Reveille was sounded the next morning by Corporal Owens, who, having no drum or bugle at his command, sprang up at daylight and aroused his slumbering companions by shouting out the order, "Catch up!" More from the force of habit than anything else, he called the roll while he was bundling up the blankets on which he and George had slept, and, making the sergeant's salute to an imaginary officer, he announced: "All present or accounted for." Then Carey was ordered to boil the coffee, and Bob and the three troopers who were off duty went out to groom the horses. Having brought no brushes or currycombs with them, they were obliged to content themselves with rubbing the animals down with handfuls of grass; but they "went through the motions," as Bob expressed it, and that was all the most exacting officer could have expected of them under the circumstances.
As soon as breakfast had been eaten the troopers and their prisoners set out on the return march, Bob and the new scout leading the way. Behind them came the deserters, guarded on each flank and in the rear by two cavalrymen. Their advance was necessarily slow, for the captives had travelled rapidly the day before in order to put a safe distance between themselves and the fort, and they were weary and footsore. Gus Robbins, especially, was nearly "done up." He was in a worse condition than Talbot was, for the latter seemed to have slept off the effects of his wound. George felt the greatest compassion for Gus, and offered to lend him his horse; but Bob, who had grown somewhat hardened to suffering during his experience in the army, positively forbade it.
"It wouldn't do, George," said he, looking admiringly at his friend's sleek, well-conditioned animal, which was constantly champing his bit and tossing his head as if he were growing impatient at the slow progress they were making. "Gus would make a break for liberty sure, and as that nag of yours is able to distance anything in my party, I'd have to—" Here Bob tapped his carbine significantly. "That's something I don't want to do. Gus isn't so nearly exhausted as he seems to be. He is more distressed in mind than he is in body, for he is thinking of the prison at Fort Leavenworth. After we have gone a few miles we will rest them by taking them up behind us, but it wouldn't be a very bright trick to give one of them a horse to himself."
About eleven o'clock a halt was ordered, and the deserters, who were riding behind the troopers, having dismounted, Corporal Owens took Carey off on one side and gave him some very emphatic instructions. Then he and George also dismounted, and, leaving their horses behind, made their way cautiously toward a ridge a short distance in advance of them. As they neared the top they threw themselves on their hands and knees and crept up until they could look over it. They were in plain view of the squatter's cabin at which the troopers had stopped to eat their dinner the day before. Bob took just one look at it, and then hastily backed down the ridge again.
"Did you see that fellow chopping wood in front of the shanty?" said he, addressing himself to George. "That's the man I am looking for."
"Am I sure that I have a pair of good eyes?" asked Bob in reply. "Of course I am. I recognized him in spite of his citizen's clothes. That squatter has rigged him out in some of his own duds, but they'll not save him if I can manage in some way to get between him and the cabin."
"Perhaps, in order to make 'assurance doubly sure,' you had better take my field-glass and have another look at him," said George. "A false move might prove fatal to you, for it would show the squatter that you suspect him of harboring one of your men, and that would put both him and the deserter on their guard. But if that is your man, I am sorry for it."
"Why are you?" demanded Bob, looking at his companion in great surprise.
"I mean that I am sorry you found him here," George hastened to explain, "for the chances are that you will not take him without a fight. Peasley—that's the name of the owner of the cabin—is a notorious rough, and he would think no more of putting a bullet into you, if he thought he could escape the consequences, than he would of knocking over an antelope for breakfast."
"I thought he looked like that kind of a chap," said Bob. "Well, if he wants a fight he can be accommodated at very short notice. That's my man, and I am going to have him, squatter or no squatter."
As Bob gave utterance to this emphatic declaration he took the field-glass, which George handed over to him, crept up to the top of the ridge, and after taking a short survey of the cabin and its surroundings came back to his friend's side again.
"I knew I couldn't be mistaken," said he. "I had a fair view of his face, and as I have seen him every day for the last year, of course I couldn't fail to recognize him. The squatter is sitting on the porch smoking his pipe. Now, how shall I go to work to nab him? That's the question."
"Ride straight up to him and tell him that you want him," answered George. "I know of no easier way. I will go with you and see that Peasley doesn't double-team on you."
"But Bryant will run into the house the moment he sees me," said Bob.
"Then run right in after him and pull him out again," answered George promptly.
"I am almost afraid to do it. You see, the civil law is supposed to be supreme, and we soldiers have to mind what we are about, or else there'll be a big row raised about 'military despotism' and all that. I'd have to surround the house and keep him in there until I could send to the post and get authority from the colonel to go in after him. That is something I shouldn't like to do, for I have carried this thing through so far without help from anybody, and I want to complete the work myself. If I should ask for advice, the colonel would probably send a shoulder-strap down here to rob me of all the glory I have won," added Bob with a smile.
"Oh, you needn't laugh over it," exclaimed George. "You have covered yourself with glory. It isn't every fellow who would go down into a dug-out to capture six armed men after one of them had given positive proof that he was not afraid to shoot. That bullet-hole in your coat is a badge of honor. Now, I have just thought of something: I have brought with me a full suit of Mexican clothes, and also a saddle and bridle of the Mexican pattern. You are just about my size—"
"That's the very idea—nothing could be better," exclaimed Bob, as he arose to his feet and led the way toward the place where he had left his men. "It will disguise me completely, won't it? I can ride up and get between him and the house before he suspects anything, can't I? But how about the squatter?"
"I'll join you as soon as I see that you have corralled your man," replied George. "And you had better tell your followers to hold themselves in readiness to come up promptly when I signal to them from the top of the ridge."
The troopers awaited the boys' return with no little impatience, for the long consultation they had held on the ridge convinced them that their officer had discovered something on the other side of it. Bob gave them a wink and a nod, which instead of satisfying their curiosity only increased it, and then, to the surprise of all of them, began to divest himself of his outer clothing, while George threw off the canvas covering that protected his pack, and drew out of it an elegant silver-mounted saddle and bridle, and also a suit of clothes made in the height of the Mexican fashion.
"If that man of yours is at all sharp he will notice those army-brogans the first thing, and so you had better pull them off and put on these," said George, tossing a pair of light patent-leather shoes toward Bob. "There are the spurs. You had better take my horse too, for that 'U. S.' brand on your own nag would give you away in a minute. Now go easy, like an honest Greaser who is going about his legitimate business. Take my mule with you, for if you try to separate him from the horse he'll raise row enough to scare all the deserters out of the State."
It is wonderful what an alteration is sometimes made in one's appearance by a mere change of clothing. After Bob had got into the Mexican suit and exchanged his cap for the wide sombrero with its gaudy cord and tassel, it was doubtful if there was one among his brother-troopers who would have recognized him if he had chanced to meet him unexpectedly. Although he was not quite yellow enough for a Mexican, he was nevertheless pretty well tanned, and George assured him that all he needed was a black moustache and a long goatee to transform him into a very good-looking Greaser.
Everything being in readiness, Bob mounted George's horse, took the pack-mule's halter, which his friend passed up to him, and, after giving Carey instructions to bring up the squad and the prisoners promptly when he was signalled to do so, he rode slowly away, the new scout following a short distance in his rear, mounted on Bob's nag.
Arriving at the top of the ridge, Corporal Owens rode over it without pausing, and had not proceeded far before he became aware that he was discovered. The squatter got up and came to the end of the porch, the deserter ceased his chopping and leaned on his axe, and both shaded their eyes with their hands and looked at him. It was plain that they were not very well pleased with the result of their observations, for, after gazing at him for a few seconds, the squatter returned to his seat and puffed furiously at his pipe, and the deserter resumed his chopping. At the same moment the dogs appeared in force from under the cabin, their every action indicating that they had been summoned by the voice of their master. They looked up at him, wagging their tails vigorously, and then, encouraged, no doubt, by a low hiss or an order to "hunt 'em up," began running about with their heads high in the air. Discovering the approaching horseman, they started for him on the instant, each one striving to lead in the race and to growl and bark louder than his companions.
"They don't think much of Greasers in this part of the country," said Bob to himself; "and I don't blame them. If I were a stock-raiser I shouldn't feel very hospitably inclined toward a class of men who are always on the watch for a chance to jump down on me and steal my cattle. I wonder if I shall have pluck enough to dismount in the midst of all these dogs and make the arrest?" added Bob as the fierce brutes closed about him, all of them with their ears laid back close to their heads and their hair turned the wrong way, and some crouching at his side as if they were about to spring up and pull him out of his saddle.—"Get out! If you interfere with my business there won't be as many of you to-night as there were this morning. Aha! there's one of you out of the muss already."
For just here the mule gave a tug at his halter, and Bob, looking over his shoulder to see what was the matter, caught a momentary glimpse of a tawny body as it rose in the air, and, turning a complete somersault, landed on the ground all in a heap. One of the dogs, in his eagerness to do something grand, had approached a little too close to the mule's heels—an impertinence which that sagacious quadruped promptly resented by kicking out with both hind feet and knocking his would-be assailant into a cocked hat. The dog was not killed, but he was terribly demoralized, and his howls of anguish did much to dampen the ardor of his companions, who quickly withdrew to a more respectful distance.
Bob rode straight up to the house, but the squatter never looked at him, nor did the deserter stop his work. He drew rein in front of the porch, swung himself out of the saddle as quick as a flash, and, paying no attention to the dogs, which bayed him at a distance, but were too cowardly to assault him, he walked up to the deserter and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Bryant, I want you," said he.
The deserter, whose back was turned toward Bob, wheeled on the instant, revealing a face that was as white as a sheet. Bob backed around a little, so that he could keep one eye on Bryant while he watched the squatter with the other, and saw the man spring to his feet in the greatest astonishment, his pipe dropping from his mouth as he arose.
"You didn't expect to see me again so soon, did you?" said Bob, addressing himself to nobody in particular.
"Corporal Owens!" gasped the deserter, retreating a step or two, at the same time grasping his axe firmly in both hands and lifting it over his head. "Keep away from me; if you come a step nearer I'll—"
"Drop it!" commanded Bob sternly; and Bryant obeyed, for he saw the muzzle of a cocked revolver looking him squarely in the face.
All this happened in less time than we have taken to tell it, but meanwhile the squatter had not been idle. Quickly recovering from his amazement, he darted into the cabin, and just as Bryant dropped the threatening axe he appeared upon the porch with his rifle in his hand. Cocking it as he drew it to his face, he covered Bob's head with the weapon, and said, in a voice that trembled with rage and excitement,
"Look a here, young fellow, that's a game two can play at. Lower your shootin'-iron or I'll make daylight shine through you."
"Plump him over, Peasley!" cried Bryant, "plump him over! You are not going to stand there and let him take me back to the fort, are you? You promised to protect me. Plump him over! put the dogs on him! Do something, and be quick about it."
Bob bore himself with surprising courage during this trying ordeal. He did not know at what instant the squatter might comply with Bryant's frantic order to "plump him over" or to "put the dogs on him," but he never flinched. He did not even change color; and there is every reason to believe that his bold front saved his life.
"Bryant," said he in a calm voice, "don't you know that the colonel will be sure to hear of this, and that you are only making a bad matter worse by holding out against the inevitable?—As for you, Peasley, you've got the drop on me, and you can shoot if you feel like it; but if you do you are a gone squatter. Look there," he added, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
Peasley looked, and saw George Ackerman coming down the ridge at a furious gallop.
"That is one of my backers, and there are six more who will be along in a minute. What did I tell you?" exclaimed Bob as the troopers and their prisoners came into view over the top of the ridge. "Now, Peasley, if you don't behave yourself I'll take you to the fort under arrest. I am in the discharge of my duty, and I am not going to put up with any more nonsense."
The squatter lowered his rifle, looked first at Bryant and then at the troopers, and seemed undecided how to act. While he hesitated George Ackerman dashed up to the porch, jumping out of his saddle before his horse had fairly stopped, and, knocking the dogs right and left with the heavy cavalry sabre which he had found fastened to Bob's saddle, he mounted the steps and laid hold of the squatter's rifle.
"Peasley, what are you about?" he exclaimed as he twisted the weapon out of the man's unresisting grasp. "Are you a born idiot? If you are not, don't you know that if you raise a fuss here you won't have any roof left over your head in less than five minutes?"
The squatter, muttering something under his breath, went back to his seat and picked up his pipe, and in a few minutes more the troopers and their prisoners arrived. At a sign from his officer, Loring dismounted and stood guard over Bryant, while Bob walked up to the porch.
"What do you think of the situation now, friend Peasley?" said he cheerfully. "I can't take that man to the fort in those clothes, and so I would thank you to trot out his uniform."
"Don't know nothing 'bout no uniform," growled the squatter; "ain't none here."
"I know better," answered Bob. "There is one here, and I must have it. You can either bring it out yourself or I shall search for it; and I give you fair warning that if I turn my boys loose in your shanty they'll handle things rough.—Now, what shall I do if that threat doesn't start him?" said Bob to himself. "I'll search the cabin and take the consequences; that's what I'll do."
"Come, Peasley, save yourself trouble by bringing out the uniform," said George. "There's no use in being a fool."
The squatter evidently began to think so too, for he sullenly rose from his seat and went into the cabin, coming out again in a few minutes with a bundle of clothing, which he threw spitefully down upon the porch. Bob quietly picked it up, and, carrying it down to Bryant, commanded him to pull off the squatter's clothes and put on his own; and Bryant at once complied, for he knew that if he did not Bob would detail two or three men to make the exchange for him. The new prisoner was then ordered to fall in with the rest, and the cavalcade once more took up its line of march for the fort; but a short stop was made as soon as they were out of sight of the squatter's cabin, during which Bob pulled off his disguise and put on his own garments.
"If I am ever obliged to wear this suit, I hope it will serve me as well as it has served you to-day," said George as he stowed the Mexican costume away in his pack and placed the silver-mounted saddle and bridle on top of it. "I didn't think it would so soon be brought into use."
"If it hadn't been for that same suit I might have got myself into trouble," said Bob. "Knowing where Bryant was, I never should have gone back to the fort without him, and if he had taken refuge in the house I might have gone in after him. What the colonel would have said to me if I had done that, I don't know."
During the ride to the fort Bob Owens, to quote from the troopers, "laughed all over." It was plain to everybody that he was highly elated over the results of the expedition, as he had an undoubted right to be. The pursuit and capture of the deserters had been conducted with considerable skill, and with as much determination as any veteran officer could have exhibited. Now that the danger was over, and his efforts to carry out the orders of his superior had been crowned with complete success, Bob was rather proud of that bullet-hole in his coat.
The next time the order was given for the troopers to take the prisoners on their horses, George beckoned to Gus Robbins, who quickly mounted behind him. After conversing a while upon the various exciting incidents that had transpired while Gus was Ned Ackerman's guest at George's ranche, the latter said,
"I never expected to meet you again, and I would rather not have met you at all than see you in this scrape."
"Well, it can't be helped now," answered Gus, with a weak unsuccessful attempt to appear defiant. "The colonel told me just what I might expect if I were ever again court-marshaled for desertion, and I went at it with my eyes open. I am not sorry I tried it, but I am sorry I didn't get away. If they don't watch me pretty closely, they will never have a chance to take me to Leavenworth."
"What do you suppose your father will say when he finds it out?" asked George.
"He will never find it out if I can help it."
"Don't you correspond with him?"
"Not by a great sight. He doesn't know whether I am dead or alive. I wish I had changed my name when I enlisted."
"He lives in Foxboro', Ohio, I believe?" said George.
Gus replied that he did.
"Is his name Gus too?"
"No; his name is Thomas, and he is—I say," exclaimed Gus suddenly, "what are you asking so many questions for? Do you intend to write to him about me?"
"Why, what object could I possibly have in doing that?" asked George, turning a very innocent-looking face toward the deserter. "I am sure it is none of my business what you do. Let's talk about something else. We are getting over the ground pretty rapidly now, and if Bob would let me I could land you in the fort in four hours. I don't suppose that you are in any hurry to get there, but what I meant was, that your additional weight would not prevent this horse of mine from travelling from here to the fort at his very best licks."
"No, I don't weigh much now," said Gus with a sigh. "Hard work, hard fare, hard treatment and constant worry have brought me down to a hundred and ten pounds."
"That's not very heavy for a seventeen-year-old boy."
"Oh, I am nineteen," said Gus, "but just now I feel as though I were forty."
"And you look so, too," said George to himself.—"That was the reason I wanted to know your exact age."
George had now learned all he cared to know about Gus Robbins. He was a minor, his father's name was Thomas and he lived in Foxboro', Ohio. He had gone to work in a roundabout way to gain this information, because he was afraid that if he asked Gus leading questions and told him what use he intended to make of his answers, the deserter would refuse to open his head. He had gained his point by strategy, and he did not intend that Gus should go to Leavenworth if he could help it.
Bob's supply of rations being nearly exhausted, his men and the deserters had a very scant dinner, and they did not get anything more to eat until they reached the fort. About ten o'clock that night they were challenged by one of the sentries, and, not knowing the countersign, were obliged to wait until the corporal of the guard was called. Having at last been admitted inside of the stockade, Bob marched up in front of head-quarters, where he ordered a halt, and he and George dismounted and went in to report to the colonel. Bob was very much astonished at the manner in which the officer greeted the new scout, and so was the orderly. They had never before seen him unbend to anybody as he did to George. Having never been admitted into head-quarters except when they had business there—some report to make, some orders to receive or some sharp reprimand to listen to—they knew the commandant only as a stern, exacting officer who seemed to care for nothing but the "regulations," and they had never imagined that he could be cordial or friendly with any one. But now they saw their mistake. The colonel got up from his seat, shook the boy warmly by the hand, told him he was glad to see him, called him by his Christian name and pointed him to an easy-chair, while Bob was left to stand at attention until the colonel got ready to attend to him.
"You are all ready for business I see, George," said the colonel as he resumed his seat at the table. "Well, I'll give you a taste of army-life by sending you out on a scout to-morrow. I will tell you about it pretty soon. There's your room," he added, pointing to an apartment adjoining his own, "and when you get ready you can bring in your luggage. The officer of the day will show you where to put your horse. You will have to be your own servant, unless you are willing to hire a civilian and pay him out of your own pocket. I saw that you came in with Corporal Owens: did he arrest you?"
"He was going to, sir," replied George, "but let me off when I showed him my furlough."
"Corporal," continued the colonel, turning to Bob, who stood lost in wonder, "what report have you to make?"
"I have the honor, sir, to report my entire success," was Bob's reply; "I've got them all."
"On the parade, under guard, sir."
"Very good. Keep them there until further orders. Tell the officer of the day I want to see him."
George thought this was rather hard. Bob had risked his life and displayed most commendable zeal and ability in carrying out the colonel's orders, and now the latter dismissed him without one single word to indicate that he appreciated his services. Why did he not question the corporal in regard to the manner in which the capture of the deserters had been effected, and reward him for his gallantry by making him a sergeant on the spot? That was what George thought he would have done if he had been commandant of the post, and he then and there resolved that a full history of Bob's exploit should be laid before the colonel before he went to sleep that night.
"Colonel, that young fellow has had a very hard time of it," said George when Bob had closed the door behind him.
"I expected it," replied the officer carelessly. "It is a wonder to me that the deserters didn't kill him, for there were some hard characters among them and they were well armed."
This remark would seem to indicate that the colonel was a most unfeeling man, and that he did not set much if any value upon the life of a non-commissioned officer; but such was not really the case. When he was a subaltern his superiors had often assigned to him some very hazardous undertakings, and when he attained to a rank that entitled him to a command he sent others into danger and thought nothing of it. A soldier's first and last duty was to obey any orders he might receive, and if he lost his life while in the act of executing those orders, why, it was nothing more than might be expected.
"They did try to kill him," said George. "Didn't you notice that hole in the breast of his coat?"
"I did, and I thought it looked as though it had been made by a bullet."
"So it was. Bristow shot at him. He wanted to be revenged on Bob for telling you about those thirty men who tried to desert some time ago, and if he had been a little better marksman you would have been put to the trouble of appointing a new corporal in the place of as brave a boy as ever swung a sabre."
"Why, George," exclaimed the colonel, becoming interested, "you are quite enthusiastic. Do you know Corporal Owens?"
"Yes, sir. He is the one who pulled me out of the river on the night the old Sam Kendall was burned."
"Oh yes; you told me about that the first time you were here. Where did the corporal find Bristow and his party?"
George answered this question by giving the colonel a circumstantial account of the pursuit, as he had heard it from Bob's lips, and the manner in which he had gone to work to secure the deserters after he had discovered their place of refuge. His description of Bryant's arrest amused the officer, who declared that it was a very neat piece of strategy.
Having placed Bob's case in the most favorable light possible, George then went on to tell the colonel about Springer's unexpected visit to his ranche, and described in detail the intended movements of Fletcher and his band. The officer said he had done right in sending the cattle-thief to warn the commandant at Eagle Pass, and had no doubt that that officer would take measures to assist the civil authorities at Rio Grande City in protecting the jail and giving Fletcher and his men a warm reception when they came across the river; but, in order to explain what happened afterward, we must here say that he did nothing of the kind. Unfortunately for Springer, he was recognized by some ranchemen who happened to be hanging about the post, and in spite of his protestations he was arrested and turned over to the marshal, who locked him up. No attention whatever was paid to his warning, and so positive was the marshal that there was "something back of it" that he would not even permit the prisoner to tell his story.
The cattle-thief remained in jail until the next full moon, and then Fletcher and his men suddenly made their appearance, just as Springer said they would. As no precautions had been taken to guard the prison, the raiders had an easy victory, and before assistance could arrive from the Pass, Springer and the murderers of the cowboy had been released and Fletcher was safe across the river. Springer, of course, was much too sharp to tell how he came to be an inmate of the jail, and the boss cattle-thief, believing that he had been arrested while trying to carry out his instructions, treated him with the greatest consideration.
"What did you mean by saying that you would give me a taste of army-life by sending me out on a scout to-morrow?" asked George after he had finished his story. "Any raiding going on about here?"
"Well, yes. I am going to send Clinton out to punish a war-party of Kiowas if he can catch them. I am aware you are used to roughing it, but you know nothing about campaigning with troops, and I thought I would give you a chance to get your hand in before I call upon you to lead us across the river. Some young bucks belonging to Satanta's band, the most of them mere boys, have broken away from their agency and come down here in pursuit of scalps and fame. Among other outrages which they have committed, they jumped down on a poor fellow the other day, killed or scattered his herdsmen, drove off his stock and carried his two children into captivity. I should like to be the means of ridding the frontier of that villain, for he is dangerous. During a peace-council that was held at Fort Dodge some time ago, Satanta talked so glibly about his desire to cultivate friendly relations with us, and his unalterable determination to 'follow the white man's road' in future, that he really succeeded in making the commissioners believe that he was sincere in what he said. To encourage him in his good resolutions, the department commander and staff presented him with a uniform coat and sash and a brigadier-general's hat. How the wily old scoundrel must have laughed in his sleeve when he saw how completely he had bamboozled some of our best soldiers!"
"How long did he keep his promise?" asked George.
"About three weeks, and then he led an attack, dressed in his new uniform, against the fort in which the council was held. Oh, he's a good one! I know you didn't come here to fight Indians, but you'll have to hold yourself in readiness for anything that turns up."
"You will always find me around when you want me," replied George. "May I write a letter here?" he continued, seeing that the colonel picked up his pen and turned to his table to resume some writing in which he had been interrupted when Bob and the new scout came in to report.
"Certainly. There are pens, ink and paper; help yourself. There's the letter-box over there. The mail-carrier goes out to-morrow."
Before George could begin work on his letter the officer of the day came in. He shook hands with the new-comer, to whom he had been introduced on the occasion of the boy's first visit to the fort, and was told by the colonel to put the deserters into the guard-house, to show George where to stake out his horse and mule, and to see that he had somebody to help him bring in his pack-saddle.
The work of bringing in his luggage and taking care of his animals was soon performed, and then George came back and began his letter. It took him a long time to write it, for he wanted to make it one that would produce an impression upon the person to whom it was addressed. It was to Gus Robbins's father. It conveyed to that gentleman the information that although his son was alive and in fair bodily health, he had brought himself into serious trouble, having been detected in two attempts at desertion, and unless his friends at home interested themselves in his behalf he had a fair prospect of going to prison. If Mr. Robbins would move in the matter he could easily procure the culprit's discharge from the service, for he was a minor and had enlisted without his father's consent; but if there was anything done it must be done quickly, for it was probable that a court-martial would be convened in a very few days. Having sealed and addressed the letter, he bade the colonel good-night and went to bed, feeling satisfied that he had done all he could for the unfortunate Gus.
George slept soundly, as he always did, but the morning gun and the first notes of reveille awoke him. While he was making his toilet with his usual care and deliberation—as we have said, his long intercourse with river-dandies had made him very particular on this point—his friend, Bob Owens, and the men who occupied the quarters with him, were hurrying on their clothes in order to get into line in time to answer to their names at roll-call. While they were dressing they talked, and this was a portion of the conversation that took place between the corporal and one of the colonel's orderlies—the same one who had been on duty when Bob went in to report his arrival with the deserters.
"I say, Owens," exclaimed the orderly, "who was that nobby young officer who came in with you last night? What is his name, and what rank does he hold? I know he is green, for he didn't know enough to put on a dress-coat before he went into the colonel's presence."
"His name is George Ackerman," answered Bob, "but he is not an officer; he's a scout."
"'A scout'!" repeated the orderly in a tone of contempt. "He is a pretty-looking scout, I must say. What does he know about life on the Plains?"
"He knows a good deal more about it than anybody in this room, for he was born right here in Texas," was the reply.
"Has he ever seen service?"
"No, but he knows what danger is, and he has been in some situations that you wouldn't care to be placed in. During long months of his life he lived in constant fear of a violent death."
"I don't doubt that he told you so, but I don't believe it, all the same," observed the orderly.
"I can't help that. I am personally acquainted with him, and you are not. I was with him when the steamer to which he belonged was burned on the Mississippi River, and came to Texas with him. He owns a big cattle-ranche a few miles from here, and has an income of about forty thousand dollars a year."
"Aha! that accounts for the milk in the cocoa-nut," exclaimed the orderly. "I know now why it was that the colonel met him in so friendly a manner. Even those stern old regulars soften in the presence of one who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, don't they?"
"But George Ackerman's money didn't get him the position he holds," said Bob quickly. "He has been a prisoner among the cattle-thieves on the other side of the river, and knows where they hang out. He is here to act as our guide when we pursue the raiders across the river."
"What did the cattle-thieves take him prisoner for?"
"Because they were promised twenty thousand dollars for it by George's guardian, who wanted to get him out of the way, so that his son could inherit George's property. But he managed to escape from them, went up North and became a pilot, and it was while he was serving in that capacity that I made his acquaintance."
"That's a very pretty story," remarked the orderly, "but doesn't it sound almost too much like a dime novel?"
"If you don't believe it ask Gus Robbins, if you get a chance to speak to him. He knows George, and has reason to be grateful to him too. Gus came down here to visit Ned Ackerman while the latter's father was acting as George's guardian, and got himself into trouble that would have ended seriously if George had not befriended him. It was through that same visit that Gus got into the army."
"Did you hear what the colonel said to him about a servant?" asked the orderly. "Whoever saw a scout with a servant? I never did, and neither did I ever before see a man holding that position treated with so much consideration by a post-commander. I can't account for it."
Bob could not account for it either, and so he attempted no explanation. We may tell the reader that there were two good reasons for it. In the first place, George was not a regular scout; he might, with more propriety, have been called a volunteer aide. It is true that he was sworn into the service, and that he was bound to do his duty faithfully "during the pleasure of the commanding officer" of Fort Lamoine, but he drew no pay from the government. He did not even ask that he should be fed while he lived at the fort, but stood ready to pay his share of the mess-bill. He had freely offered his services as guide to the troops because he, in common with every rancheman and farmer in that country, wanted the raiding-parties broken up, and he believed that he could do as much, if not more, toward accomplishing that object than any other single civilian. He was not obliged to wear a uniform (being sworn in, he had a right to wear it), but he had purchased it for the same reason that he had purchased the Mexican costume and the other clothing he had brought with him—because he believed it might some day be of use to him. We have already seen how one of his disguises came into play. If he had not brought with him that Mexican suit, it is hard to tell how Bryant would have been captured.
In the next place, the colonel was an old acquaintance and friend of George's father. He had often enjoyed Mr. Ackerman's hospitality, and he could say, with Zeke, that he had carried George in his arms when the latter was a "yelling baby not knee-high to a duck," and when he himself was nothing but a second lieutenant. Since that time a great many things had happened. Mr. Ackerman and his wife were dead, the second lieutenant had passed through a terrible war, had worn a major-general's shoulder-straps in the volunteer army and won a brevet colonelcy in the regulars, and George had grown almost to manhood. Neither of them knew of the presence of the other in that country until George, accompanied by Mr. Gilbert and a few other ranchemen, came to the fort to offer his services. The colonel knew the boy as soon as he heard his name, and it was on account of the respect and affection he cherished for the memory of his father that he extended so cordial a greeting to him; but, like all the other soldiers who had seen him, the colonel did not think that George was just the guide he wanted.
"I need somebody with age and experience, George," said he, "and you have neither. I know you can handle a herd of cattle and manage your ranche in good style, but I am not so certain of your ability to act as guide to my troops. I admire your pluck, and I should be glad to have you come here and live until you get tired of it; and in order to make it lawful for you to stay here, I will give you a position as forage-master."
"I am very much obliged to you, sir, but that is a berth I don't want," answered George. "I want to help put down those raiders."
"But just think of the responsibility that would rest upon you," protested the colonel. "A single blunder on your part might cripple me fearfully."
"You need have no fears on that score," said Mr. Gilbert. "George is good wherever you put him. He is acquainted with Fletcher, who is the most active of all the raiders who trouble us; he knows where he hangs out, and he is the only one on this side of the river who does. When it comes to trailing, he is at home there too. Can you look at a trail and tell how old it is and how many men or horses made it?"
No, the colonel couldn't do that. He always looked to his scouts for information on those points.
"George can do it," said Mr. Gilbert. "He has served his time under one of the best trailers in the country; and that is Zeke, his herdsman."
After a little more conversation the colonel, although not without many misgivings, accepted the offer of George's services; and he never had occasion to regret it. During the very first expedition that was sent out of the fort after he reported there for duty he showed what he was made of, and gave the colonel reason for placing almost unlimited confidence in his judgment. Acting as Bob Owens's counsellor, he enabled the latter to perform an exploit that made him the lion of the post.
Having dressed himself, George passed through the colonel's office and out through the hall to the parade. In the outer door was seated a man who was bent half double, with his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands. Hearing the sound of the boy's footsteps, he raised his head, revealing a countenance so haggard and sorrowful that George was startled at the sight of it. The man moved aside to allow him room to pass, and then covered his face with his hands again, and as George walked out he was sure he heard him utter a suppressed moan. The man was not a soldier, for he was dressed in citizen's clothes. He looked like a rancheman; and as George was a rancheman himself, he naturally felt some sympathy for the unknown sufferer. After hesitating a moment, weighing in his mind the propriety of the step he was about to take, he turned back and asked,
"What is the matter with you, sir? Are you ill?"
"'Ill'?" repeated the man, without looking up. "Worse than that—worse than that."
"Is there anything that I can do for you?" asked George. "You seem to be in great trouble."
As these words fell upon his ear the man straightened up, and, gazing at George with a pair of wild-looking eyes, said, in a voice that was rendered husky by some strong emotion,
"I am in trouble, partner, and although I do not think you can help me in any way, I feel grateful to you for your sympathy. I have been bounced by the hostiles and cleaned out—completely cleaned out."
"That is bad," returned George, who told himself that the man took his loss very much to heart. He knew a good many stock-raisers who had been "bounced" and "cleaned out," but he had never before seen one who seemed to be so utterly broken down by his misfortunes as this one did. The stranger's next words, however, explained it all.
"The loss of my ranche and stock I don't mind," said he; "that's nothing. But when one sees his two motherless boys carried off by the red fiends, while he is powerless to help them, it's pretty rough, it's pretty rough."
"Why, this must be the man the colonel told me about last night," said George to himself.
"I should not fear that the savages would raise their hands against the lives of the boys (they are too young to be put to torture, one being eight and the other ten years of age) if it were not for one thing," continued the bereaved father, jumping to his feet and pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. "I made a hard fight of it, and dropped a Kiowa for every year of my oldest boy's age. Of course the death of those warriors will have to be avenged by their relatives. Perhaps you don't know it, but that is Indian law."
"I do know it," interrupted George. "I couldn't have lived so close to these raiders, both Indians and Mexicans, nearly all my life without learning something about their ways, could I? I am a Texan, like yourself."
"You are? I took you for a Yankee soldier."
"There's where you made a mistake," replied George. "I was born in Miller county in this State, and I am here to act as guide to the troops when they cross the river in pursuit of the cattle-thieves."
"Good! Put it there!" exclaimed the man, extending his hand, while his face for the moment showed the pleasure he felt at the meeting. "My name is Wentworth; what is yours?"
George told him, and Mr. Wentworth said he had often heard the name, and in a roundabout way had learned something of the family history.
"I have heard of you too," said George. "You have often been obliged to run in order to save your life and stock, have you not?"
"Yes, and I have always succeeded in getting safely away; but there is a first time for everybody, and mine came three days ago. I was going on to say that I am afraid the savages will take vengeance on my helpless little boys for the braves I shot in the fight," continued Mr. Wentworth. "If they don't do that, they will probably hold them for ransom; but they might as well tomahawk the boys at once and put them out of their misery, for I haven't a horn nor a hoof nor a cent of money to give in exchange for them. I know I have seen them for the last time, but won't I make it hot for those who stole them?"
George could not say anything comforting. The sight of the strong man's overwhelming grief struck him dumb.
"I know some of the bucks who were in the fight," continued Mr. Wentworth, grinding his teeth and rubbing his hands nervously together. "They have often camped on my ranche when they came down here buffalo-hunting. I don't care what treaties our government may make with that tribe; there will be eternal war between me and them. No Kiowa shall ever cross my trail and live—no, not if I hang for it. I only wish that some of those peace commissioners—those lunatics who believe that an Indian is a human being and needs only kind treatment to make him peaceable and friendly—could stand in my boots this minute. I tell you, Ackerman, if one of them were here now I'd stand and see an Indian shoot him, and never lift a hand in his defence. I got in last night and told the colonel about it, and he said he would send out a couple of companies this morning with orders to overtake and punish them if possible; but he might as well save his men and horses, for it isn't possible. They have reached the Staked Plains by this time, and are safe from pursuit. This is a lovely government for a white man to live under, isn't it? It is too cowardly to protect us from the Mexicans, and too tender-hearted to hang an Indian for murder unless he happens to kill some one high in authority, like General Canby."
Mr. Wentworth seemed almost beside himself when he thought of his boys, who were now so many miles away from him, for then it was that he realized how powerless he was to help them. He went on in this strain until he had talked himself out of breath, and then he went back to his seat on the doorstep and covered his face with his hands.