Part 13 (1/2)

It was Pearson, the missing ”partner,” captured alive by the Sioux, doomed to die by slow torture, in revenge for a young warrior shot down by the gun-traders in a senseless squabble two nights before.

And the troop had saved him and his fellow-captive, the cook, without so much as firing a shot.

CHAPTER XVIII

BATTLE AND VICTORY

And this was the story that went on the heels of the escort convoying the gun-traders in to the fort, and much did Major Berry relish the composition of that report. It had long been the claim of himself and his comrades that white men were encouraged to enter the reservation with arms and cartridges, and that it was easy for the Sioux to lure their police, or to mislead the sheriff, away from the point where these unprincipled smugglers crossed the line.

Now, infuriated at the cowardice and treachery of two of their number, Pearson, the leader, and Bent, the wagoner, had made a clean breast of the business. They had driven hard bargains, had laid in good stores of beaver, wolf, and deer skins, and no little cash. Then Little Crow came, quarrelled over an obvious cheat, called one partner a liar, was struck, abused, and thrown out. He galloped away and came back with Gamble, a man they dare not let live, once having learned their secret.

Both Little Crow and he were treacherously shot by the partners as they were riding to warn George Sword and his police. Then came the swift vengeance of the Sioux, the flight of Hurley and Gross, leaving their unwary comrades to an awful fate. While one party of Indians made way with the wagon, in hopes of running it--horses, contents, and all--to the camp of Si Tanka, another party, the immediate relatives and friends of Little Crow, rode off with the two captives to the village where Little Crow lay dying, and finally, fearing interruption there, came back to the valley by night for the wildest, most delirious orgy known to Indian tradition--the slow doing to death of captured enemy by ingenious and horrible torture.

And this was the indescribable ceremony nipped in the bud by our young lieutenant and his twoscore men, to whose energy, courage, and skill Major Berry gave all credit, though Garrett claimed it ”in the name of my troop.”

All night had they faced a furious and clamorous band--chiefs, warriors, and women--shouting denunciation, demanding their prey, and threatening attack in tremendous force. But Geordie had posted his men for battle, hidden the recaptured under the bank, and dared the whole band to come on and get them, if they thought it advisable, which, it seems, they did not. With his patients on Indian _travois_ (”borrowed,”

ponies and all, perhaps without ceremony, from the supply on the spot), Graham slowly retraced his steps the following morning, and was met half-way in by the squadron in force, the heartiest kind of a welcome, and news that thrilled through his veins like the sound of the charge.

”The --th and your own troop are camped south of the line, Mr. Graham.

I have orders for you to go in to-morrow.”

Just so soon, therefore, as he could turn over his patients to the care of the surgeon, write his brief report of the scout, and say good-bye and a few words of thanks to Sergeant Drum and his fellows, who longed to tell him how they hated to let him go, and after hearty handshakes from Berry and his brother officers (”Samson” Stone taking special credit to himself for having, as he expressed it, ”put Graham and Connell onto the time of their lives”), our Geordie blus.h.i.+ngly bade farewell to these comrades of a strenuous month, and, with faithful Connell at his side, and a little escort attending, rode away down to the Chaduza, to report to the general commanding, and then go on to his own, for ominous tales had come from the Bad Lands. There was trouble in store for all.

[Ill.u.s.tration: UNITED STATES CAVALRY IN WINTER RIG]

First, however, there was wonderful welcome for him at Niobrara. The skies had grown wintry. The snow patches were beginning to dot the prairie, but the camp-fires burned the brighter, and men cl.u.s.tered about them and talked of the ”luck” of the new lieutenant, whom the general himself alighted from his escort wagon to greet and to question. For several days the chums were needed at the fort, where both prisoners and witnesses were held, but the case against the self-styled hunters was so overwhelming that the demand for their stay was soon at an end, and, in the train of the general, they went on westward to the winter camp of the a.s.sembled cavalry, whither ”the old regiment” had preceded them, and there, one dark and wintry evening, with the snow-flakes sifting down, and the depths of a distant valley all dotted with tiny blazes--the cook fires of a whole brigade--they were met by a troop of cavalry in fur caps and gauntlets, and huge, blanket-lined overcoats--swarthy, bearded fellows, with service-stained boots and trappings, but looking fit for the hardest kind of campaigning and any kind of a fight. It swung from column into line, saluted the general with advanced carbines, and then, wheeling by fours to right, trotted briskly away with the little cortege, and presently its commander, after a few words with the general, fell back, peering from under his bushy headpiece, and sung out in cheery tones Geordie had not heard for many a day, yet knew on the instant:

”Ah, there you are, Mr. Graham! We have a horse with us ready for you now!” And lo! it was Captain Lane, with his own troop (”E” of the --th), sent out to lead the general's escort into camp. Leaving the companions of the long, jolting ambulance ride, Geordie sprang to the back of a mettlesome bay, led forward by a m.u.f.fled-up trooper who steadied the young officer's stirrup before turning aside to remount, while a tall, spare, wiry-looking sergeant sat stiffly in saddle, his fur-covered hand at salute, his long gray mustache and stubbly beard and thin hooked nose being almost all that could be seen of the face; yet the twinkle in his waiting captain's eyes and a twitch in the muscles of the veteran's lips set Geordie to staring, and presently out went his hand and up went his glad young voice:

”Nolan! Nolan! _You_ back with us again!”

”Couldn't keep out of it, sir, when we got word that the old troop was to have another Indian campaign. No more could Toomey.”

And lo! it was his friend of the Big Mogul now again bestriding a troop horse, detailed specially to meet him! And Lane, with a wave of his hand and a laugh that was good to hear, left the three cronies of Silver Run to ride in together while he galloped on to his duties.

”But the mines, Nolan, and your position?” questioned Geordie, as soon as the greetings were over and he could recover from his amaze.

”The mine is as sound as a government bond, sir, and s.h.i.+ner's holding down my job till I want it again; and Mr. Anthony told me to say that whenever the lieutenant got tired of soldiering to come back with Toomey and take his old trick with the shovel.”

And so, joyous and laughing, the three friends of old rode down to the thronging camps in the valley, and to the stern duties that so soon awaited them.

For there came a day when men's faces went white with the news that Sitting Bull, the great chief (Tatanka-iyo-Tanka), had died in desperate fight with the police sent to arrest him; that Si Tanka and his band, nabbed by ”Napa Yahmni,” had most unaccountably managed later to elude him, and were now at large, raising the standard of revolt, summoning all the wild warriors far and near to join forces with him.

And then, indeed, the frontier blazed with signal-fires by night and burning ranches by day, and there came a week of hard riding for the old regiment, and of sharp campaigning for all--a week in which at last the wily red chief Si Tanka was finally surrounded and, with all his people and ponies, herded on down through the Bad Lands to the breaks of Wounded Knee--fierce, truculent, defiant. For long months he had braved the ”Great Father” himself, refusing to submit to any authority; but the sight of those long columns of silent, disciplined ”horse soldiers,” squadrons white and black, some of them riding along with wonderful little field-guns clinking beside them on wheels, overawed Si Tanka's followers and disheartened his friends.

There came a day when he had to submit, and agree to surrender, and go whither orders might send him, and with his fierce spirit crushed, he bowed his head and took to his lodge, and laid him down in his robes, sick, body and soul. And then the old regiment marched over to the mission to guard prisoners and property, and another was sent scouting after scattering little war parties, and Connell, who had again been serving with the general, got word to Geordie that orders had come putting an end to his ”holiday,” and calling him East to his legitimate duty. Could Geordie get over to see him, and the disarming of Big Foot's band, on the morrow?

Graham showed the missive to his captain, and Lane took it to the colonel. ”Let Graham go,” said the latter. ”There's nothing to be done here.”

And so it happened that once again the two chums were together, and this time on a momentous and perilous day.