, I'm no betting man; but you'd better becertain what Ray's doing before you champion him so glibly. Perhaps Iknow more than you think."
Blake's face clouded a little.
"I don't like your hints, Wilkins. We all know, of course, that Ray hasbeen wild and reckless many a time, but he is disbursing officer of thathorse board; he is the man of all others on it to decide what they'lltake and what they won't take. Buxton knows mighty little about horsesand will vote as Ray does, so that leaves the responsibility with him.He never failed us yet, and, by gad! I don't believe he will now."
"All right! Blake, just you wait. All I've got to say is that if Raywants to keep his skirts out of the mud he'd better quit the company ofthat fellow Rallston, and I hear he's with him day and night, and hasdone no little drinking and card-playing with him already. _I_ don't saygambling, but there's those that do," continued Wilkins, hotly.
"More than that," he went on, after a pause. "When Wayne came throughKansas City, Gleason and Buxton were at the train to meet him, but theydidn't know, they said, where Ray was. _I_ heard he was at the hotelsick; been on a tear, I suppose."
"See here, Wilkins, unless you can prove it let up on this sort of talk.Ray told Stannard when he went on this detail that he would touch nocard so long as he was disbursing officer, and that he'd let JohnBarleycorn alone. Now, do you know he has been on any spree?"
"No, I don't know it, Blake, and yet I'm certain of it just from pastexperience with him."
"By gad! you're as bad as old Backbite himself. Do you remember thattime Chip of the artillery was walking down Nassau Street, and asteam-boiler or something burst under the sidewalk and broke his leg?The first thing old Backbite said when he heard of it was, 'H'm! beendrinking, I suppose.' Now here's Billings with a despatch. What is it,bully rook?" he hailed, as the adjutant came bounding in.
"Truscott starts to-night, and the horse board will break up next week,so we'll have Jack and Ray with us inside of ten days."
"_Pre_cisely. Now, Wilkins, if you want a nice mud-bath for your head,there's an elegant spot back of the stables. Come on, Billings, I'mgoing to camp."
And with that he left, followed by all the cavalrymen but Wilkins andhis associate Crane. The latter held the ground, and, as they wereplainly the defeated parties in the argument so far, human naturedemanded that Mr. Wilkins should set himself right in the eyes of thereluctant auditors, and so it happened that among the officers composingwhat might be termed the permanent garrison of the post the firstimpressions received of Mr. Ray were conveyed by a tongue as illregulated as--other people's children.