Opening the iron trail

After all, it seemed good to be getting back into the midst of things again. Now George was all on fire to hasten ahead, and see the “doings.” So they stopped for only a night at the outpost of Fort Sanders on the Laramie River at the western foot of the Black Hills, twenty-two miles from the summit.

“Colonel Gibbon has directed that I furnish you with another escort,” said Lieutenant Wanless.

“We don’t need an escort now, lieutenant. The trail’s plain. There’ll be the graders’ camps,” objected Terry.

“Yes, and there’ll be the Sioux,” smiled the lieutenant. “They and the Cheyennes are busy—making their last fight, I guess. They’ve tied up operations several times since you passed through. Either you take the escort or you don’t go on.”

“Shucks!” George grumbled, privately. “We could travel faster alone. I want to see what’s on the other side of the hills.”

But orders being orders, they set out with a squad of G Company of the good old Second Cavalry, who were instructed to land them with the first survey party going in.

Yes, those were the advance graders, all right—sweaty, grimy, jovial Irishmen in their red shirts and scuffed boots and brogans, just knocking off work for nooning when the Fort Sanders escort, convoying two explorers, trotted in.

“An’ where have yez been?” asked the boss, Big Mike, curiously, of Terry.

“Into the Red Desert with General Dodge, for me, laying out the trail for you fellows. But my pardner’s been clear to the Green on the other side.”

“An’ what did yez find?”

“Injuns and desert, Mike. Powerful far between water, but the road goes through.”

“That kind of a country, is it?” Mike sighed, and puffed at his stubby black pipe. “Ah, well; for the Injuns we don’t care a rap, b’ gorry; an’ as for the wather, sure we’ll take wan big drink when we start in an’ another when we get out. Lucky for the road that ’tain’t dependin’ on them Chinymen, who have to have their tay three times a day. For it’s hard to make tay widout wather.”

“What’s doing eastward, Mike?”

“Work—an’ work ag’in. But ye’d better stay hereabouts this night. There’s nothin’ in the pass yet. We’re waitin’ for powder for the blastin’, so’s to lay the roadbed in the rock.”

“Have the rails reached Cheyenne?”

“I dunno. They hadn’t reached it whin I lift, but the people had. ’Tis another town started, an’ before winter ’twill be roarin’, for the rails are comin’ fast an’ all the toughs from Julesburg’ll follow.”

They camped this night with the next grading camp, at the foot of the pass.

“The powder’s on its way front Julesburg,” reported the gang boss. “Engineer Hurd’s fetchin’ it from end o’ track—an’ supplies, too. Orders be to work till the snows stop us. Did yez hear tell, out west, where the Cintral is by this time?”

“About two months ago they were on the east side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California, and coming on down. That’s what the telegraph operator at Green River stage station said,” answered George. “They’ve got 10,000 Chinese coolies!”

“An’ while they’re a-comin’ down we’re a-comin’ up, aye? We’ll see if thray-dollar-a-day Christians can’t bate a-dollar-a-day haythen.”

Before the next noon, from the Sherman Summit they craned eagerly to catch the first view of the wide land before. Gradually it unfolded, as they wound over and entered the downward trail—and on a sudden Terry uttered a sharp cry of amazement.

“Great Cæsar’s ghost! Look at Cheyenne.”

“Where?”

“Down yonder. See that bunch of whity dots and rusty roofs, away, ’way off. It’s Cheyenne, I bet. Gee! And when we came through in July there wasn’t anything.”

The air was still and marvelously clear; in straight line as the crow flies, one might see miles and miles—seemed as though one could see to Omaha, the beginning of track—and one probably could, “if,” as Sol Judy would say, “he only looked far enough!”

At any rate, on the brownish plain twenty-five miles by air-line there was smoke, black and blue, and a collection of the whity and browny dots betokening a town.

“Yes, sir; there’s what they call Cheyenne, the ‘Magic City of the Plains,’” quoth Corporal Williams. “Two months old, with a thousand people, and a town government already, and a daily paper being started, and the telegraph almost through up from Denver, and coal mines staked off, and lots that the railroad company sold for $150 fetching $2000 and better. She’s a hummer.”

“How near are the rails?” demanded Terry. That was the important matter.

“Fifty miles out yet. The Injuns have bothered a heap—corralling the graders and crews and running off stock. But those Irish keep at it, between times. Maybe if your eyes are good you can see the smoke of the construction-train, against the horizon.”

“Is Cheyenne as tough as Julesburg?” asked George.

The corporal laughed.

“Wait till the pay-car comes on, along with end of track. That graveyard the Injuns planted will be ’tended to by the white men. She’s grown already.”

Down the slope of the pass and to Cheyenne the grade was marked, and knots of ants were busy—but not ants, they were men, of course. As for the smoke of the construction-train, no one could be certain that he saw it, from this distance. However, it was there, seventy-five miles distant, at end o’ track; and mile by mile, this very day, it was drawing nearer.

You could trust in Paddy Miles for that.

“Squad, halt,” barked the corporal. “Dismount. We’ll make noon camp, boys. By evening we’ll meet that wagon train, yonder, and learn the news. I expect there’ll be some surveyors I can leave you with, on the right o’ way, who’ll pass you along. The orders are for me to get back to Sanders as quick as ever I can.”

Another gang of graders were passed, on the downward trail, after the noon hour. They were digging a cut—wielding their shovels lustily, and throwing the dirt and gravel out upon the dump, while their stacked guns stood near, and the ploughs and scrapers clattered.

“Drill, you tarriers, drill!” daringly shouted Terry, as with George and the cavalry squad he rode along the line. But only two or three of the men lifted face, to stare and wipe their brows; the rest stuck to the job as if they had no time for nonsense.

Now there was an interval of a couple of miles; and then a little crew of surveyors, checking a grade already leveled. They worked with revolvers hanging at their waists, and picked up their rifles and blanket-rolls whenever they moved on with level and transit.

“Where’s your camp, boys?” queried the corporal.

“Anywhere we spread our beds, corporal. We bunk and eat with the grading gangs, mostly. You’ll likely find a real camp further on, before night.”

There was another interval, of five or six miles—and then the wagon train. It was moving slowly—a dozen of the great white-canvassed freighter wagons, a number of trudging teamsters, a handful of riders ambling at the head, and a cavalry company guarding the rear and scouting in the fore.

“Supplies from headquarters, I reckon,” spoke the corporal. “Fetching up that powder and some provisions, like as not.”

The two parties approached each other. Jones, the big “buck” private riding behind Terry and George and the corporal, exclaimed shortly:

“Those ain’t the regular cavalry; they’re some o’ them Pawnee scouts.”

“Yes—and they see something, too.” Corporal Williams’ voice issued tensely. “Close up, men. Draw—carbines! That looks like hostiles, somewhere around.”

“I see ’em!” George yelped. “Down to the south! Making ’round that point of hills.”

“And watch those Pawnees go after ’em!” ejaculated Corporal Williams. “Squad, halt! Steady, men, till we see what’s what.”

The wagon train, about two miles before, had changed formation in a hurry. Its escort had suddenly bunched, and now were streaming furiously across country, in wild charge upon another bunch of horsemen skirting the range of hills on the south. The Pawnee yells might be heard faintly, as the scouts urged their ponies with their quirts and heels, and wrestled out of their clothes as they rode.

The quarry had seen, as quickly. They were fifty—Indians, sure, driving a herd of stock.

“Sioux, I bet yuh!” rapped the corporal. “Robbed a graders’ camp. I see more of the beggars, too—those hills are full of ’em. But look at those Pawnees! Never think of the wagon train, they don’t. Plumb left it, set on getting scalps. It’s corralling. Squad, ’tenshun! For’d, march! Trot! Gallop! We’d better get there while we can, boys.”

Away they dashed. The train had corralled, in a complete circle of wagons, wheel to wheel and the teams turned inside. The ground there was rough and rocky, among rises. “Granite Canyon” it was called, after the railroad grade had been blasted through.

The Pawnees were still scurrying; the Sioux had defiantly paused, as though to give battle. If while they fought, the other Sioux came down—well, there’d be considerable trouble.

“They’ll not cut us off, now,” declared Corporal Williams. “They’re a little too leary.”

And with horses blowing the squad tore in, to the corralled train.

“This way! Here’s a hole for you.” They were inside.

“Glad to see you.” It was Major Marshall Hurd himself, the principal engineer assistant to Mr. Reed, superintendent of construction. “What do you think of my Pawnees?”

“They’re keen on a fight, sir. Just show ’em some Sioux, and away they go; but they don’t wait orders,” laughed the corporal.

“Hardly.” And Engineer Hurd smiled grimly. “There were no white officers with this bunch, to hold ’em, and away they went. Now here we are, with a wagon train of powder and provisions, and no guard. Station your men, corporal, where they can help the teamsters. We’ll put up a white man’s fight, and the Pawnees can go hang. Colonel Seymour, you take command of this side of the corral, if you please, and show your Civil War training. I’ll take command of the other side. These boys——”

“Hello!” Colonel Silas Seymour (for it was he, again, evidently on another trip to the Black Hills) addressed Terry. “You’re back, are you? Where did you leave the general?”

“In the Red Desert, sir. He and the rest of the party are with the Bates party, but he sent my pardner and me in with dispatches for General Casement.”

“All right. You’ll find General Casement at Cheyenne. They’re still doing business with end o’ track. I saw your old yellow mule, and one of the Muldoons on her back. Now you and your partner crawl under a wagon and help out. Grab a gun apiece. You can shoot? Good!”

The Pawnees had disappeared; and although the wagon corral waited all the afternoon, they did not return—did not come even into sight, again!

Several other Sioux were to be seen, in the rough country north of the line. They seemed to be spying. They did not venture nearer, but Major Hurd was wise enough not to open the corral; all along the line the graders’ camps, if they knew about the enemy, were playing safe, too.

Dusk settled, and still there was no sign of the Pawnees.

“This will never do,” finally Major Hurd declared. “We’re only twenty miles from Cheyenne, and the whole line is being held up. I hate to spare a single man, but we’ll have to send back for an escort, colonel. I can’t risk taking this train on, without better protection. It’s too valuable a prize.”

“You can detail a couple of those soldiers, I suppose.”

“We may need them; but it can’t be helped. Where’s the corporal? I’ll——”

George nudged Terry, and Terry understood. He stood forward and saluted.

“We’ll go, major. We’re carrying dispatches anyway.”

“You two boys? I don’t doubt you’d do as well as anybody, if the Indians didn’t get after you, but in a case like this——”

“Aw, shucks!” blurted George, who wasn’t much on military discipline. “We’re used to Injuns. ’Tisn’t far, Mr. Hurd. Only twenty miles. Injuns wouldn’t see us any quicker than they would anybody else. We’ve ridden worse trails than that.”

“And we’ve got General Dodge’s dispatches, too,” added Terry. “Wish you’d let us go, sir.”

“I expect they could make it as well as two men, major,” put in Colonel Seymour. “That is, if they’re as smart as they think they are.”

“We’re smart enough to fool Injuns,” asserted George. “Anyway, we’re not afraid.”

“You’re a likely pair,” said Major Hurd, abruptly. “I’ll chance your getting through. You’ll start at midnight. That’ll bring you there by daylight. I’ll give you a dispatch for the military commander at new Fort Russell. There’ll be several graders’ camps along the way—but you’d better keep out from them if you can, or somebody’ll take a shot at you. If you’re driven into one, then halloo in good English before you arrive.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t believe we’ll need any help, though,” answered Terry; and George proclaimed:

“Sure not. We’ll not stop for help. Injuns don’t bother in the dark.”

“Huh!” Terry replied. “Don’t they, these days? You ought to have been with us at Plum Creek!”