Under Fire

by Charles King

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  A hundred miles away,--a hundred as the crow flies, and not by thetortuous route the cavalry had to follow, through a region that, all inan hour's march, shifted its scene from the dull monotone of barrenwaves of prairie to bold, beautiful heights and deep sheltered ravinesand canons, the winding thread of the Mina Ska went foaming and leapingover its stony bed, taking occasional cat-naps in wide, shadowyshallows, only to wake up again to wilder riot under the frowning,fir-crested cliffs of the Black Rock Range. For many a long, sunshinymile it had come floating placidly eastward, issuing from the greatwater-shed of the continent, drifting leisurely between low-lying,grassy banks all criss-crossed with ancient buffalo-trails, or therecent footprints of long-horned cattle, past the broad plateau, crowdedby the wooden walls of Fort Ransom, past the roofs and spires ofbustling Butte, a prairie metropolis, a railway and cattle town thatrivalled Braska, past long miles of gleaming tangents of thetranscontinental railway until it met the bold bluffs east of AlkaliStation and was shouldered from its course and sent on long, tortuous_detour_ to the northeast, until, beyond the great reservation of thered men in the loveliest hill country of the wild frontier, it once moreturned sharply eastward at the point described in the sonorous languageof the plains as "the Big Bend of the Mina Ska." Midway between itssweeping curve near Alkali and the sharp deflection at the big bendthere came flowing into it from the westward, through the very heart ofthe Dakota lands, the clear, translucent waters of the Wakpa Wakon,--theSpirit River of the Sioux, all along whose storied shores for mouths hadclustered the thronging villages of the tribe, living through the long,fierce winter in sheltered comfort, fed, warmed, inspired by the spoilsand stories of the great campaign the year gone by. But now as though bymagic had the tepees vanished. Only around the protecting agency, milesto the west, miles deeper in among the tumbling hills, were the lodgesnow clustered, hundreds of them, with their swarming occupants,--oldmen, old crones, Indian mothers, wives, sweethearts, maids, young boys,children, and pappooses,--all confidingly clinging to the protectinghand of the Great Father and claiming his bounty; while the husbands andfathers, the stalwart young warriors of the Sioux themselves, wereskulking through the Bad Lands across the Ska, eagerly, warily watchingthe coming of the little cavalry column from the distant Chasing Water,while even in greater numbers their wild red cohorts patrolled the deepvalley, the overhanging heights of the Ska itself, watching every moveof the coming force from Ransom, bent on luring both, if possible, farwithin their borders, far in among those tangling, treacherous ravinesand canons, and, there surrounding, to massacre the last man.

  Southwestward, at Painted Lodge Butte, after a long, long march throughthe heat and glare of the long June day, Colonel Winthrop had orderedhis men to bivouac for the night. Riding steadily eastward by the"foot-hill" trail from Ransom, they had reached Willow Springs on Fridaynoon, purposing to camp there until the following dawn, but so alarmingwere the reports of the few fleeing settlers whom they met that the oldcolonel decided after an hour's rest to push on again. Without beingtrammelled by precise orders, the general tenor of his instructions wasto march on down the Ska, and strike and punish any Indian war-partieshe could find, and clear the valley as soon as possible. Major Chrome,with four troops, two of the Eleventh, his own, and two of the --th,Atherton's regiment, was ordered to march across country from theChasing Water, and join Winthrop in the valley of the Ska. One hundredmiles, as has been said, had Chrome to march to reach the valley at thenearest point, nearly opposite the mouth of the Spirit River. Nearly twohundred if he followed the stream would Tintop have to cover in goingfrom Fort Ransom to that point, but he had started on a Wednesdaymorning, twenty-four hours ahead of Chrome. Each well knew he wouldprobably have to fight his way. Each meant, according to his own lights,to do his best, and each resorted to measures radically different.Winthrop, active, eager, nervous in temperament, pushed forward boldly,rapidly, bent on "getting there," as he expressed it, and hitting hardbefore the reds could slip back to their holes. Chrome, slow,phlegmatic, cautious, advanced by carefully-studied marches, with scoutsfar ahead and flankers far dispersed. Arguing that Winthrop, with onehundred and fifty miles or more to go, and a bigger crowd to handle, andwith Indians on his flank every inch of the way, would not be able toreach the Spirit River crossing inside of seven days,--Chrome parcelledout his own march accordingly. Starting with all speed from thecantonment, according to his instructions from Major White, he soonslowed down to a pace more in accordance with his own views. "If we getthere Monday or Tuesday even," said he, "we'll be 'way ahead of Tintop."And this was at the close of the second day's march, when he could pointto less than a total of forty-four miles covered. The country was stillopen, the trails distinct, the Indians reported in the distance were insmall parties, probably from the Ogallalla reservation. To Cranston andTruman, as well as to the captains of the --th, there seemed everyreason to push ahead. It was urged among them that, at last, Trumanshould speak, and Truman did, as the captains of the --th positivelydeclined. "We have known Colonel Winthrop well, sir," said Truman, "andwe believe he will make long marches, perhaps forced marches, to throwhimself between the raiders and the reservation. Just as soon as a bigforce gets there, they will scatter for the far north and northwest. Theonly chance of punishing them is to get there at once while there isstill something left for them to kill or burn,--something to tempt them.I fear, major, that unless we make better time we'll be too late for theball."

  Chrome listened placidly and without impatience of any kind. Yes, headmitted, that was what White himself said. White was fuming with wrathbecause he wasn't given command of a field column instead of being sentwest to cover the Pawnee Station road. "Small blame to him!" mutteredCranston. "Why on earth couldn't this tortoise have been left to thatwork and old Whitey given to us?" No! Major Chrome meant to advance withcaution and deliberation. If the Indians saw them coming precipitately,they might be equally precipitate in their flight, and thereby defeatthe general's plans of having Tintop get in their rear, at whichcharacteristic opinion Captain Canker, of the --th, a man of many moods,but a fighter, turned gloomily away, and was heard soon afterwardsswearing viciously. It was the old story of the army of lions with asheep at their head.

  And then came a calm, cloudless, radiant June Sunday, a day as perfectand serene aloft as was that June Sunday of the year gone by on whosehigh noon there rose the mad clamor of the battle on the Little Horn,whose pitiless sun looked fiercely down upon the slaughtered ranks ofCuster and his gallant Seventh, and just as the red went out of thewestern sky, and the sharp, jagged line of the Warrior Buttes meltedinto softer purple, there came galloping in from the distant outpost anexcited trooper, who gave a paper to Major Chrome. The officers wereseated about him at a tiny fire, and Cranston quickly lighted a candlelantern and the major read. It was from the officer of the picket.

  "Thunder Hawk and Rides Double just in from over toward the Ska. Theysay they have seen 'plenty warriors' all day and are sure there has beena big fight far across the valley. We could plainly see Indiansignal-smokes an hour ago, and Hawk says a heavy dust-cloud rose betweenhim and the sunset." It was signed "Davies."

  "Now, _there_, gentlemen!" said Chrome, "if we had pushed ahead anyfaster Davies couldn't have kept up with us, and this evening he'scommanding the advance. If we had hurried, those Indians would havehurried too and got clear away before Tintop could have got behind themand struck them as he has. See how well it worked?" And Chrome glancedcontentedly about him.

  "That's all well enough, sir, so far as it goes," growled CaptainCanker, "but where do we come in on this campaign? What will be said ofour failure to get into the fight?"

  "What a growler you are, Canker! Why, man, in matters of this kindindividual ambition must give place to concerted plans. It's the _team_work, the _combinations_ that tell." And here the silent circle becameengrossed in pipes or in whittling, or in the contemplation of the veryground at their feet, though from under the broad bri
ms of theirscouting hats veteran campaigners exchanged meaning glances. Canker onlygrowled the more sulkily.

  "What I'm afraid of, Major Chrome, is that Colonel Winthrop may havewanted us this very day, and forty miles wouldn't have reached him."

  "My heaven!" said Cranston, later that night, tossing upward hisclinched fists and nervous straining arms, "I feel like a man in anightmare. One long winter of incessant friction and undecidedclashings with Devers, and now this mad eagerness to be doing somethingchoked and smothered by this incubus at our head. If to-morrow brings norelief I want to quit for good and all."

  But the long weeks of indecisive warfare, in camp as in the field, weredestined to have their climax at last. Well for the little battalion,perhaps, was it, after all, that officers and men alike were boilingover with repressed, pent-up fury for action, for when the morrow cameit called each soldier into line, and gave him giant work to do.

  Somewhere towards one o'clock in the morning, under the glitter andsheen of the myriad stars overhead, while, all but the guard, thetroopers slept peacefully upon the prairie turf and, all but a few earlyrisers, their chargers, too, were drowsing undisturbed by the occasionalquerulous yelp of the coyote,--somewhere, far out over the dim, shadowyslopes to the westward, there rose upon the night the faint sound of atrumpet call, seemingly miles away. In his extreme caution Chrome hadposted little parties full a mile out from the bivouac, north, east, andwest, and it was while slowly riding to the westernmost of these thatthe officer of the guard first thought he heard the sound. A corporal ofCranston's troop was at his heels. "Yes, sir," he said, in answer to thelow, eager question, as the two reined in their horses, "I could almostswear I heard it. I couldn't make out the signal though--could only heara note or two." They found the picket alert, even excited. They, too,had heard something very like a faint trumpet call very far to the west,and Davies waited no longer. "You remain here, corporal. I'll call thecaptain." And in a few moments he was bending over Cranston. The latterwas awake in a minute, and together they hastened out afoot, pastsnoring troopers or snorting steeds, and stood some hundred yardsoutside the inner sentry line.

  "Hay left Scott with 'A' and 'I' troops Wednesday, as we know," saidCranston, "but it's impossible he could have caught us yet, though hetook the cutoff. That night trumpeting's a trick of the --th. They triedit twice last summer."

  "I know, sir, and may not that be some of them trying to find us?"

  "Well, hardly. You know Atherton only had one troop left at Russell, theother five were sent up toward the Big Horn ten days ago. Listen! Thereit goes again!"

  Yes, unmistakably, faint, far, but clear, the notes of a cavalry trumpetcould be heard, and, while Davies hurried to rouse the major, Cranstonstirred up his boy bugler. It took a minute or two to make Chromecomprehend the situation. "Why," said he, "who'd be ass enough to bemarching or drilling with trumpet calls this hour of the night and inthe midst of a campaign?"

  Cranston reminded him how scattered troops of the --th, his ownregiment, had found each other by night the previous year; how Truscottannounced the coming of his relieving column to Wayne's beleagueredsquadron; and Chrome slowly found his legs and faculties, but wouldn'tbelieve his subordinates. He demanded the evidence of his own senses,and unwillingly accompanied them to the point beyond the lines,Cranston's trumpeter sleepily following. It was full five minutes beforeagain the call was heard, and then it seemed farther away than before,too far away for Chrome, who still could not believe it.

  "Let my trumpeter hail them," urged Cranston, "then they'll answer." ButChrome said that wouldn't do; it would wake up or startle everybody incamp, and so declined.

  "It's all your fancy," he said. "There are none of our fellows withTintop, and----"

  "But he knows you, with at least two troops of the --th, are somewhereout here, sir, and he takes a regimental way of trying to communicatewith you. I beg you to listen one moment more. _There!_" And this timeeven Chrome was convinced, and the next instant guards and pickets,sleeping troopers, and drowsing steeds all came staggering to theirfeet, roused by the shrill blast from Cranston's trumpet sounding"Forward!"

  And half an hour later there came jogging wearily into camp, guided fora time only by the call, and finally met and escorted by the picket, asergeant and trumpeter from old Tintop himself, and the letter they boreput an end even to Chrome's inertness. In brief, terse words it told thestory. He and his command had had a sharp, stubborn fight with a bigforce of hostiles that very day, with considerable loss to both. "If youhad been here with your men," Tintop said, "I believe we could havecleaned them out entirely." The main body, however, had retired towardthe agency at the head of Spirit River, but a band of Uncapapas andMinneconjous, that had cut loose from all, had gone on down the Ska,making for a junction with some of Red Dog's people at the confluence ofthe streams. Tintop held that Chrome must be there by this time, but ifdetained from any cause this was to tell him to strike, strike hard andinstantly with every man at his back, and that he, Winthrop, wouldsupport as soon as possible.

  Fording the Ska above the narrows of the valley, the faithful messengershad plunged into the open country to the east, so as to keep well inrear of the fleeing Indians, then sounding officers' call, the nightsignal of the --th, as they came, rode eastward through the starlight,scouring the broad prairies for the comrade column.

  Half an hour later the command was saddling. Coffee had been hurriedlyserved. The packers were lashing their bulky sacks and boxes to the_apparejos_ and turning loose the patient little burden-bearers. OldThunder Hawk, grave and dignified, had been standing in consultationwith Chrome and his troop commanders. He knew the point where thehostiles were probably in camp, and placed it, as did Tintop's scouts,close to the confluence of the Wakpa Wakon and the Ska. Thunder Hawk wasof the Ogallallas, therefore not a tribesman of the renegades, but hewas a Sioux, and therefore a brother. He had counselled peace to hispeople, and they had rewarded him with taunts and jeers. He hadaccompanied the column, formally enrolled as a scout, and he would beguide and adviser to the white chief, yet shrank from personal part inthe coming battle. He had been asked how many miles it was to the forksand replied fifteen, "but," said he, "it is much farther by the way thechief should go."

  "We want to go the shortest way," was Chrome's short reply. "Thequickest way to reach and strike them."

  Already Cranston seemed to divine what the old Indian meant tocounsel,--"The longest way round is the shortest way home," in fact, asHawk calmly explained. They knew the white soldiers were coming fromOgallalla. They expected them from the southeast,--had seen them comingfrom that direction and, falling back to the stream before them, werewatching for their coming on the following morn. Their scouts could notbe more than a few miles in front of them now. They would be up and awaythe moment they heard of the near approach of the column. Then it wouldbe a stern chase into the heart of the hills, and there, reinforced byrenegades from all sides, they might be able to turn upon and overwhelmtheir pursuers. There was only one likely way of striking them wherethey were, and that was by making wide circuit to the north, fording theSka far behind their camp, and then, turning up-stream, attack them fromthe north or northeast. Chrome saw the point and yielded. When at 1.30the little command mounted and moved away it was at brisk, steady walk,"column half right," with the pole star high aloft but straight ahead.Ten minutes out and they struck the trot. "Bedad!" said Trooper Riley,at the rear of column, "Old Chrome Teller's had his nap out at last."

  Many's the time a cavalry column, after an all-night march, findsitself jaded and drowsy just as a blithe young world is waking up tohail the coming day. Far different is the feeling when, refreshed by afew hours' sound and dreamless sleep, warmed with that soldier comfort,coffee, and thrilled by the whispered news of "fight ahead," the trooppricks eagerly on. Then the faint blush of the eastern sky, the coolbreath of the morning breeze, the dim gray light that steals across theview, all are hailed with bounding pulse and kindling eyes. It was justat the
peep of day, after a glorious burst over the bounding turf, thatChrome's little battalion, some two hundred and forty strong, riding inbroad column of fours, and guided by old Thunder Hawk himself, turnedsquarely to the left at the head of a long, dark, winding ravine, and,diminishing front to two abreast, and steadying down to the walk again,dove out of sight among the tortuous depths. Thirty minutes more and theSka was foaming about the horses' bellies as they boldly forded thestream, every man whipping out and raising carbine as his steed plungedin. Then, turning southwestward, close under the bluffs of the Indianshore, they rode within the reservation lines at last, with the dawn nolonger at the sabre hand, but at the bridle. Peering out through the dimghostly light, long miles to the south, were the Uncapapa scouts,watching for the first sign of the coming of the column that, slippingaway from before them in the darkness of midnight, had ridden in widecircuit around and across their front, burrowed into the earth at thefirst blush of the morning sky, reappeared dripping on the left bank ofthe bordering stream, the Rubicon of the reservation, and now wasswiftly bearing down upon the devoted village from a quarter utterlyunsuspected.

  "Just 4.15," said Cranston, glancing at his watch as soon as it waspossible to see. "How do you feel, Davies?"

  "Better than I have for a month, though tired. I told Burroughs no harmcould result. That scratch is almost entirely healed. How far ahead arethey supposed to be, captain? It'll be broad daylight, even in this deepvalley, in a quarter of an hour."

  Sanders, acting as Chrome's adjutant, came riding back from the head ofcolumn at the very moment and reined about alongside his own troopcommander. "I'd rather be here in my old place, sir, and you're in bigluck to have it, Parson. The major says he wants to capture their wholepony herd, if it takes three troops to do it, and 'C' is to charge thevillage and rout out the bucks."

  It so happened that Cranston's troop was bringing up the rear ofcolumn,--only the pack-mules and their guard being behind,--a longdistance behind at the moment, for the pace had been trot or lope forten miles until the command reached the shelter of the ravine.

  "I was in hopes there was no village," said Cranston; "that we'd onlystrike the wickyups of a war-party. Do you mean village, Sanders?"

  "Thunder Hawk says he's afraid so, sir. He thinks the Uncapapas andMinneconjous who were rounded up last fall really want to get away andjoin the bulk of their tribe who are summering in Canada with SittingBull. If so this was their chance, and they've got their women andchildren with them."

  Cranston's face seemed to grow paler in the gray gathering light."There's no help for it, then," he said; "but I hate that sort of thing.How near are we?"

  "Within two or three miles," Hawk says. "He and Bear and two others havegalloped out ahead. We'll know by the time we've reached that bluffyonder." And he pointed to a magnificent rose-tipped palisade of rockthat jutted out across their path. "That's Good Heart Butte, and theWakon comes in just around it. It's ten to one we'll find them rightthere. Where're you going, Cullen?" he called to a trooper who camecantering back past the flank of the column.

  "To hurry up the pack-train, sir. It's the major's orders," sung out thetrooper, only momentarily checking his horse. It always annoys theofficers of a marching column to have messengers galloping up and downalong their flanks, but this was the major's own orderly, and no manmight rebuke but the chief himself.

  "Reckon I'd better get up to the front again," said Sanders, as hespurred away and left the friends together. Cranston looked back at hisleading four. His veteran first sergeant was commanding a platoon, andit was a junior sergeant who rode with the head of column, and next hima stunted little Irish corporal, for by the inexorable rule of thecavalry the shorter men rode at the flanks of the troop. Midway down thecolumn the guidon-bearer was just unfurling and shaking out its silkenfolds, but without raising it so as to attract the attention of possiblespies. Forward, in the ranks of the two companies of the --th, uniformswere rare and no guidons visible;--long campaigning in Arizona hadtaught the uselessness of both in Indian warfare, but the Eleventh hadtheir traditions, as had the Seventh, and rode into action with acertain old-fashioned style and circumstance that lent inspiration tothe scene. Turning out of column for a moment the captain rode slowlyalongside, looking over his men as they passed him by. There was alwayssomething trim, elastic, jaunty about his troop, and they knew it, andeven on long marches in hard campaigns the men would instinctively"brace up" and raise their heads and square their dusty shoulders whenthey felt the captain's eye upon them. He couldn't help seeing howeagerly and with what trust and faith in their leader many of his sixtyglanced at him as though to question what work he might have in hand forthem to-day. Side by side with the guidon-bearer rode Corporal Brannan."Another chance for our prodigy," smiled Cranston to himself. "I wonderif it will be as warm in Chicago as it promises to be here. More thanone mother there will be kneeling little dreaming, even as she prays forhis safety, what scenes her boy may be battling through this day." Thethought sent a lump into his throat and softened the soldier light inhis eye. "You'd rather be here than at the agency guard, I fancy,Brannan?"

  "Indeed I would, sir, if we get a fight out of 'em."

  "We'll get it, I think, and speedily, too. Look to your pistols, men.We're to charge them."

  One could almost feel the thrill that leaped along the column. Everyhorse seemed to start and paw and dance as though impatient for theword. Some faces flushed, others lost a shade or two of tan, as somefaces will in presence of sudden peril or the news of stirring battlejust ahead. Out from the holsters came the blue-brown Colts, each mantwirling the cylinder, testing the hammer and trigger, and counting hisshots, even while holding the weapon steadfastly "muzzle up." Nervoustroopers have been known to kill a comrade or his horse at just suchtimes.

  "Look to it that each has six shots ready, and remember the old rulesnow, men. Stop for nothing unless some one falls. Charge through andrally on the farther side. Careful about the women and children if thereare any. Return pistol now." And here again came Sanders galloping back,his face aglow, his eyes snapping.

  "Treed 'em, captain," he shouted, gleefully. "A thundering big,loose-jointed village, too, tepees and all. It covers a ten-acre lot andmore. Must be a thousand ponies in the herd right around the point. Themajor says to come ahead with 'C.'"

  Just here the ground was open and fairly level, the trail cutting acrossa bend in the stream. Just ahead towered Good Heart Butte, with itsglistening, gilded crest throwing a black shadow half-way up thebillowing westward slopes. Over at the east across the stream, bold andbeautifully rounded, the bluffs went rolling away, knoll after knoll,shoulder after shoulder heavily wooded and fringed at their bases and inthe deep ravines, and away over those natural ramparts, far out to thesoutheast, still rode and peeped and peered the young braves, but everin the direction of the far Ogallalla, marvelling that no sign appearedof the threatening foe. Not half a mile in front, along a low ridge, alittle group of scouts, Hawk, Bear, and two half-breed Sioux, werelying, peeping at the village still sleeping in fancied security.Chrome, riding a trifle heavily, and speaking with just a tinge ofexcitement in his tone, came jogging back from the ridge to meet his menjust as Cranston's troop trotted up from the rear of column, parallelwith their comrades of the --th, at whose head rode Canker with thatinjured expression on his face that was habitual to him at no time morethan when he thought somebody else was going to get into a fight aheadof him. He couldn't understand why Chrome should have picked outCranston for the dash on the village and retained him for so much lessconspicuous a duty. Everybody, however, who knew Canker knew he hadabsolutely no dash at all. Brave and determined he might be, butCanker's idea of a charge was a steady advance in line, to be instantlychecked and corrected and done over again if the men lost either touchor "dress."

  "We haven't a moment to lose, gentlemen," sang out the major. "Thevillage is already waking. Cranston, you charge through and stir 'em upall you can. Truman, you support Cranston in line, but do
n't follow inunless he's checked. Captain Canker, take the two troops and round upthat pony herd; it's half a mile long. Just as quick as you've ralliedbeyond the village, Cranston, you face about and stand off any Indianswho rip out on that side. What I want is to drive every pony across theWakon and up the Ska valley, where we'll find support. Get them on thejump and we're all right. Now I'll ride somewhere between Canker andTruman. All ready now?" "What I want to know, major, is this," beganCanker, always on the lookout for some point or flaw.

  "Well, you can ask what you want as we advance, captain. Are you ready,Cranston?"

  "Ay, ay, sir," answered Cranston, in the hearty, nautical fashion he somuch liked that it had become habitual with him.

  "Then shove ahead. We're backing you now. Now, Canker, what is it?"

  But no one else cared what Canker wanted. All eyes were on Cranston andhis troop. Quickening the pace he led the way, keeping in fours untilclear of the head of column, then rapidly forming line. "Now, Davies,just keep them so," he ordered, as he rode diagonally over in front ofthe first platoon, "while I gallop ahead and get a peep over thatridge."

  Another minute and, curveting with impatience even after theirtwenty-mile spurt, the handsome bays were dancing in one long line overthe springy turf, Davies and two stalwart sergeants in front of thethree platoons. They saw their soldierly leader whip off his hat as herode up the slope, rein cautiously in and peer eagerly over, saw himgesticulating as he conferred with old Hawk, who lay on his stomach adozen yards farther to the front and to the right, where the ridge was alittle higher. Every man knew that just ahead of him, over that curtain,lay in overwhelming force the mass of their red enemies. Not one oftheir rank had yet set eyes on the point of attack. Not one man knew howmany lodges, much less how many braves, would leap into view the instantthey went bounding over the crest; yet not a soul faltered, for, turningwith confident, eager mien, their captain signalled come on, and Daviesordered "Trot!"

  "It's all right, lads," cheerily rang Cranston's voice, as he rodecircling down to place himself at their head. "The ground's open andlevel. We can go through like a blizzard. Draw pistol! Now, not a soundtill I say charge, but take the pace from me."

  Up the gentle slope they go, many horses already plunging and tugging attheir bits, the glorious excitement of the rider communicating itself,as it must and will where horse and man are in sympathy. Right behindCranston rides his second sergeant commanding the second platoon, thestreaming guidon, lowered still, a little to his left and rear. Alreadythe men are opening out a trifle, for this is to be no charge uponserried masses of disciplined troops, no crash of cavalry upon cavalry,where the line which rides with the greater impetus, the closer touch,the more accurate alignment, hurls the greater shock and weight upon thefoe. Here no naked sabre flames in air,--a useless blade in Indianbattle,--but all through the plunging rank are keen old campaignerswhose eyes blaze from underneath the slouching hat brims, whose muscularbrown hands grasp the pistol butt, who ride with close gripping thighs,for well they know that once over the crest, "gallop" and "charge" willfollow in quick succession, and there will be but an instant in which tosee and think or plan. Indeed, from a cavalry point of view it really isnot a charge at all, not even a charge as foragers, but rather a wilddash into and through a straggling, swarming village of Indian lodges,every man for himself when once turned loose, the whole object being tocarry terror, panic, and confusion to the half-waking warriors, and socover the major's main effort, which is to whirl away with him everypony in the valley. This done the red renegades are crippled for goodand all, and their outbreak is at an end.

  All eyes are on Cranston's gallant troop then as it goes sweeping up thegentle slope. Already Truman's men are galloping front into line so asto follow and support. Already Chrome is spurring eagerly forward towatch the effect. Already Canker, grim, cynical, dissatisfied, butobedient, is launching his leading troop well over to the right front,at swift gallop, too, so as to head off such fugitives--Indians orponies--as may attempt to scurry away westward; but still the eyes ofall men seem to follow Cranston, for his, after all, is the perilouspart. Already Thunder Hawk and Bear have run back down the slope to leapinto saddle, for the earth begins to quiver and shake under the boundinghoofs, and with another moment all the valley will wake to the ringingbattle-cry. "My God!" mutters little Sanders, lunging along after hismajor, "why ain't I with my own instead of loafing here?"

  And now they see Cranston glancing back over his shoulder and carryinghand to holster. Up like a centaur he bounds against the sky line, upafter him the long rank of ragged hat brims and blue-shirted,broad-belted, manly forms, up the plunging line of hard-tugging bays,their black tails streaming in the morning wind, and then Cranston's armflings up aloft; up into plain view streams and flaps the silkenguidon,--the stars and stripes in swallow-tailed miniature that thetroopers loved to see,--and then the thud gives way to thunder, for asone man "C" troop strikes the gallop with the thronging Indian villagenot five hundred yards ahead.

  Scattered over the low level between the receding bluffs and the rapidstream, loosely covering a stretch of nearly half a mile along theshores, with their ragged crown of pole tops wrapped in smoky hide orcanvas, their spreading bases littered with the rude crates,"parfleches" and travois, some fourscore Indian wigwams burst into viewas the line darts over the crest. "Oh, murther! Six to wan at least,"gasps an old growler in the right platoon, and Davies whirls about insaddle. "Silence there, Donovan!" is all he says.

  And now can be seen wild scurry and confusion. Four or five dingy formsdart in and out among the tepees. Three or four Indian boys are lashingin from the almost countless herd of ponies. Startled by the tremor andthunder, the nearest of these sturdy little beasts, with tossing headsand manes, have taken alarm, and are already beginning an aimlessscamper that in another moment will spread to the entire flock. Not amoment to lose, indeed! One more backward glance does Cranston fling ashis magnificent bay quickens his stride, and the long line instantlyresponds. One half nod, half smile to Davies, for the Parson rides likemoss trooper of old, with grim set face, despite the eager light in hiskeen, blue-gray eyes.

  "Open out now a little, men! Gently, keep your rank!" for the chargersare tugging madly, straining for a race. A terrified squaw, clasping herbaby to her breast, bursts from the nearest tepee, pauses one instantas though paralyzed, and then, with unerring instinct, holding herlittle one on high, runs straight forward, mutely appealing, straightfor the galloping line. "Open out! Look out for the kid! Let herthrough, lads," are the low, hurried cautions. Somewhere on the nearskirt of the village a wild war-whoop rings out on the air, a mad cry ofwarning, then bang, zip, comes the first shot from the tepees, whistlingover Cranston's shoulder and skimming a mile away down-stream. No needof further caution now. Now is the time. Cranston's voice rings like thebugler's clarion mingling in the order "Charge!" and the welkin rings,the rocks re-echo to the grand burst of cheers with which "C" Troop goestearing, thrashing into the heart of the village, swallowed up instantlyin a dense cloud of dust. For a moment cheer and yell and rallying andwar-cry, mingling with the thunder of hoofs and the sharp crackling ofrevolver and rifle, drown all other sounds. Then the screams of Indianwomen and children add to the clamor, and, with slashing knives, thestartled braves hew their way out through the tepees. Then the thunderis swelled by the mad rush of the pony herd away from the driving storm.The cheer is renewed by Canker's men, yelling and hat waving at theheels of the herd. The dust-cloud in the village is but a flimsy veil tothe dense volume that goes floating skyward and southward, for practisedhands have prevailed, and the red man's most precious possessions, allbut a scattered few stampeding to and fro among the wigwams, are sweptfrom his maddened sight.

  And then comes the rally on the flats beyond. Sweeping and circling inthe effort to control their excited horses, the troopers, exultant, comereining up into line long pistol-shot south of the terror-strickenvillage. Off to the west the great dust-cloud is slowly settling to
earth, and through it Truman's men, in perfect order, with carbinesadvanced, can be seen moving by the flank, but interposing ever betweenthe village and the captured herds. Cranston, easily reining his pawingcharger, sits facing the reforming centre of his panting line. Theguidon-bearer is there all right and waves aloft the fluttering folds,and the boy trumpeter tries to sound the recall, but makes a mess of it,and throws the forming rank into convulsions of unrebuked chaff andlaughter. The captain is proud of his men and unbends for the occasion,but, all the same, he eagerly counts the files, looking for thisfamiliar bearded face or that. Both sergeant platoon commanders arethere. The second and third platoons re-form without much delay and withhardly a missing face. It's the first that proves to be the last. Theyhad to charge through the thickest part of the village,--the westwardside, where more Indians were awake and alert, roused by the cries ofthe herd guards. The dust-cloud is still settling. Galloping forms stillissue from it and the western skirts of the village, from the clumps ofCottonwoods, from under the banks, whither the mad dash of some horseshad carried their riders. But Cranston's face loses its smile, a worldof anxiety suddenly replaces it, for shots and yells ring from the midstof the village still, and the chief of the first platoon is not here torally his men.

  "Who's missing there, sergeant?" he calls, spurring over to where atrooper comes riding heavily forward, drooping a little as he rides.

  "Four or five, sir. Donovan was shot from his horse and the lieutenantwent back for him."

  "_Quick_, trumpeter! Ride to Captain Truman and tell him to whirl aboutand help us. _Now_, men, follow for all you're worth!"

  And when the dust-cloud settles on the flats south of the Minneconjouvillage, only one of "C" Troop remains to greet the eyes of thebattalion adjutant, sent back with Major Chrome's impatient query as towhy on earth the Eleventh doesn't come on. It is Sergeant Grant, who hastoppled out of saddle--dead.