by Charles King
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TRUMPETER FRED
CAPT. CHARLES KING, U. S. A.]
TRUMPETER FRED
_A STORY OF THE PLAINS_
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U. S. A.
AUTHOR OF "FORT FRAYNE," "AN ARMY WIFE," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
F. TENNYSON NEELY PUBLISHER NEW YORK CHICAGO
1896
Copyright, 1896, BY F. TENNYSON NEELY
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A DANGEROUS MISSION, 17
II. THE OATH OF ENLISTMENT, 26
III. A ROBBER IN CAMP, 40
IV. SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES, 47
V. TRAILING THE TRAITOR, 56
VI. CONCLUSIVE EVIDENCE, 67
VII. TELEGRAPHIC DISPATCHES, 75
VIII. LOYAL FRIENDS, 87
IX. LURKING FOES, 101
X. IN SUSPENSE, 113
XI. HEMMED IN BY SAVAGE FOES, 124
XII. MYSTERIOUS HOOF-PRINTS, 135
XIII. AWAY TO THE RESCUE! 148
XIV. INNOCENT OR GUILTY, 164
XV. COURT-MARTIAL, 179
XVI. PRISON AND PROMOTION, 188
TRUMPETER FRED.]
TRUMPETER FRED.
CHAPTER I.
A DANGEROUS MISSION.
There were only thirty in all that night when the troop reached theNiobrara and unsaddled along the grassy banks. Rather slim numbers forthe duty to be performed, and with the captain away, too. Not that themen had lack of confidence in Lieutenant Blunt, but it was practicallyhis first summer at Indian campaigning, and, however well a youngsoldier may have studied strategy and grand tactics at West Point, it issomething very different that is needed in fighting these wild warriorsof our prairies and mountains. Blunt was brave and spirited, they allknew that; but in point of experience even Trumpeter Fred was hissuperior. All along the dusty trail, for an hour before they reached theford, the tracks of the Indian ponies had been thickly scattered. A warparty of at least fifty had evidently gone trotting down stream not sixhours before the soldiers rode in to water their tired and thirstysteeds. No comrades were known to be nearer at hand than the garrison atFort Laramie, fifty long miles away, or those guarding the post of FortRobinson, right in the heart of the Indian country, and in the verymidst of the treacherous tribes along White River. And yet, under itssecond lieutenant and with only twenty-nine "rank and file," here was"B" Troop ordered to bivouac at the Niobrara crossing, and despite thefact that all the country was alive with war parties of the Sioux, towait there for further orders.
"Only twenty-nine men all told and a small boy," said Sergeant Dawson,who was forever trying to plague that little trumpeter. It was by nomeans fair to Fred Waller, either, for while he was somewhat undersizedfor his fifteen years, his carbine and his Colt's revolver were just asbig and just as effective as those of any man in the troop, and he knewhow to use them, no matter how hard the "Springfield" kicked. He rodeone of the tallest horses, too, and sat him well and firmly,notwithstanding all his furious plunging and "buckings," the day thatDawson slipped the thorny sprig of a wild rosebush under the saddleblanket.
From the first sergeant down to the newest recruit, all the men hadgrown fond of little Fred in that year of rough scouting and campaigningaround old Red Cloud's reservation--all of them, that is to say, withthe possible exception of Dawson, who annoyed him in many ways when theofficers or first sergeant did not happen to be near, and who sometimesspoke sneeringly of him to such of the troopers as would listen, butthese were very few in number.
Fred was the only son of brave old Sergeant Waller, who had served withthe regiment all over the plains before the great war of the rebellion,and who had been its standard-bearer in many a sharp fight and stirringcharge in Virginia. Now he carried two bullet wounds, and on his bronzedcheek a long white seam, a saber scar, as mementoes of Beverly Ford,Winchester, and Five Forks, and through the efforts of his warcommanders a comfortable berth as ordnance sergeant had been secured forhim at one of the big frontier posts along the railway. Fred was thepride of the old soldier's heart, and nothing would do but that he, too,must be a trooper. The boy was born far out across the plains in sightof the Chihuahua Mountains, had followed the regiment in his mother'sarms up the valley of the Rio Grande to the Albuquerque, then eastwardalong the Indian-haunted Smoky Hill route to Leavenworth. When the greatwar burst upon the nation little Fred was just beginning to toddle aboutthe whitewashed walls of the laundresses' quarters--his father wasCorporal Waller then--and his baby eyes were big as saucers when he wascarried aboard of a big steamship and paddled down the muddy Missouriand around by Cairo and up the winding Ohio to Cincinnati. He was evenmore astonished at the railway cars that bore the soldiers and a fewwomen and children eastward and finally landed them at Carlisle. Thereat the old cavalry barracks the little fellow grew to lusty boyhood,while his father was bearing the blue and gold standard through battleafter battle on the Virginia soil. And when the war was over and theregiment was hurried out to "the plains," and again to protect thesettlers, the emigrants, and the railway builders from the ceaselessassaults of the painted Indians, little Fred went along, and his soldiereducation was fairly begun.
Old Waller was now first sergeant of "B" troop. The regimentalcommander and most of the officers were greatly interested in thelaughing, sun-tanned, blue-eyed boy, who rode day after day on his wiryIndian pony along the flanks of the column, scorning, though barelyseven years old, to stay in the wagons with the women and children.Everybody had a jolly word of greeting for Fred, and kind-heartedCaptain Blaine set his "company tailor" to work, and presently there wasmade for the boy a natty little cavalry jacket and a tiny pair of yellowchevrons. "Corporal Fred" they called him then, and, though he strovehard not to show it, grim old Sergeant Waller was evidently as proudand pleased as the child. He taught the little man to "stand attention"and bring up his chubby brown hand in salute whenever an officer passedby, and most scrupulously was that salute returned. He early placed theboy under the instruction of the veteran chief trumpeter, and made himpractice with the musicians as soon as he was "big enough to blow," ashe expressed it. And then, too (for there were no army schools, orschoolmasters in those days), regularly as the day came round and thesergeant's morning duties were done, he had his boy at his knee, book orslate in hand, patiently teaching him the little that he knew himself,and wistfully looking for some better instructor.
