And so they waited through the hot smoke and sunshine of the autumn afternoon, and, even while comforting the wounded with assurance of coming relief, kept vigilant watch on every hostile move, and at last, toward three o'clock, the sharp fire about them slackened away, the smouldering roots of the bunch grass had burned themselves out. The smoke drifted away from the prairie, and, as the landscape cleared to the south and west, a cheer of delight went up from the cottonwoods, for the slopes three miles away were dotted here and there and everywhere with circling, scurrying war ponies—they and their wild riders steadily falling back before a long rank of disciplined horsemen, the extended skirmish line of Webb's squadron, backed by supports at regular intervals, and all heading straight on for the broad lowlands of the Elk.
"Send six of your men over to the south front, sergeant," were Ray's orders to Winsor, as he hurried over to join Clayton again. "They may try one final charge from that side, and give us a chance to empty a few more saddles." Creeping and crouching through the timber the chosen men obeyed, and were assigned to stations under Clayton's eye. The precaution was wise indeed, for, just as the captain foresaw, a rally in force began far out over the southward slopes, the Indians gathering in great numbers about some chieftain midway between the coming force and the still beleaguered defenders of the grove. Then, brandishing lance and shield and rifle, as before, they began spreading out across the prairie, heading now for the cottonwoods, while others still faced and fired on the far blue skirmish line. The fierce wind, sweeping across the direction of the attack, deadened all sound of hoof or war chant, but there was no mistaking the signs, no doubt of the intent, when, in a little moment more, the earth began to tremble beneath the dancing pony feet, telling, almost with the swiftness of sight, that the grand advance had again begun. But other eyes were watching too. Other soldiers, keen campaigners as these at the Elk, were there afield, and almost at the moment the wild barbaric horde burst yelling into their eager gallop, and before the dust cloud hid the distant slopes beyond, the exultant shout went up from the captain's lips, as he threw down his glass and grabbed his carbine. "It's all right, men! The major's coming at their heels. Now let 'em have it!"
In former days there had been scenes of wild rejoicing, sometimes of deep emotion, when relief came to some Indian-besieged detachment of the old regiment. Once, far to the south in the wild, romantic park country of Colorado, a strong detachment had been corralled for days by an overwhelming force of Utes. Their commander,—a dozen of their best men,—all the horses killed and many troopers sorely wounded. They had been rescued at last by their skilled and gallant colonel, after a long and most scientific march by both night and day. Another time, still farther in their past, and yet within a dozen years, away down the broad valley of the very stream of which this little Elk was a tributary, the Cheyennes had hemmed in and sorely hammered two depleted troops that owed their ultimate rescue to the daring of the very officer who so coolly, confidently headed the defence this day—to a night ride through the Indian lines that nearly cost him his brave young life, but that brought Captain Truscott with a fresh and powerful troop sweeping in to their succor with the dawn. Then there had been men who strained other men to their hearts and who shed tears like women, for gallant comrades had bitten the dust in the desperate fighting of the day before, and hope itself had almost gone—with the ammunition of the beleaguered command.
Now, with heavier losses than had befallen Wayne in '76, Ray's command beheld with almost tranquil hearts the coming of the fierce array in final charge. Behind them, not two miles, to be sure, rode in swift, well-ordered pursuit the long line of comrade troopers. But there had been intervening years of campaign experiences that dulled to a degree the earlier enthusiasms of the soldier, and taught at least the assumption of professional composure that was the secret wonder of the suckling trooper, and that became his chief ambition to acquire. It is one thing to charge home at a hard-fighting command when friends and comrades back the effort and cheer the charging line. It is another to charge home conscious that other chargers are coming at one's heels. Magnificent as a spectacle, therefore, this closing dash of Lame Wolf's warriors was but a meek reminder of their earlier attack. Long before they came within four hundred yards of the leafy stronghold,—the moment, indeed, the brown Springfields began their spiteful bark,—to right and left the warriors veered, far out on either flank. Screeching and yelling as was their savage way, they tore madly by, flattened out against their ponies' necks and, those who could use their arms at all, pumping wild shots that whistled harmless over the heads of the defenders and bit the blackened prairie many a rod beyond. Only jeers rewarded the stirring spectacle,—jeers and a few low-aimed, sputtering volleys that brought other luckless ponies to their knees and sprawled a few red riders. But in less than five minutes from the warning cry that hailed their coming, Lame Wolf and his hosts were lining Elk Tooth ridge and watching with burning hate and vengeful eyes the swift, steady advance of Webb's long blue fighting line, and the utter unconcern of the defence. Even before the relieving squadron was within carbine range certain of Ray's men had scrambled out upon the northward bank and, pushing forward upon the prairie, were possessing themselves of the arms and ornaments of the two dead warriors whom the Sioux had strived in vain to reach and bear within their lines. Ray and Clayton at the moment were strolling placidly forth upon the southward "bench" to receive and welcome the little knot of comrades sent galloping in advance to greet them. There was perhaps just a suspicion of exaggerated nonchalance about their gait and bearing—a regimental weakness, possibly—and no other officer save Lieutenant Field happened to be within earshot when Winsor's voice on the other front was heard in hoarse command:
"Come back there, you fellows! Back or you're goners!"
The sight had proved too much for some of the Sioux. Down again at furious speed came a scattered cloud of young braves, following the lead of the tall, magnificent chief who had been the hero of the earlier attack,—down into the low ground, never swerving or checking pace, straight for the grove, the three or four inquisitive blue-coats in the meantime scurrying for shelter; and the yell that went up at sight of the Indian dash and the quick reopening of the sputtering fire brought Ray, running once again to the northward edge of the timber, wondering what could be amiss. Field was lying on his blanket, just under the bank, as the captain darted by, and grinned his gratification as he heard the brief, assuring words: "Webb's here—all hands with him." An instant later a bullet whizzed through the roots of the old cottonwood above his head, and from far out afield, deadened by the rush of the wind, a dull crackle of shots told that something had recalled the Sioux to the attack, and for three minutes there was a lively fusillade all along the northward side. Then it slowly died away, and other voices, close at hand,—someone speaking his name,—called the lad's attention. He was weak from loss of blood, and just a little dazed and flighty. He had meant three hours agone that when next he encountered his post commander his manner should plainly show that senior that even a second lieutenant had rights a major was bound to respect. But, only mistily now, he saw bending over him the keen, soldierly features,—the kind, winsome gray eyes, filled with such a world of concern and sympathy,—and heard the deep, earnest tones of the voice he knew so well, calling again his name and mingling cordial praise and anxious inquiry, and all the rancor seemed to float away with the smoke of the last carbine shots. He could only faintly return the pressure of that firm, muscular hand, only feebly smile his thanks and reassurance, and then he, too, seemed floating away somewhere into space, and he could not manage to connect what Webb had been saying with the next words that fastened on his truant senses. It must have been hours later, too, for darkness had settled on the valley. A little fire was burning under the shelter of the bank. A little group of soldiers were chatting in low tone, close at hand. Among them, his arm in a sling, stood a stocky little chap whose face, seen in the flickering light, was familiar to him. So was
the eager brogue in which that little chap was speaking. A steward was remonstrating, and only vaguely at first, Field grasped the meaning of his words:—
"The captain said you were not to try to follow, Kennedy, at least not until Dr. Waller saw you. Wait till he gets here. He can't be three miles back now."
"To hell wid ye!" was the vehement answer. "D'ye think I'd be maundherin' here wid the whole command gone on afther thim bloody Sioux. I've made my mark on wan o' thim, an' he's the buck I'm afther."
"He's made his mark on you, Kennedy," broke in a soldier voice. "You mad fool, trying to tackle a chief like that—even if he was hit, for he had his whole gang behind him."
"Sure he dared me out, an'—what's this he called me? a d——d whiskey thafe!—me that niver——"
"Oh, shut up, Kennedy," laughed a brother Irishman. "You were full as a goat at 'K' Troop's stables—Where'd ye get the whiskey if——"
"I'll lay you, Lanigan, when I get two hands agin, though I misdoubt wan would do it. It's me horse I want now and lave to go on wid the capt'n. Ready now, sir," he added, with sudden change of tone and manner, for a tall, slender form came striding into the fire light, and Field knew Blake at the instant, and would have called but for the first word from the captain's lips.
"Your heart's safe, Kennedy. I wish your head was. Your past master in blasphemy out there won't eat it, at all events."
"Did ye get him, sorr,—afther all?"
"I didn't. His English spoiled my aim. 'Twas Winsor shot him. Now, you're to stay here, you and Kilmaine. The doctor may bring despatches, and you follow us with the first to come." An orderly had led forth a saddled horse, and Blake's foot was already in the stirrup. "They say it was Red Fox himself, Kennedy," he added. "Where on earth did you meet him before?"
"Shure, I niver knew him, sorr," was the quick reply, as Blake's long, lean leg swung over the big charger's back and the rider settled in saddle.
"But he knew you perfectly well. He dared you by name, when we closed on them—you and Mr. Field."
And when an hour later the veteran surgeon came and knelt by the side of the young officer reported seriously wounded, and took his hand and felt his pulse, there was something in the situation that seemed to call for immediate action. "We'll get you back to Frayne to-morrow, Field," said Waller, with kind intent. "Don't—worry now."
"Don't do that, doctor," feebly, surprisingly moaned the fevered lad. "Don't take me back to Frayne!"
* * *
CHAPTER XIV
A VANISHED HEROINE
Within forty-eight hours of the coming of Trooper Kennedy with his "rush" despatches to Fort Frayne, the actors in our little drama had become widely separated. Webb and his sturdy squadron, including Ray and such of his troop as still had mounts and no serious wounds, were marching straight on for the Dry Fork of the Powder. They were two hundred fighting men; and, although the Sioux had now three times that many, they had learned too much of the shooting powers of these seasoned troopers, and deemed it wise to avoid close contact. The Indian fights well, man for man, when fairly cornered, but at other times he is no true sportsman. He asks for odds of ten to one, as when he wiped out Custer on the "Greasy Grass," or Fetteman at Fort Phil Kearny,—as when he tackled the Gray Fox,—General Crook—on the Rosebud, and Sibley's little party among the pines of the Big Horn. Ray's plucky followers had shot viciously and emptied far too many saddles for Indian equanimity. It might be well in any event to let Webb's squadron through and wait for further accessions from the agencies at the southeast, or the big, turbulent bands of Uncapapas and Minneconjous at Standing Rock, or the Cheyennes along the Yellowstone.
So back went Lame Wolf and his braves, bearing Stabber with them, flitting northward again toward the glorious country beyond the "Chakadee," and on went Webb, with Blake, Gregg, Ray and their juniors, with Tracy to take care of such as might be wounded on the way; and, later still, the old post surgeon reached the Elk with guards and hospital attendants, and on the morrow row began his homeward march with the dead and wounded,—a sad and solemn little procession. Only twenty miles he had to go, but it took long hours, so few were the ambulances, so rough the crossings of the ravines; and, not until near nightfall was the last of the wounded,—Lieutenant Field,—borne in the arms of pitying soldiers into the old post hospital, too far gone with fever, exhaustion and some strong mental excitement to know or care that his strange plea had been, perforce, disregarded;—to know or care later that the general himself, the commander they loved and trusted, was bending over him at dawn the following day. Ordering forward all available troops from the line of the railway, "the Chief" had stopped at Laramie only long enough for brief conference with the post commander; then, bidding him come on with all his cavalry, had pushed ahead for Frayne. It couldn't be a long campaign, perhaps, with winter close at hand, but it would be a lively one. Of that the chief felt well assured.
Now, there was something uncanny about this outbreak on the part of the Sioux, and the general was puzzled. Up to September the Indians had been busy with the annual hunt. They were fat, well-fed, prosperous,—had got from the government pretty much everything that they could ask with any show of reason and, so they said, had been promised more. The rows between the limited few of their young men and some bullies among the "rustlers" had been no more frequent nor serious than on previous summers, when matters had been settled without resort to arms; but this year the very devil seemed to have got into the situation. Something, or probably somebody, said the general, had been stirring the Indians up, exciting—exhorting possibly, and almost the first thing the general did as he climbed stiffly out of his stout Concord wagon, in the paling starlight of the early morning, was to turn to Dade, now commanding the post, and to say he should like, as soon as possible, to see Bill Hay. Meantime he wished to go in and look at the wounded.
It was not yet five o'clock, but Dr. Waller was up and devoting himself to the needs of his patients, and Dade had coffee ready for the general and his single aide-de-camp, but not a sip would the general take until he had seen the stricken troopers. He knew Field by reputation, well and favorably. He had intimately known Field's father in the old days, in the old army, when they served together on the then wild Pacific shores "where rolls the Oregon." The great civil war had divided them, for Field had cast his soldier fortune with his seceding State, but all that was a thing of the past. Here was the son, a loyal soldier of the flag the father had again sworn allegiance to when he took his seat in the House of Representatives. The general thought highly of Field, and was sore troubled at his serious condition. He knew what despatches would be coming from the far South when the telegraph line began the busy clicking of the morning. He was troubled to find the lad in high fever and to hear that he had been out of his head. He was more than troubled at the concern, and something like confusion, in the old doctor's face.
"You don't think him dangerously wounded, do you?" he asked.
"Not dangerously, general," was the reply. "It's—well, he seems to have something on his mind." And more than this the doctor would not say. It was not for him to tell the chief what Webb had confided ere he left the post—that most of the currency for which Field was accountable was so much waste paper. Field lay muttering and tossing in restless misery, unconscious most of the time, and sleeping only when under the influence of a strong narcotic. Dade, with sadness and constraint apparent in his manner, hung back and did not enter the bare hospital room where, with only a steward in attendance, the young soldier lay. The doctor had gone with the general to the bedside, but the captain remained out of earshot at the door.
First call for reveillé was just sounding on the infantry bugles as the trio came forth. "I have sent for Hay already, general," Dade was saying, as they stood on the wooden veranda overlooking the valley of the murmuring river; "but will you not come now and have coffee? He can join us over at my quarters."
Already, however, the orderly was hurrying back. They met him when not h
alf way over to the line of officers' quarters. The few men for duty in the two companies of infantry, left to guard the post, were gathering in little groups in front of their barracks, awaiting the sounding of the assembly. They knew the chief at a glance, and were curiously watching him as he went thoughtfully pacing across the parade by the side of the temporary commander. They saw the orderly coming almost at a run from the direction of the guard-house, saw him halt and salute, evidently making some report, but they could not guess what made him so suddenly start and run at speed toward the southward bluff, the direction of the trader's corral and stables, while Captain Dade whirled about and signalled Sergeant Crabb, of the cavalry, left behind in charge of the few custodians of the troop barracks. Crabb, too, threw dignity to the winds, and ran at the beck of his superior officer.
"Have you two men who can ride hard a dozen miles or so—and carry out their orders?" was the captain's sharp demand.
"Certainly, sir," answered Crabb, professionally resentful that such question should be asked of men of the ——th Cavalry.
"Send two to report to me at once, mounted. Never mind breakfast."
And by this time, apparently, the chief, the post commander and possibly even the aide-de-camp had forgotten about the waiting coffee. They still stood there where they had halted in the centre of the parade. The doctor, coming from hospital, was signalled to and speedily joined them. The bugle sounded, the men mechanically formed ranks and answered to their names, all the while watching from the corner of their eyes the group of officers, now increased by two infantry subalterns, Lieutenants Bruce and Duncan, who raised their caps to the preoccupied general, such salutation being then a fashion, not a regulation of the service, and stood silently awaiting instructions, for something of consequence was surely at hand. Then the orderly again appeared, returning from his mission, out of breath and speaking with difficulty.
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