"It is a hard case," said George to himself as he walked slowly toward the gate, "and I believe, as Mr. Wentworth does, that he has seen his children for the last time. In the first place, the chances are that the Indians, having so long a start, will not be overtaken; but if they go out of their way to attack other isolated ranches, and the troops should come up with them, their very first act, if they saw that they were likely to be whipped, would be to kill their captives, so that they could not be rescued. It is a hard case, that's a fact, and I don't see that anything can be done about it. I wish Zeke were here to give his opinion on the subject."
The troopers, having answered to the names, were going out to bring in their horses preparatory to grooming them, and George went with them to bring in his own. Nearly an hour was devoted to this important duty, which was performed under the watchful eye of an officer, and although George often saw his friend Bob, the latter did not speak to him. There were a good many shoulder-straps around, and work, and not talk, was the order of the day. Even those of the officers who, having no servants, were obliged to act as their own grooms, had very little to say to one another; but when these same officers were gathered around the breakfast-table half an hour later, they were lively and talkative enough. There they met on a footing of perfect equality, like the members of a private family, although the juniors did not forget to say "sir" when addressing their superiors. There were no orders issued during the progress of the meal, and in fact very little was said about military matters; but still, George heard enough to satisfy him that active operations against the thieving Kiowas were to be commenced immediately, and that he was to make one of an expedition upon whose success a good deal depended.
The appearance of the officers as they passed into the hall after rising from the breakfast-table must have been a signal to the bugler who stood in front of the door of head-quarters, for as soon as he saw them he raised his instrument to his lips and blew a shrill call. The clear, ringing notes had scarcely ceased when there was a commotion in the barracks, and a crowd of men came pouring out and hurried toward the stables. There were a hundred and twenty of them, and they belonged to the troops A, E and L—the latter commonly called the "Brindles"—of which Captain Clinton's scouting-party was to be composed.
"That's 'Boots and saddles,' George," said the colonel, who stood in the doorway appearing to notice nothing, but in reality keeping a close watch over the movements of the men to see that everything was done in accordance with the "regulations." "You are to go with Clinton, you know. Are you ready?"
"I will be in half a minute," replied the boy.
The stirring notes of the bugle, or the prospect of soon meeting face to face some of the bloodthirsty savages who had devastated Mr. Wentworth's home, must have excited George, so that he did not readily lay his hand upon the articles he wanted, for considerably more than half a minute elapsed before he again appeared with his Winchester on his back, a bag of cartridges slung over his shoulder and a revolver buckled about his waist. He ran to the stable, and had just put the saddle and bridle on his horse when another call of the bugle was heard. This was "To horse," and in obedience the troopers left the stable and fell into line on the parade, each man standing at the head of his nag. George did not belong in line—in fact, he did not know where he did belong—so he kept his eye on Captain Clinton, and when he saw that officer mount the horse which an orderly brought up to him, George at once placed himself in his own saddle, and, riding up to the steps where the colonel was standing, awaited further developments.
"Prepare to mount!" commanded Captain Clinton as he rode up in front of his own troop, and the words were immediately repeated by the other two company commanders.
In obedience to this order each trooper placed his left foot in the stirrup, and at the command "Mount!" which was given soon after, they all rose from the ground as if moved by the same set of springs, and seated themselves in the saddles at the same instant. No man was a half a second ahead or behind his companions. The three company officers then rode back to the colonel to report that their respective companies were ready to march, and after they had listened to some verbal instructions from him, they bade him and the rest of the officers good-bye, the bugle sounded the "Advance," and the troopers, moving four abreast—or, as a soldier would have expressed it, in column of fours—rode out of the gate. There they found Wentworth seated on a wiry little mustang, which looked altogether too small to carry so heavy a rider. Recognizing George, who rode by Captain Clinton's side, he gave him a friendly nod, and without saying a word turned his horse and rode away, the troopers following a short distance in his rear.
When soldiers are on the march and in no danger of immediate contact with the enemy, they are allowed numerous privileges, of which the troopers composing this particular scouting-party were not slow to avail themselves. Some of them drew their pipes from their pockets and filled up for a smoke, others threw one leg over the horns of their saddles and rode sideways, "woman-fashion," and conversation became general all along the line. But this talking and smoking did not interfere with their marching, for they rode rapidly, and made such good progress that by three o'clock in the afternoon they were within sight of the ruins of Mr. Wentworth's ranche. And a sorry sight it was, too. Nothing but a pile of blackened sun-dried bricks remained to mark the spot on which a few days ago had stood a happy home. Household furniture of every description was scattered around, but every article had been smashed beyond all hope of repair. What the savages had not been able to carry away with them they had ruthlessly destroyed. George did not wonder that Mr. Wentworth felt vindictive. The man did not have a word to say, but the expression that came to his face as he sat in his saddle gazing sorrowfully at the ruins of his home spoke volumes.
When the troopers came within sight of the ranche, George discovered that there was a horse staked out near the ruins, and that he had an owner in the person of a tall, gaunt man, who rose from the ground and rubbed his eyes as if he had just awakened from a sound sleep. His dress was an odd mixture of the civilized and savage. He wore a pair of infantryman's trousers, a rancheman's red shirt, and an Indian blanket of the same color was thrown over his shoulders. His head was covered by a Mexican sombrero, and his feet were protected by a pair of gaudily-ornamented moccasins. While waiting for the troopers to come up he filled a short black pipe and lighted it at the smoldering fire beside which he had been sleeping.
"That's Mountain Mose," said Captain Clinton in reply to George's inquiring look. "He no doubt gave himself the name because he has lived on the Plains all his life. He is a lazy, worthless vagabond, but what he doesn't know about Indians isn't worth knowing. If he would only wake up and display a little energy, he would be invaluable as a scout."
"What is he doing here?" asked George. "He seems to be waiting for us."
"Yes, I expected to find him at this place. He has been out to take a look at the trail of that war-party who did all this damage.—Well, Mose, any news?"
"Not much, cap," drawled the scout. "You put straight for the Staked Plains, an' if you are lively enough to ketch 'em anywhar, you'll ketch 'em thar."
"Then we shall never get the cattle," said the captain. "If the Indians are going in there, they intend that the stock shall die of thirst rather than fall into our hands."
"That's jest their little game, cap," said the scout, puffing at his pipe. "You see, they'll keep along on the edge of the desert, so't they can have grass an' water in plenty, an' if you don't pester 'em none they won't go into the Staked Plains at all; but if you push 'em hard they'll run the critters in thar an' leave 'em, hopin' that you will run your hosses an' men to death while you are huntin' 'em up. You won't never see the young ones, nuther; an' I don't see why the colonel sent out sich a party as this so late in the day, anyhow. We'd oughter been a hundred miles along that thar trail by sun-up this mornin'."
George felt the deepest sympathy for Mr. Wentworth, who listened attentively to what the scout had to say, although he said nothing in return. His almost overwhelming sorrow showed itself in his face, but did not take the form of words.
As Captain Clinton had made no halt for dinner, the colonel having instructed him to find and receive the report of the scout as soon as possible, he decided to stop here and allow his men an hour or two for rest and refreshment. Giving their horses into the charge of some of the troopers, he and his two company commanders walked away with the scout, while George rode off to hunt up Bob Owens. He staked his own horse out beside Bob's, and then walked back with him to take a nearer view of the ruins.
"How do you suppose that that man in the sombrero and moccasins knows that the Indians who did this have fled toward the Staked Plains?" asked Bob after he and his friend had spent some moments in silent contemplation of the savages' handiwork. "He certainly hasn't had time enough to follow the trail clear to those plains."
"Of course not," answered George. "But he probably followed it far enough to see that it leads in that direction."
"Well, explain another thing while you are about it," continued Bob. "I have been out on a scout before now after the hostiles, following a trail that was as plain as the nose on one's face, when all at once the scout would leave that trail and strike off over the prairie where there wasn't a sign of a pony-track."
"He was taking a short cut on the Indians," observed George.
"I know that, and sooner or later he would bring us back to that trail again; and sometimes we would have gained so much on the hostiles—who had perhaps been twenty-four hours' journey ahead of us when we left the trail—that we would find their camp-fires still smoking. Now, what I want to know is this: How did that scout know that those Indians were going to that particular spring or creek or ravine near which we found the trail?"
"Have you ever hunted foxes?" asked George.
"I should say I had. When I left home I owned a hound that couldn't be beaten in running them, for he was posted in all their tricks. But what have foxes to do with hostile Indians?"
"I am simply going to use the tricks of the one, which you understand, to explain the tricks of the other, which you do not understand," replied George. "They are a good deal alike in some respects. A fox, when he finds himself hard pressed, will resort to all sorts of manoeuvres to throw the hounds off the trail. One of his tricks is to run over a newly-ploughed field, if he can find one, where the scent will not lie. What would that brag hound of yours do in such a case? Would he waste valuable time in running about over that field trying to pick up a scent that wasn't there?"
"No, he wouldn't. He would run around the outside of the field until he found the place where the fox left it."
"Exactly. Now, an Indian is just as full of tricks as a fox is. When he is afraid of pursuit he will break his party up into small bands, and, although the trails made by these bands will lead in different directions at the start, you will find, if you break up your own party and follow them for a while, that they all tend toward the same points, where these little bands will all be reunited. Of course each of the trails will be obliterated as much as possible. Some of them will lead over rocky ground, where the hoof of a pony will leave no imprint; others will come to an abrupt termination on the bank of some stream; and others still will end at a place where the prairie has been burned over. When these war-parties break up in the way I have described, a place of meeting is always agreed on beforehand; and if a scout understands his business he can tell pretty nearly where that place is, for it is sure to be on the straightest and most direct route to the agency if the raiders belong to a 'friendly' tribe, or to their principal village if they belong to a tribe that is openly hostile. If these Kiowas take to the Staked Plains, they will probably enter it directly north of here, at its widest part. Then this Mountain Mose, if he is the scout he pretends to be, will leave their trail to take care of itself and draw a bee-line for the nearest water; and it will take thirty hours' rapid marching to reach it, too."
"How do you know? Have you ever been there?"
"No, but my herdsman Zeke has; and he has described the course to be followed so minutely that I can go there any day the sun shines or any night when the stars shine."
Bob did not say anything, but his friend noticed that he looked a little incredulous.
"It is not so difficult as it appears to be at first glance," George hastened to say. "Why, when a party of young Indians want to go into a strange country for plunder and scalps, they gather around some old warrior, who traces on the ground the direction in which they must travel in order to reach that country, describes all the water-courses and locates the principal landmarks to be found along the route; and with nothing but these verbal instructions to guide them, these little rascals, some of them not more than thirteen or fourteen years of age, will make a journey of hundreds of miles through a region that none of them have ever visited before. My bump of locality is not so large as an Indian's, but still I have a pretty good memory, and I have travelled many a mile through a strange country without going a step out of my way."
"What sort of a looking place is Staked Plains, anyhow?" asked Bob. "I have heard so many terrible stories told about it that I am almost afraid of it. What gave it that name? Are there any stakes there?"
Bob was inclined to be facetious when he said this, and consequently he was not a little astonished to hear George say in reply,
"There may not be any stakes there now, but there used to be. It is a terrible place, and many a wagon-train has left its bones there. It is big enough to get lost in, for it lacks only about six thousand square-miles of being as large as the State of New York; and although it is not exactly a desert, as we understand the word, it is a barren waste, where nothing living permanently resides on account of the great scarcity of water. A long time ago the Mexican traders marked out a route with stakes across the plain where they found a few small fountains, and that was what gave it the name it bears. Zeke says it is a perfect bake-oven. There are no trees to shelter you, no grass for your horses, no fuel to build a fire with, and an almost unearthly silence broods over it. I am not superstitious, but Zeke always speaks of it with a shudder, and I tell you I don't want to see any place that he is afraid of."
The two friends continued to talk in this way until Captain Clinton's cook came up and told George that dinner was ready. They rested half an hour after the meal was over, and then set out again, Mountain Mose leading the way and Mr. Wentworth, as before, riding by himself. As George was a sort of supernumerary, he was under little restraint, and consequently he rode where he pleased—sometimes in company with the scout, sometimes beside Captain Clinton, and then fell back to exchange a few ideas with Bob. He did not, however, waste much time with the scout. The latter was talkative enough until he learned that George held the same position that he did, and then he froze up at once.
"You're a pretty-looking scout, you be!" he exclaimed, moving his eye over the boy's trim figure. "Do you reckon you could tell the trail of a Kiowa from the track of a coyote?"
"Yes, I reckon I could," answered George with a smile. "But you need not be jealous of me, for I shall not interfere with you in any way. I came to the post to hunt Greasers, and not to trail Indians."
"Oh, you did, eh? So you're the chap that's goin' to show the boys the way acrost the Rio, be you?"
"I am," replied George.
"Well, all I've got to say is, that them that follers you is fools. I thought mebbe you was agoin' to poke your nose into my business; and that is something I won't put up with from nobody. If thar's anything I do understand, it's Indians."
This was true, but it sometimes happens that luck is not on the side of those who know the most. The scout would have given anything he possessed if he had been fortunate enough to perform the exploit that George assisted in performing before two days more had passed over his head.
Bob Owens did not fail to notice that there was not the least semblance of a trail to be seen anywhere. They had left it at the ruins of Mr. Wentworth's rancho, and he waited with no little impatience to see where they would pick it up again. He found out about sunset, for at that time the column reached the banks of a small water-course, and there they struck the trail, which was so broad and plain that it could be followed at a gallop. George, in company with some of the officers and the scout, spent a few minutes in looking it over, and then rode back to report the result of his observations to Bob Owens.
"There are not many warriors in the party," said he, "but they are so well supplied with horses that they can have a fresh mount every day if they want it."
"How do you know that?" asked Bob.
"Because I saw their tracks," replied George.
"That's not explicit enough. I suppose you did see the tracks of the horses, and so did I; but how in the world is a fellow going to tell whether or not those horses had riders on their backs? That's something that can't be done."
"Don't be too sure of that. Look here! Would you believe it if I should tell you that those Indians passed along here after daylight on Thursday morning?"
"No, I wouldn't," replied Bob bluntly. He could not, for the life of him, understand how anybody could draw such conclusions as these by simply looking at the print of a pony's hoofs in the grass; and if he had not been so well acquainted with George he would have inclined to the belief that his friend was "spreading it on" in order to make himself out a wonderful trailer. "I can't make head or tail of this business, and I don't believe you can, either; that is, I mean I don't see how you can."
"Well, listen while I explain," said George good-naturedly. "In the first place, I noticed, while we were passing through that belt of post-oaks back there, that some of the horses left a very devious trail, passing through thick bushes and under trees whose branches were so low that they would have swept a rider out of his saddle if he had not been on the alert to avoid them. Those horses were all loose."
"Perhaps not," exclaimed Bob. "The Indians might have passed through there when it was too dark to see where they were going."
"I know they might, but they didn't, as I shall presently show you. The horses which made those crooked trails were not mustangs. They were American horses, and their presence proves another thing that I didn't think to speak of before; and that is, that the Indians raided other ranches besides Mr. Wentworth's. How do I know that they were American horses? Because their tracks were larger than a pony's, and some of them were shod. The tracks made by the mustangs led through the open part of the timber, where there were no bushes and low branches; and this is one proof that the Indians did not pass through there in the night-time. If they had, they could not have kept in such open ground. I found further proof that these mustangs were all mounted by noticing that they did not stop to graze, as the loose horses did, being kept in constant motion by their riders. What do you think now?" asked George, seeing that Bob began to open his eyes.
"It reads like a book, don't it?" was Bob's reply. "But you have forgotten one very important thing. You said that the Indians passed through those post-oaks early on Thursday morning. How do you know that they didn't pass late on Thursday afternoon or early on Friday morning?"
"You think you have got me there, don't you? Well, you haven't. If there are 'sermons in stones and books in running brooks,' as the poet tells us there are, what is the reason that the print of an Indian pony's hoof may not contain a page of information that will prove to be useful to him who has the skill to read it? On Wednesday night there was a very heavy dew, if you remember."
"I don't remember," replied Bob; "I never pay any attention to such things."
"But you must pay attention to such things, and a good deal of it too, if you are going to be a Plainsman. During the last two nights there has been no dew at all. I noticed that some blades of grass, which had been pressed down by the hoofs of the horses and cattle, were covered with sand which stuck fast to them, having been dried on. This told me that the tracks were made while the grass was wet, and that the Indians had passed that way early on Thursday morning, or before the sun had risen high enough to dry off the dew. There were not more than fifteen or twenty of them. I didn't have time to see just how many, but they have stolen over a thousand head of steers and horses. Now, remember all I have told you, and see if I haven't made a pretty good guess."
"Do you think we shall catch them?" asked Bob.
"Well," answered George slowly, "raiding Indians have been overtaken and neatly whipped before now, but I have always believed that it was more by good luck than good management. These fellows will begin to show their tactics as soon as they find out that they are pursued. Then they will probably leave behind a few of the best mounted of the band to attract our attention and lead us away from the others, who will make all haste to take the prisoners and the stolon stock to a place of safety. If we bite at that bait, we shall lose everything, for as soon as the decoys have led us as far out of our way as they care to have us go, they will disappear all of a sudden, and we shall never see them again. If we keep on after the main body, and travel fast enough to gain on them, they will drop the stock in the desert, break up into squads of twos and threes, and we shall have nothing to do but to turn about and go home again."
The Indians did manoeuvre pretty nearly as George said they would, but Captain Clinton and his scouting-party did not go back to the fort until they had accomplished something.
The troopers went into camp about midnight, having been nineteen hours in the saddle, during which time they had marched more than seventy miles. They halted on the bank of a small stream near a ford over which the Indians had passed during their retreat. The trail was plain, and some of the troopers, who did not know quite as much about trailing as they thought they did, declared that they were close upon the heels of the raiders.
"How is that, George?" asked Bob Owens, who had been detailed as one of the corporals of the guard. "Some of the boys say that if we should follow the Indians for an hour or two longer we would be within sight of their camp-fires."
"What makes them think so?" asked George.
"Because they have found tracks with the sand still running into them. Is that one of the signs by which to tell the age of a trail?"
"Under some circumstances, yes; in the present case, no. You could tell the age of a trail in that way if the ground around it had not been disturbed. This country about here is all quicksand, and you can take your stand almost anywhere along the banks of this stream, and by jumping up and down shake the ground for ten feet on all sides of you. When our heavy column crossed the ford and climbed this bank, it shook the earth, and that was what set the sand to running down into the tracks."
"I declare!" exclaimed Bob, gazing admiringly at his friend; "is there anything a trailer isn't obliged to know?"
"If he wants to be an expert he must keep his eyes and ears wide open, and pay strict attention to little things which almost anybody else would consider to be beneath his notice. It is wonderful what proficiency a person who has a talent for such things can acquire by practice. For example, this scout of ours could learn more about a trail in two minutes than I could in an hour. But he is fearfully jealous," added George with a laugh, "and you ought to have seen how mad I made him while we were passing through that belt of post-oaks this afternoon. Seeing that Captain Clinton was waiting very impatiently for information, I volunteered the statement that the hostiles had passed that way early on Thursday morning, and that Mr. Wentworth was not the only one who had suffered at their hands. The captain asked Mose what he thought of that, and Mose replied, 'I think jest this here, cap: if that kid is agoin' to lead this yere party he had better say so, an' I will go back to the post. He's a'most too fresh, an' he'd better go back in the woods an' practise at holdin' his chin.' But he did not contradict my statement, and that was all the evidence I needed to prove that I was right in what I said. The tracks here on the bank are not as fresh as you suppose. If they were wet, it would be a sign that the Indians crossed the ford since three o'clock this afternoon."
"Why since three o'clock?" asked Bob.
"Because the sun went under a cloud at that hour, and hasn't showed himself since to dry off the water that the horses and cattle brought out of the stream on their feet and legs."
While the two boys were talking in this way George was getting ready to go to bed. The camp was located at the foot of a perpendicular bluff which was perhaps twenty feet in height. On the top of this bluff the horses were picketed, and beyond them were the sentinels who were to look out for the safety of the animals and keep guard over their slumbering companions. Everything outside of the circle of light made by the camp-fires was concealed by the most intense darkness. Not even a star twinkled in the sky. George spread his blankets in a sheltered nook at the foot of the bluff and courted the "drowsy god" in vain. He was tired and his eyes were heavy, but he could not go to sleep. After rolling and tossing about for nearly two hours, he became too nervous to remain inactive any longer, so he slung his rifle on his back and climbed to the top of the bluff, where he found Bob Owens and two other non-commissioned officers sitting beside a fire and conversing in low tones. At another fire a short distance away sat Lieutenant Earle, the officer of the guard, nodding over his pipe.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Bob, "what brought you out here?"
"Oh, I want somebody to talk to," replied George, throwing himself on the ground by his friend's side, "Somehow, I can't sleep, and that's a new thing for me."
"You are not afraid of the hostiles, are you?" asked a corporal from the other side of the fire.
"Oh no, because I know that we have nothing to fear from them on such a night as this. If there were any hostiles in the neighborhood, they might slip up and steal a few horses, if they thought they could get away with their booty, but they wouldn't attack a party of the size of ours and bring on an open fight. It is too dark."
"Why, that is just the reason they would attack us," exclaimed the corporal, who, although he had often been on a scout, had never participated in a battle. "They rely upon the darkness to cover their movements and to assist them in effecting a surprise. I have read it a hundred times."
"Ah, yes," replied George—"story-book Indians make attacks at all hours of the day and night, but live Plains Indians don't. The reason for it is this: They believe that they will go into the happy hunting-grounds with just the same surroundings that attend their departure from this world. If an Indian is crippled or blind or ill, he will be just the same Indian in the spirit-land. If he dies from the effects of disease, he will suffer from that disease for ever; but if he is killed in battle on a pleasant day, and while he is in the possession of all his strength and faculties, he will go straight to the Indian's heaven under the most favorable circumstances."
"Suppose he is killed on a rainy day?" said the corporal on the other side of the fire.
"Or a snowy one?" chimed in a sergeant.
"Then he is doomed to paddle through rain or snow through all eternity," replied George; "and that he doesn't like either is proved by the fact that he will not stir out of camp while it is raining or snowing if he can help it. If an Indian is hanged, like Captain Jack or those thirty-seven warriors who were executed at Mankato in 1863 for participation in the Sioux massacre, he loses all chance of ever seeing the happy hunting-grounds. So he does if he is scalped; and that's the reason Indians make such efforts to carry off the body of a fallen comrade. A Plains Indian never willingly goes into a fight during the night. If he did, he would make it much warmer for us here on the frontier than he does now. He may make use of a night like this to get into position for an attack, but if left to himself he will not raise the war-whoop before daylight, because he believes that if he is killed during the dark he will be condemned to pass all eternity in darkness."
"Well, that is something I never knew before," said the corporal, "and I have been on the Plains a good many years. Now that I think of it—"
"Corporal of the guard, No. 7!" came the call through the dense darkness, whereupon Bob Owens jumped to his feet.
"What's the trouble out there, I wonder?" said he.
"Go and see," replied the sergeant with a sleepy yawn: "that's the only way to find out."
"Sergeant," said the officer of the guard, "if those horses have had grass enough, have them brought in and tied to the stable-lines. Look well to their fastenings."
"Corporal of the guard, No. 7!" came the call again; and this time it was uttered in a louder and more earnest tone.
Bob, who was walking toward post No. 7 with a very deliberate step, now broke into a run, and George jumped up and followed him. A fortunate thing it was for that camp and its inmates that he did so. His thorough acquaintance with the ways of some of the inhabitants of the Plains enabled him to prevent a catastrophe which would certainly have resulted in a serious loss of life, and brought Captain Clinton's scout to an inglorious end then and there. When he and the corporal reached post No. 7 they found the sentry on duty there lying flat on his stomach and gazing earnestly toward the horizon.
"What's the matter, Sprague?" demanded Bob.
"I don't know, I am sure," replied the sentry. "If the hostiles had made up their minds to pay us a visit, they wouldn't make such a racket as that, would they? There! don't you hear it? Something's coming this way, I tell you, and coming on a keen jump, too."
The three held their breath and listened intently. A second later the breeze brought to their ears the sound that had attracted the attention of the sentry—a deep, rumbling sound, faint and far off, but increasing perceptibly in volume. It resembled the constant muttering of distant thunder, but they all knew it was not that. Bob's face brightened at once, but George's grew pale. The corporal did not know the danger that threatened them, but his companion did; he had heard something like it before. He had heard it on the night that Fletcher and his band of raiders stampeded his stock, and he had thrown himself into an old buffalo-wallow and allowed three hundred frantic cattle to gallop over his head.
"Why, it must be cavalry from Fort Tyler," said Bob at length.—"But I'll tell you what's a fact, boys," he added, as a fresh gust of wind brought the sound more plainly to his ears: "there must be lots of them, for I never heard such a roar of hoofs before. They are coming this way, too. I hope they'll not run over us."
"Well, they will run over us," said George, speaking quickly but calmly, "unless you take immediate steps to prevent it. They are not cavalry; they are buffaloes."
"Oh! ah!" exclaimed Bob.
"Humph!" ejaculated the sentry, jumping to his feet.—"Don't tell the boys what I called you out for, will you, corporal? To tell the truth, I was just a little bit—"
He finished the sentence by shrugging his shoulders, and Bob, who knew what he meant by that, was about to assure him that he would say nothing in the hearing of the "boys" that would enable them to "get the laugh" on him, when George Ackerman broke in with—
"You had good reason to be alarmed, and this is not a matter to be dropped with an 'ah!' and an 'oh!' and a 'humph!' You are in great danger, if you only knew it. Those buffaloes are stampeded, and will not stop until they are all out of breath."
"Well, if they don't want to stop, let them run," said Bob. "Who cares? They don't owe us anything. They will of course turn aside when they see us."
"But they will not see you unless you do something to attract their attention," exclaimed George impatiently. "They will be in among us in five minutes more, and men and horses will be trampled into the ground like blades of grass. Wake up and do something, can't you? The safety of the camp depends upon you, and if you don't move, I will."
"Great Moses!" ejaculated Bob. He was thoroughly aroused by the earnest words of his companion, but having never been placed in a situation like this before, he did not know how to act. "You don't mean that—I never heard of—"
"Yes, I do mean that they will trample the whole camp to death unless you prevent it; and I don't care whether you ever heard of such a thing being done or not," cried George, seizing the corporal by the arm and shaking him as if he wanted to put a little energy into him.
"But what shall I do? Shall I order up the reserve and get the horses out of the way?"
"You haven't got time to get them out of the way. The buffaloes will be upon us before you could take half a dozen of them to a place of safety. Arouse the camp the first thing, and then call up a few good men to go out and split the herd the moment it comes in sight."
Bob, who was still in the dark, was about to ask how he should go to work to "split" the herd after he had selected the men, but George did not give him the opportunity. The rumbling of the approaching hoofs grew louder and louder, and every moment was precious. It sounded before them and to the right and left of them, indicating that the herd was an immense one, and that it was advancing with a front broad enough to overwhelm the entire camp. Knowing that no more time could be wasted in debating the matter, George unslung his Winchester and fired two shots into the air. The effect was almost magical. The camp, which had been so quiet a second before, was aroused into instant life and activity. Loud cries of "Indians!" and " Fall in!" arose on the still air, followed by blasts from the bugle and stern notes of command. The officer of the guard was promptly on the ground, and to him Bob reported that a herd of stampeded buffaloes was bearing down upon them. The announcement startled the lieutenant, but he acted with the greatest coolness. As fast as the men came up he ordered them back to take care of the horses—all except a dozen or so of the best soldiers known to him, whom he ordered to follow him. By the time he had taken up his position, which was on a little rise of ground about fifty yards from post No. 7, Captain Clinton came up. Taking in at a glance the arrangements which his subordinate had made to avert the terrible danger that threatened the camp, he left him and his picked men to carry out those arrangements or perish in the attempt, while he hastened back to see that the horses were well secured.
"Steady!" commanded Lieutenant Earle, speaking in his loudest tones, in order to make his voice heard above the roar of the threatening hoofs, which sounded like the noise made by an approaching hurricane. "We are here to conquer or die. If we don't split that herd they will trample us out of sight in the ground. We can do it if we are only cool enough to hold our position. Don't fire until I give the word, and then put in the shots as rapidly as you know how."
Bob's hair fairly stood on end, and not even the calm bearing of George Ackerman, who was constantly by his side and who knew their danger better than he did, or the lieutenant's assurance that the herd could be split if they did their full duty, could relieve Bob's mind of the positive conviction that he and his comrades were doomed to certain and speedy death. But his courage never faltered, and to show that he did not intend to allow himself to be outdone in steadiness even by a shoulder-strap, he walked up and kneeling beside his officer (the men in the front rank were all kneeling, so that those in the rear rank could shoot over their heads) waited for the order to fire.
Nearer came the terror-stricken buffaloes, louder grew the thunder of their hoofs, and, as if to add to the horror of the situation and to test the courage of the lieutenant and his devoted little band to the very utmost, the horses behind them began to grow unmanageable from fright and to struggle desperately to escape from their fastenings.
At length, after a few moments of dreadful suspense, the time for action arrived. A rapidly-moving mass, which was plainly visible, owing to the fact that it was blacker than the darkness of the night, burst into view and bore down upon the camp and its little band of defenders. So loud was the noise made by their hoofs at this moment that the troopers did not hear the order to fire, which the lieutenant shouted out with all the power of his lungs; but they saw the flash of his revolver, and lost no time in opening a hot fire upon that portion of the herd which was directly in front of them. To Bob it seemed that the rapid discharges of their breech-loaders had no effect whatever. The black mass before him was as black and as dense, apparently, as it was when he first saw it, but, strange to say, instead of plunging upon him and his companions and trampling them out of all semblance to humanity, it seemed to remain stationary, although the deafening roar of those countless hoofs told him that the frantic herd had not in the least slackened its pace. In fact, his eyes and ears seemed to have suddenly become at "outs," for they did not endorse each other as they usually did. His eyes told him that his carbine was fired rapidly, for they showed him the flashes that followed the pulling of the trigger; but his ears took no note of the fact, for he could not hear the faintest report. The reason for this was, that the herd, having been split in two by the first volley, was moving by on each side of them with a roar and a rush that would have drowned the discharge of a section of artillery.
How long the buffaloes were in passing Bob never knew, for he took no note of time. It was probably not more than two or three minutes, but during that brief period he passed through an ordeal that he never could think of afterward without feeling the cold chills creep all over him. But he did not flinch, and neither did his companions. When the last of the buffaloes passed to the right and left of them, and the lieutenant jumped up and stretched his arms and legs as if to assure himself that he had not been stepped on anywhere, he found that not one of his men had moved from his place. The front rank was still kneeling, the rear rank was standing, and they were both as well aligned as they were before the firing commenced.
After ordering the front rank to rise, and bestowing upon them all a few hearty words of commendation, the lieutenant marched his men back to the camp, where they found some of their companions under arms, and the rest engaged in bringing in the horses and making them fast to the stable-lines. The animals were in such a state of alarm, and showed so strong a desire to run off with the retreating buffaloes, that Captain Clinton thought it advisable to put a strong guard over them for the rest of the night, with instructions to examine their fastenings every few minutes. When this guard had been detailed and the sentries had been changed, the rest of the troopers went back to their blankets.
Bob and George were proud of the part they had acted in saving the camp from destruction, and consequently when they spread their blankets beside one of the fires they were somewhat provoked to hear the man who was piling fresh fuel upon it attribute their narrow escape to "luck." But still there was nothing very surprising in this, for it not infrequently happens that a soldier stationed in one end of a camp does not know what is going on in the other end of it, especially in times of excitement. The same thing happens in a fight. A soldier may be able to give a clear statement of the part his company took in it, but he knows nothing of the general plan of the battle or of the number of the killed, wounded, captured or missing, until he has had time to talk the matter over with his comrades or to read a published account of it. During the war it was a common saying among the soldiers in the field that they never knew anything about the fights they had been in until they saw the papers.
"I have been on the Plains nearly three years," said the trooper who was punching up the fire, "and that was the first time I ever saw a herd of stampeded buffaloes."
"I never saw one," said another trooper. "I heard this one, but my horse kept me so busy that I couldn't take time to look at it."
"I had a fair view of it," said the one who had first spoken. "My horse was quiet enough after I got the bit between his teeth, so that I could manage him, and I stood up there by that farther fire and took it all in. I tell you, it was a sight!—a regular cataract of buffaloes a hundred feet wide, tumbling over a bank twenty feet high. I have always heard that when buffaloes become frightened and get to running they turn aside for nothing; but this night's experience gives the lie to all such stories, don't it? When they saw our camp they turned to the right and left, and crossed the stream above and below us, and never did us the least damage. Luck was on our side, wasn't it?"
"'Luck'!" repeated Bob in a tone of disgust; "I guess not. There were about a dozen men, of whom George Ackerman and I made two, who stood between you fellows and certain death. If we hadn't held our ground as if we had grown there, there wouldn't have been one of you left to tell the story of this night's work."
The troopers lying about the fire were greatly astonished at these words, and called for an immediate explanation. Bob told the story in a few words, adding, as he directed the attention of his auditors to George Ackerman, who was lying at his ease on his blanket,
"There's the fellow you have to thank for your 'luck.' Sprague heard them coming, and so did I after he called me out to his post, but we didn't know what it was until Ackerman told us. He was the one who alarmed the camp. I know I did something toward splitting that herd, for I could see the fire come out of my carbine and my cartridge-box is empty, but I never heard a report. I didn't hear anything but the thunder of those hoofs, and I shall hear it to my dying day."
"I wonder what started them?" said one of the troopers, after he and his companions had asked a few questions concerning the behavior of the various members of the squad. "Indians?"
"Probably they did," answered a sergeant, who just then came up to the fire to light his pipe, being unable to go to sleep until he had taken a smoke to quiet his nerves.
"Probably the Indians had nothing to do with it," said George. "Don't you know that a herd of buffaloes will feed within a mile or two of an Indian camp for days at a time, while half a dozen white men would scare them out of the country in less than an hour? Well, it's a fact."
"What is the reason for it?" asked Bob.
"The reason is to be found in the different modes of hunting them. The Indian, who depends largely upon them for food and clothing, kills no more of them during a run than the squaws can take care of. He hunts them almost altogether with the bow and arrow, which are not only very effective weapons at short range, but they make no noise to scare away the game. He hunts according to long-established rules, none but the best men in the tribe being permitted to take part in a run, and in this way the game is secured before the buffaloes get frightened enough to break into a stampede. The white man, who hunts principally for profit, keeps up the killing as long as he can hold the herd within range of his gun. He follows them persistently during the daytime, and at night lies in wait to shoot them as they come to the streams to quench their thirst. A buffalo is a very stupid animal, but, after all, it doesn't take him long to get some things through his head."
"Fresh, purty fresh!" murmured a voice.
George looked over his shoulders and saw the scout lying close by on his blanket. He had come up to the fire and arranged his bed without attracting the attention of any one.
"Do you think there is nobody in this party who knows anything except yourself?" demanded George.
"Well, no; judgin' by the way you sling your chin, you know it all," replied the scout.
"What do you suppose first put this herd in motion?" asked one of the troopers, who had not yet gained all the information he wanted.
"That's a question that nobody can answer unless he was on the ground and saw them start," answered George.—"You'll not dispute that, will you, Mose?—Our Texas cattle will often get stampeded by the sight of a little cloud of dust that is suddenly raised by the wind; or some night a careless herdsman may step between them and the fire and throw his shadow upon them; or some of the young and foolish members of a drove will fall to skylarking, and that will frighten the others, and the first thing you know they are all off like the wind. Buffaloes have just as little sense. My herdsman has told me that he has seen hundreds of them, when they were suffering for water, walk into a stream that was literally choked with the bodies of their companions who had been caught in the quicksand."
"Say," growled a drowsy trooper from his blanket, "suppose you boys go somewhere and hire a hall?"
George laughed, and, taking the hint thus delicately thrown out, brought his lecture on buffaloes to a close. The remembrance of the thrilling scene through which he had just passed did not keep him awake. On the contrary, sleep came to his eyes almost immediately, and the last sound he heard as he was about to pass into the land of dreams was the subdued voice of the scout murmuring, "Fresh, very fresh!"