More Strange Discoveries

: A Daughter Of The Sioux

But Frayne was far from done with excitement for the day. For a while

all eyes seemed centred on the chase, now scattered miles toward the

east, and, save for two of the number left behind, blown, spent and

hopelessly out of the race, soon lost to view among the distant swales

and ravines. Then everyone turned to welcome the coming harbinger, to

congratulate him on his escape, to demand the reason for his daring

essay.
Gregg and his men were first to reach him, and while one of them

was seen through the levelled glasses to dismount and give the courier

his fresh horse, thereby showing that the gray was well nigh exhausted,

the whole party turned slowly toward the post. Then one of their number

suddenly darted forth from the group and came spurring at top speed

straight for the ford.



"That means news of importance," said Webb, at the instant. "And Gregg

and all of his squad are coming in,--not following Blake. That means he

and they are more needed elsewhere. Come on, Mr. Ross. We'll go down and

meet that fellow. Orderly, have my horse sent to the ford." So, followed

by three or four of the younger officers,--the married men being

restrained, as a rule, by protesting voices, close at hand,--the

commanding officer went slipping and sliding down a narrow, winding

pathway, a mere goat track, many of the soldiers following at respectful

distance, while all the rest of the gathered throng remained at the

crest, eagerly, almost breathlessly awaiting the result. They saw the

trooper come speeding in across the flats from the northeast; saw as he

reached the "bench" that he was spurring hard; heard, even at the

distance, the swift batter of hoofs upon the resounding sod; could

almost hear the fierce panting of the racing steed; saw horse and rider

come plunging down the bank and into the stream, and shoving breast deep

through the foaming waters; then issue, dripping, on the hither shore,

where, turning loose his horse, the soldier leaped from saddle and

saluted his commander. But only those about the major heard the stirring

message:



"Captain Gregg's compliments, sir. It's Rudge from the Dry Fork.

Sergeant Kelly feared that Kennedy hadn't got through, for most of Lame

Wolf's people pulled away from the Fork yesterday morning, coming this

way, and the sergeant thought it was to unite with Stabber to surround

any small command that might be sent ahead from here. Rudge was ordered

to make a wide sweep to the east, so as to get around them, and that's

what took him so long. He left not two hours after Kennedy."






In spite of his years of frontier service and training in self control,

Webb felt, and others saw, that his face was paling. Ray, with only

fifty men at his back, was now out of sight--out of reach--of the post,

and probably face to face with, if not already surrounded by, the

combined forces of the Sioux. Not a second did he hesitate. Among the

swarm that had followed him was a young trumpeter of "K" Troop, reckless

of the fact that he should be at barracks, packing his kit. As luck

would have it, there at his back hung the brazen clarion, held by its

yellow braid and cord. "Boots and Saddles, Kerry, Quick!" ordered the

major, and as the ringing notes re-echoed from bluff and building wall

and came laughing back from the distant crags at the south, the little

throng at the bank and the crowd at the point of the bluff had scattered

like startled coveys,--the men full run for the barracks and stables,

never stopping to "reason why."



Nearly half an hour later, gray-haired Captain Dade stood at the point

of bluff near the flagstaff, Esther, pale and tearful, by his side,

waving adieu and Godspeed to Webb, who had halted in saddle on reaching

the opposite bank and was watching his little column through the

ford,--three stanch troops, each about sixty strong, reinforced by half

a dozen of Ray's men left behind in the forward rush at dawn, but

scorning disqualification of any kind now that danger menaced their

beloved captain and their comrades of the sorrel troop. In all the

regiment no man was loved by the rank and file as was Billy Ray.

Brilliant soldiers, gifted officers, sterling men were many of his

comrades, but ever since he first joined the ----th on the heels of the

civil war, more than any one of its commissioned list, Ray had been

identified with every stirring scout and campaign, fight or incident in

the regimental history. Truscott, Blake, Hunter and Gregg among the

junior captains had all had their tours of detached duty--instructing at

West Point, recruiting in the big Eastern cities, serving as

aide-de-camp to some general officer, but of Ray it could be said he had

hardly been east of the Missouri from the day he joined until his

wedding day, and only rarely and briefly since that time. More than any

officer had he been prominent in scout after scout--Arizona, Mexico,

Texas, the Indian Territory, Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, Wyoming, the

Dakotas, Montana, even parts of Idaho and Utah he knew as he used to

know the roads and runways of the blue grass region of his native state.

From the British line to the Gulfs of Mexico and California he had

studied the West. The regiment was his home, his intense pride, and its

men had been his comrades and brothers. The veterans trusted and swore

by, the younger troopers looked up to and well nigh worshipped him, and

now, as the story that the Sioux had probably surrounded the sorrel

troop went like wild fire through the garrison, even the sick in

hospital begged to be allowed to go, and one poor lad, frantic through

fever and enforced confinement, broke from the hold of the half-hearted

attendant; tore over to "K" Troop barracks, demanding his "kit" of

Sergeant Schreiber, and, finding the quarters deserted, the men all gone

to stables, dared to burst into that magnate's own room in search of his

arms and clothing, and thereby roused a heavily sleeping soldier, who

damned him savagely until, through wild raving, he gathered that some

grave danger menaced Captain Ray. Even his befuddled senses could

fathom that! And while guards and nurses bore the patient, shrieking and

struggling, back to hospital, Kennedy soused his hot head in the cooling

waters of their frontier lavatory and was off like a shot to the

stables.



It was long before he found his horse, for the guard had taken Kilmaine

to "F" Troop's stables, and Kennedy had been housed by "K." It was

longer still before he could persuade the guard that he "had a right,"

as he put it, to ride after the major. Not until Captain Dade had been

consulted would they let him go. Not, indeed, until in person Kennedy

had pleaded his cause with that cool-headed commander. Dade noted the

flushed and swollen face, but reasoned that nothing would more speedily

shake the whiskey from his system than a long gallop in that glorious

air and sunshine. "Major Webb is following the trail of Captain Ray,"

said he. "You follow the major's. You can't miss him, and there are no

more Indians now to interpose. You should catch him by noon--then give

him this."



"This" was a copy of a late despatch just in from Laramie, saying that

the revolt had reached the Sioux at the agencies and reservations on the

White Earth, and would demand the attention of every man at the post. No

reinforcement, therefore, could be looked for from that quarter until

the general came. It was no surprise to Dade. It could be none to Webb,

for old Red Cloud had ever been an enemy, even when bribed and petted

and fed and coddled in his village on the Wakpa Schicha. His nephew led

the bolt afield. No wonder the old war chief backed him with abundant

food, ammunition and eager warriors sent "from home."



But it was after eleven when Kennedy drove his still wearied horse

through the Platte and, far to the north, saw the dun dust cloud that

told where Webb's little column was trotting hard to the support of the

sorrels. His head was aching and he missed the morning draught of

soldier coffee. He had eaten nothing since his cold lunch at the

major's, and would have been wise had he gone to Mistress McGann and

begged a cup of the fragrant Java with which she had stimulated her

docile master ere he rode forth, but the one idea uppermost in Kennedy's

muddled brain was that the sorrels were trapped by the Sioux and every

trooper was needed to save them. At three in the morning he felt equal

to fighting the whole Sioux nation, with all its dozen tribes and

dialects. At 3:30 he had been whipped to a stand by just one of their

number, and, "Mother av Moses," one that spoke English as well, or as

ill, as any man in the ----th.



Sore in soul and body was Kennedy, and sore and stiff was his gallant

bay, Kilmaine, when these comrades of over three years' service shook

the spray of the Platte from their legs and started doggedly northward

on the trail. Northward they went for full three miles, Kilmaine sulky

and protesting. The dust cloud was only partially visible now, hidden by

the ridge a few miles ahead, when, over that very ridge, probably four

miles away to the right front, Kennedy saw coming at speed a single

rider, and reined to the northeast to meet him. Blake and his men had

gone far in that direction. Two of their number, with horses too slow

for a chase after nimble ponies, had, as we have seen, drifted back, and

joined, unprepared though they were for the field, the rear of Webb's

column. But now came another, not aiming for Webb, but heading for

Frayne. It meant news from the chase that might be important. It would

take him but little from the direct line to the north, why not meet him

and hear? Kennedy reined to the right, riding slowly now and seeking the

higher level from which he could command the better view.



At last they neared each other, the little Irish veteran, sore-headed

and in evil mood, and a big, wild-eyed, scare-faced trooper new to the

frontier, spurring homeward with panic in every feature, but rejoicing

at sight of a comrade soldier.



"Git back; git back!" he began to shout, as soon as he got within

hailing distance. "There's a million Indians just over the ridge.

They've got the captain----"



"What captain?" yelled Kennedy, all ablaze at the instant. "Spake up, ye

shiverin' loon!"



"Blake! He got way ahead of us----"



"Then it's to him you should be runnin', not home, ye cur! Turn about

now! Turn about or I'll----" And in a fury Pat had seized the other's

rein, and, spurring savagely at Kilmaine,--both horses instantly waking,

as though responsive to the wrath and fervor of their little master,--he

fairly whirled the big trooper around and, despite fearsome protests,

bore him onward toward the ridge, swift questioning as they rode. How

came they to send a raw rookie on such a quest? Why, the rookie gasped

in explanation that he was on stable guard, and the captain took the

first six men in sight. How happened it that the captain got so far

ahead of him? There was no keepin' up with the captain. He was on his

big, raw-boned race horse, chasin' three Indians that was firin' and had

hit Meisner, but there was still three of the troop to follow him, and

the captain ordered "come ahead," until all of a sudden, as they filed

round a little knoll, the three Indians they'd been chasin' turned about

and let 'em have it, and down went another horse, and Corporal Feeney

was killed sure, and he, the poor young rookie, saw Indians in every

direction, "comin' straight at 'em," and what else could he do but

gallop for home--and help? All this, told with much gasping on his part,

and heard with much blasphemy by Kennedy, brought the strangely assorted

pair at swift gallop over the springy turf back along the line of that

panicky, yet most natural retreat. Twice would the big fellow have

broken away and again spurred for home, but the little game cock held

him savagely to his work and so, together, at last they neared the

curtaining ridge. "Now, damn you!" howled Kennedy, "whip out your

carbine and play you're a man till we see what's in front! an' if ye

play false, the first shot from this barker," with a slap at the butt of

his Springfield, "goes through your heart."



And this was what they saw as, together, they rounded the hillock and

came in view of the low ground beyond.



Half way down the long, gradual slope, in a shallow little dip, possibly

an old buffalo wallow, two or three horses were sprawled, and a tiny

tongue of flame and blue smoke spitting from over the broad, brown backs

told that someone, at least, was on the alert and defensive. Out on the

prairie, three hundred yards beyond, a spotted Indian pony, heels up,

was rolling on the turf, evidently sorely wounded. Behind this rolling

parapet crouched a feathered warrior, and farther still away, sweeping

and circling on their mettlesome steeds, three more savage braves were

darting at speed. Already they had sighted the coming reinforcements,

and while two seemed frantically signalling toward the northwest, the

third whirled his horse and sped madly away in that direction.



"Millions, be damned!" yelled Kennedy. "There's only three. Come on, ye

scut!" And down they went, full tilt at the Sioux, yet heading to cover

and reach the beleaguered party in the hollow. Someone of the besieged

waved a hat on high. Two more carbines barked their defiance at the

feathered foe, and then came a pretty exhibit of savage daring and

devotion. Disdainful of the coming troopers and of the swift fire now

blazing at them from the pit, the two mounted warriors lashed their

ponies to mad gallop and bore down straight for their imperilled

brother, crouching behind the stricken "pinto." Never swerving, never

halting, hardly checking speed, but bending low over and behind their

chargers' necks, the two young braves swept onward and with wild whoop

of triumph, challenge and hatred, gathered up and slung behind the rider

of the heavier pony the agile and bedizened form on the turf; then

circled away, defiant, taunting, gleeful, yes and even more:--With

raging eyes, Kennedy sprang from saddle and, kneeling, drove shot after

shot at the scurrying pair. Two of the three troopers at the hollow

followed suit. Even the big, blubbering lad so lately crazed with fear

unslung his weapon and fired thrice into empty space, and a shout of

wrath and renewed challenge to "come back and fight it out" rang out

after the Sioux, for to the amaze of the lately besieged, to the

impotent fury of the Irishman, in unmistakable, yet mostly unquotable,

English, the crippled warrior was yelling mingled threat and

imprecation.



"Who was it, Kennedy?--and where did you ever see him before?" a moment

later, demanded Captain Blake, almost before he could grasp the

Irishman's hands and shower his thanks, and even while stanching the

flow of blood from a furrow along his sun-burnt cheek. "What's that he

said about eating your heart?"



And Kennedy, his head cleared now through the rapture of battle, minded

him of his promise to Field, and lied like a hero. "Sure, how should I

know him, sorr? They're all of the same spit."



"But, he called you by name. I heard him plainly. So did Meisner, here,"

protested Blake. "Hello, what have you there, corporal?" he added, as

young Feeney, the "surely killed," came running back, bearing in his

hand a gaily ornamented pouch of buckskin, with long fringes and heavy

crusting of brilliant beads.



"Picked it up by that pony yonder, sir," answered the corporal, with a

salute. "Beg pardon, sir, but will the captain take my horse? His is hit

too bad to carry him."



Two, indeed, of Blake's horses were crippled, and it was high time to be

going. Mechanically he took the pouch and tied it to his waist belt.

"Thank God no man is hurt!" he said. "But--now back to Frayne! Watch

those ridges and be ready if a feather shows, and spread out a

little--Don't ride in a bunch."



But there was bigger game miles to the west, demanding all the attention

of the gathered Sioux. There were none to spare to send so far, and

though three warriors,--one of them raging and clamoring for further

attempt despite his wounds,--hovered about the retiring party, Blake and

his fellows within another hour were in sight of the sheltering walls of

Frayne; and, after a last, long-range swapping of shots, with Blake and

Meisner footing it most of the way, led their crippled mounts in safety

toward that Rubicon of the West--the swift flowing Platte. They were

still three miles out when Blake found leisure to examine the contents

of that beaded pouch, and the first thing drawn from its depths was

about the last a Christian would think to find in the wallet of a

Sioux--a dainty little billet, scented with wood violet,--an envelope of

delicate texture, containing a missive on paper to match, and the

envelope was addressed in a strange, angular, characteristic hand that

Blake recognized at once, to a man of whom, by that name at least, he

had never heard before:



"MR. RALPH MOREAU,

"En Ville."



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