A Soldier's Trial: An Episode of the Canteen Crusade

It led before long to a battle royal. It led first to barbaric council and speechmaking, then to a display of savage diplomacy, and finally to the spirited climax: savage science, skill, and cunning, with overwhelming numbers on the one hand, sheer pluck and determination on the other. The defenders were to fight, to be sure, behind wooden walls that hid them from sight of their swarming and surrounding foes, but that might be an element of danger just so soon as the Indians could get close enough to fire them. Anticipating precisely such a possibility, Ray had set his men to work beforehand. Sacks of meal, flour, and bacon, bales of blankets, tepee cloth, etc., had been piled breast-high and around all four walls of the storehouse within. All the available tubs and buckets and pails had been fresh filled with water and stowed inside. The horses were removed from the stable and turned into the corral. Each of the eight barred windows had its two or three marksmen. The women and children of the whites about the agency were all before dawn moved over into the main building, for when his messengers were driven back Ray well knew what to expect. Ray himself posted a keen and reliable man at the forage shed, and one or two others in certain of the outlying buildings, with kerosene-soaked tinder in abundance, and orders to fire them at his signal, then run for the storehouse; Ray would leave no structure close at hand to serve as "approach" or cover for the foe. So long as no wind arose to blow the flames upon his little stronghold, no harm would result to them, whereas the smoke would surely attract attention at the distant fort and speedily bring relief. Ten days earlier, before seeing his wards in war paint, the agent would have forbidden such wanton destruction of government property. (Ten days later, indeed, the Indian Bureau might call upon the War Department for reimbursement, and the department upon Ray, but the youngster took no thought for the morrow, only for his men and those helpless women and children). So long as the warriors kept their distance and contented themselves with long-range shooting, so long would Ray spare the torch, but just the moment they felt the courage of their numbers and charged, up should go the shingles. The find of a few small kegs of powder lent additional means to the speedy start of the fire when needed, and now, with his little fort well supplied and garrisoned, with the big fort only ten miles away, with thirty or more stout men to stand by him, with only one man demoralized, – the agent, small blame to him, – and only one as yet disabled, Trooper Skelton, whom Ray had practically dragged from under the knives of the savages, that young soldier felt just about as serenely confident of the issue as he did of his men, and happier a hundred fold than he had been for nearly a year.

Moreover, his dauntless front and contemptuous answer had had its effect on the Indians. "The young chief must be sure the soldiers are coming," reasoned the elders, so before taking the fateful plunge it were wise to take a look. Young warriors dashed away northeastward over the rolling divides, and others galloped after to intermediate bluffs and ridges, but it was well-nigh an hour before the signals came whirling back. "No soldiers, no danger," and even then they temporized. In trailing war bonnet, his gleaming body bare to the waist, his feathered head held high, his nimble pony bedizened with tinsel and finery, a white "fool flag" waving at the tip of his lance, with two young braves in attendance, each with his little symbol of truce, Black Wolf came riding gallantly down from the distant southward bluffs, demanding further parley. Black Wolf had tidings worth the telling, he said. He had stood the white man's friend and endeavored to prevent hostilities, but since the affair of the previous night all that was hopeless, and now he must stand by his people. His young men, he shouted, at dawn had attacked the guard at the wood camp, and the scalps of every man, still warm and bloody, hung at the belts of his braves, even now galloping back to swell the ranks of their brothers. He urged the young white chief to make no such error as had the sub-chief, the sergeant, at the camp, who had fired upon his warriors when offered mercy. There was still time for the young chief to consider. He was surrounded, cut off from help and home. His brethren dare not quit the shelter of the fort to come to aid him. They would be annihilated on the open prairie, as was the "Long Hair" at the Little Horn a generation ago. This, then, should be the young chief's warning and his opportunity. Let him and his men, save one, depart in peace, leaving everything and everybody else as they were before the young chief came. Black Wolf would await the reply. In resonant periods, in ringing, sonorous tones, the speech of the orator-chief had been delivered, his deep, powerful voice fairly thundering over the valley, and echoing back from the crags of Warrior Bluff, a mile away to the west. A spirited, barbaric group it made, that magnificent savage with his bright-hued escort all gleaming in the slanting sunshine, full two hundred yards away. On every little eminence, on every side, were grouped listening bands of his braves. One could almost hear their guttural "Ughs" of approval. One could almost count their swarming array. Farther to the south, along the jagged line of the barricade ridge, score upon score of blanketed squaws and bareheaded children huddled in shrill, chattering groups, too distant to hear or to be heard, but readily seen to be wild with excitement. Out in front of the grimly closed and silent agency, with only the half-breed interpreter at his side, but in humorous recognition of the solemn state of the Indian embassy, with two sergeants in close attendance, Ray stood listening, and turned for explanation to the official go-between, impatiently heard him half through, then flung out his hand, palm foremost, in half circular sweep to the front and right – the old signal. "Be off," it said as plain as did the later words of the assistant. "Tell him to go where I told him before," said Ray. "If he wants the agent, or my soldiers, or my guns, or me, let him come and take them," winding up as he faced his antagonist, with the swift, significant gesture that the Sioux know so well: "Brave, that ends it!" and turned abruptly away.

"What did you answer?" whispered the agent, as the young soldier returned to his post. It was the Bureau man's first real clash with his red children, and thoughts of Meeker, a much-massacred predecessor in the business, had dashed his nerve.

"He wanted you and this poor fellow who fought for you," said Ray bluntly, as he went on and bent over the blanket on which lay Skelton, bandaged, weak, but clear-headed, "and I told him where to go – where, by gad, we'll send him if he comes again."

The eyes of the wounded soldier, fixed full upon his young commander, began slowly to melt and then to well over. A silent fellow was this odd fish of a trooper, a man little known among the others and even less trusted. He looked up through a shimmer of moisture into the pale young face with its dark, kindly eyes and sensitive mouth. He put forth a feverish and unsteady hand, while his lips, compressed and twitching from pain, began to frame words to which Sandy listened, uncomprehending.

"Lieutenant, I wish I'd known you, 'stead of classing you the way I – was taught. If I ever get out of this all right, there'll be a story comin'." And Ray wondered was Skelton wandering already.

CHAPTER XXV

BLACK WOLF'S BATTLE

And then from the northwest, with vast clamor and shoutings and much wild horsemanship, came the reinforcements from the foothills of the Sagamore, where yesterday had stood the guarded wood camp; and then, five to six hundred yards away, in broad circle, their swift ponies at full gallop, scores of young warriors, all in war paint and finery, dashed and darted to and fro, some of them brandishing at the tips of their lances ragged, dangling objects limp and dripping. Black Wolf's story might indeed be true. Far away westward from the fort, as was the agency from the southwest, there had been no timely warning, no chance to send for aid. Overwhelmed at dawn by hundreds against their dozens, the guard had probably died fighting, and the wolves and lynxes by this time were scenting their breakfast and scurrying to the scene of butchery. The savage display had its effect on the little garrison, but – not just what was expected. Black Wolf's young braves might well have had a "walk-over" at the wood camp, pounced in a red torrent upon the unsuspecting party, and, with little loss to themselves, massacred all the hated palefaces. That sort of fighting the Indian most loves – that in which he can do and not suffer. Now came a different proposition. From chief down to little children the Indians well knew that thirty soldiers behind barricades were not to be "rushed," though a thousand essayed it, without many a warrior biting the dust; and that sort of fighting, said the Indian, is fool-fighting – lacks sense or science. Bravely and desperately as he will battle against odds when once in a hole, he will not battle at all, no matter how great his numbers, if by strategy he can "win out" another way. What Black Wolf and his warriors had hoped was so to weaken the nerve of the defenders that they would listen to his promise that their lives be spared, agree to the Indian terms, leave the demanded victims, their arms and horses and start out afoot for the fort; then, as was intimated, once fairly out on the open prairie, they could be butchered at leisure, and if the young chief could not be captured alive to furnish sport for the squaws and children of the braves he had defrauded and abused, at least they could have his scalp to hang in the lodge when once again peace was declared. Meantime the warriors, women and children, – all, – they could be off to the Big Horn before the troops at the fort would get word of the battle. Who, indeed, was to tell, with the lightning wire severed, and the whole party slain?

But the warriors wasted their time. Three hours spent in trying to scare were three hours lost to the redman. It was just about eight by the agency clock that in one magnificent dash, half a thousand strong, the legion came sweeping, chanting, and shouting down the slopes to the south, rode in solemn phalanx until almost within rifle range, then, bursting asunder like some huge human case-shot, scattered its wild horsemen in mad career all over the open prairie, and in a minute thereafter, amid the thunder of hoofs, half deadened by the rising pall of dust, twenty-score in number, the yelling braves were circling the agency, firing swiftly on the run.

Never a shot did they receive in reply. "Hold your fire till they come in closer, and you get the word!" growled the sergeants. Never a match did the besieged apply, for there was still no attempt to charge. It was young Ray's first tussle with the Sioux, but many a time as a boy at his father's knee had he begged for the stories of the old battles of the – th, and listened with quickened heartbeat and panting breath. He knew just how they would circle and charge, shout and shoot, – just what to look for and how to meet it, – and there were only two things about the defense that gave him the faintest worry.

East of the storehouse, barely fifty yards away, was the agent's modest little home, a shelter to the warriors should they decide to turn loose their ponies and collect two hundred strong behind it, ready for a rush in force upon his doors and windows the moment a similar force could be ready behind the shop and stable buildings at the corral. They probably could not force an entrance even then. They would surely lose many warriors in the attempt. But what they could do would be to rush upon the storehouse, crouch low at the walls and under the floor of the porch, where the rifles of the besieged could not reach them, and then start fire all at once in a dozen places, crawl back under cover of the smoke, and so burn out the defenders. Much as the mounted warrior hates to fight afoot, this was too obvious an opportunity, and presently Ray saw indication that something was coming. No time, therefore, had he or his people for further compunction.

"The shops, first," said he. "Start them at once. Open the corral gates and – get back," were his orders to the young corporal who stood ready to carry his message. "Our horses will make a break for home. The Indians will catch most of them, perhaps, but not all. Between them and the smoke the fort will see that something's up, and – you all know the colonel."

And so it happened that, just as the squadron, already alarmed, was spattering through the shallows of the Minneconjou, a black column of smoke was sighted far away to the southwest, sailing aloft for the heavens, and now every southward window, the roofs of many a building, the tower over the post Exchange, the cross-trees of the flagstaff, the crests of neighboring bluffs, – all had their occupants, staring through field-glasses or the unaided eye for any sign of the far-distant detachment under Ray – for any symptom of any check or signal from the swift advance of the squadron under the gaunt, semi-invalided major.

Barely three miles out, trotting in parallel columns of fours, the right troop was seen to swerve to the west, and presently in a far-away clump of willows in a deep ravine, found something, apparently, that gave them just a moment's pause. "A human being," said the lookouts with the best glasses, "and they're sending him in." True. Someone dismounted and helped something into a saddle. A sergeant and trooper came presently ambling homeward, leading between them a limp and drooping form. Many people could not wait. They ran out to the bluffs, and were not amazed, nor were they too well pleased, to find the lone watcher at the willows to be none other than that strange creature Blenke – Blenke in a state bordering on exhaustion. Straight to the colonel they led him, where that officer sat in saddle in front of his battalions and ready for a move. He was just about ordering the senior major to follow on the trail of the cavalry, when, followed by curious eyes innumerable, the sergeant with his prize came riding through the west gate.

"Private Blenke, sir," said he, saluting. "He can best tell his own story," and with trembling lips and mournful eyes Blenke began. Things looked so ominous the night before that it was evident the Indians meant mischief. Sergeant French, commanding the guard, decided that the colonel ought to be warned. Somebody would have to try to sneak through the prowling, truculent warriors, make his way to the post, and tell of their plight. The sergeant would order no man to risk his life in the attempt. He called for volunteers, and, modestly Blenke said, at last he felt it a duty to dare it. He found every rod of the valley beset by foes. He found it impossible eastward or northward to pass them even in the dark. He finally made his way out to the southward and, in wide circuit, dodging and skulking when night riders came hurrying to and fro, he at last managed by daybreak to get in view of the flagstaff, only to find dozens of Indians watching the post and skulking between him and the desired refuge. At last – but Stone shut him off:

"Take two companies, major," he ordered, "march for the wood camp and see what you can find. You know what to do."

So again was Blenke, the silent, in spite of prejudice and prediction, the hero of the occasion. They bore him off to be fed and fêted, but he begged first that Miss Sanford might be informed of his safe return. Then Stone, with anxious brow, dismounted, clambered to the tower of the Exchange, where his glasses swept the wide expanse of country and told him the excitement, so vivid here at the fort and over "beyond Jordan" at Skidmore's, was already spreading to Silver Hill. God grant his rescuers had not gone too late – or slowly!

Slowly at least they did not go, for Dwight, possessed of a very devil of nervous energy, pushed his four troops at steady trot. Well he knew it would not be long before some one of the ridge lines, successively to be passed, would suddenly spit fire at his advance, and that every device known to Indian strategy would be brought into play in the effort to stay his coming until all was over with Ray's little party at the agency. Physical weakness, personal danger, even Jimmy, his only child, now tossing in the throes of burning fever, he seemed for the time to have forgotten. Hurst, the senior captain, who had counted on leading the dash, reckoned without due comprehension of his major that day, and looked amazed when Dwight had come trotting down to the formation, his grim face lighting with something of the old fire, and sent his second in command to the head of the first troop. Once well out beyond the railway the major ordered a few picked skirmishers forward at the gallop from the head of each of his four columns, other active light-horsemen to cover the flanks, and the wary scouts and marksmen of the Sioux, crouching behind the crests, shook their scalp-locks in chagrin. There could be no picking off of prominent officers at close range, no ambuscading crowded ranks or columns. This chief knew his business, and they might better serve Black Wolf and their comrades in arms by galloping away to the agency and urging one desperate assault. Stopping this fellow was out of the question. The one stand, made just six miles out, resulted in no check to the cavalry, but a dead loss to two of their own braves.

And so it happened that toward ten o'clock of that blithe, sunshiny summer morning, when all nature was at its loveliest along the broad winding valley of the Cheyenne, – all save that cloud of black smoke that soared high into the otherwise unclouded heavens and there flattened out like some gigantic pall, – the bold heights that framed the wide bottom lands, the crags at Warrior Bluff, crowned with shrill yelling, applauding squaws and children, the grim, smoke-veiled walls of the remaining buildings at the agency all on a sudden awoke to the maddening chorus of renewed battle. There had been a lull to the fight. The shops had burned like tinder, and were a heap of smoldering ruins in a dozen minutes. The stampeded horses had rushed away over the prairie, to be rounded up and driven by Indian boys, with keen rejoicing, away toward the dismantled villages, for already the old men and most of the families were in full flight up the valley. If headed off from the hills they could scatter over the prairies and mingle with their red kindred at the other agencies, whence, indeed, came not a few young men to take a hand in the scrimmage. The agent's house, spared until after nine, had gone up in smoke. It covered too much of the charging front, and finally was blown to flinders at an expense of four kegs of rifle powder, borrowed for the occasion from the Indian supplies. Now, when the warriors rallied and charged and strove to reach Ray's wooden walls, it had to be over a dead level only faintly obscured by smoke, and dotted here and there by the corpses of war ponies lost in previous attempts.

Half-hearted, possibly, at dawn, old Wolf was all fire and fury now. One after another four assaults had been beaten back by the slow, sure, steady aim of the defense, and unless he could reduce that little fortress at once his power and prestige as a war chief were gone for all time, and a good name and reputation for all manner of deviltry in the past was utterly blasted for the future.

Of the defenders only three, besides Skelton, were out of the fight. A chance shot from the Indian circle had pierced the brain of one stout soldier, who never knew what hit him. Others had wounded two of the men, and Skelton, himself, who, in spite of his wounds, had crawled to a loophole to have a share in the fight, was now prostrate with a shot through the shoulder. It was God's mercy and Ray's fortune that that bullet was not through the head.

Water and food they still had in abundance, but ammunition was running low. The men thrust their hot rifles into the nearest tub, and laughed at Finnegan's loud claim for a patent on "K" Company's way of "bilin' wather." Sheltered by the bales and barricades, the women and children crouched unharmed. Corporal Sweeny, who had "swarmed" up a ladder to the garret, in defiance of shots that tore through the flimsy woodwork, called down the scuttle-hole that "the fellers must be comin' from the fort – there's Indians gallopin' back by the dozens!" And Sweeny was right, and his words carried cheer when cheer was needed, for now began the supreme effort of the redmen, and in one magnificent, yelling, streaming, lance-waving circumference they seemed to spring into view from every conceivable point of the compass, still a good thousand yards away from the threatened center, and, slowly at first, brandishing arms, beating shields, shouting encouragement and vengeance, they bore steadily inward, a slowly diminishing periphery, until they seemed almost to join for some barbaric "all hands round." Then, at sudden signal, unseen, unheard at the agency, all of the eastward semi-circle broke instantly into a mad race for the center, the dust and turf flying from the ponies' heels, the feathered crests and painted forms bending flat over the outstretched necks of the darting steeds, plumes, pennons, war-bonnets streaming in the wind, and every warrior screeching in shrill rage and exultation. To right and left at the same instant the westward warriors broke away, so as to avoid the rush and shots from the selected front, and then, rallying north and south, they, too, rode again into line in time to attack so soon as the first grand assault should sweep by. A gorgeous sight it was to see Black Wolf's chosen braves, a tremendous torrent of savage war, but Ray and his men gave no heed to its grandeur. The sharp, spiteful bark of the low-aimed rifles began the instant the foremost warriors came bounding across the road to the railway, Ray's five-hundred-yard mark, and here and there as the red surge came rushing on, a pony went down, a warrior was hurled to the plain, but up, and by, and beyond, with terrific clash and clamor, the yelling horde whirled past the fire-jetting walls; and out upon the westward prairie a keen old fighter saw that certain ponies, riderless, went loping after their fellows, and so shouted a word to Ray. "They've dropped a few, sir," and Sergeant Scott begged leave to take half-a-dozen men and rush out and tackle the dozen that had probably crept to the foot of the wall or squirmed through the dust cloud, like so many snakes, underneath the wooden piazza. Well they knew what that meant: Fire – fire as fierce as that the defenders themselves had kindled in the outbuildings, only a thousand times more terrible, for it meant fearful torture and death to these imprisoned ones within the walls, or the certain bullets of the merciless foe when driven forth. But, before this sally could be made down came the rush from the northward, less powerful and spectacular only in point of numbers, and every man of the defense was needed at the loopholes and windows again. Their shots told, too, for Sweeny yelled delightedly from his perilous perch aloft that half-a-dozen were down and the ponies loose; and then could be seen the dash of comrades to pick up and bear away the dead and wounded, a feat of daring and devotion in which the Indians of the plains have no superior. Now the shots of the defenders were telling in more ways than one. They busied so many of Black Wolf's people that the next rush was delayed, and delays to his plan were more than dangerous. Someone had passed a field glass up the loft ladder, and Sweeny was shrieking new delight and encouragement. "Sure's yer born, sir, I can see the byes comin' like hell!" To the mind of the agent, livid and trembling behind his little parapet of blankets, more than enough, perhaps, in the way of hell had reached them already, but men at the windows set up a cry of thanksgiving that faltered a moment at sound of shot and shout from underneath, then swelled again into something like triumph, for Ray had prized up two or three boards from the floor; two or three slim fellows had crawled through the opening and wriggled to the low walls of rough stone which served for foundation, and here and there a would-be incendiary got sudden quietus and his fellows a stay, but not for long. There came presently another superb dash from the southern side that swept by like some human tidal wave of destruction, leaving its wreckage on the hard sod of the prairie, and, alas, its well-nigh desperate fire-workers at the edge of the wall. Ten minutes more and Ray's improvised stockade was encompassed on every side by a ring of yelling, firing, infuriated demons, most of them sprawling flat and shooting low, and the leaden missiles tore through the wooden walls in every direction, and the man who lifted head or arm above the parapet did it at risk of life or limb. Poor Sweeny's glass came clattering down from aloft, and he, poor follow, striving feebly to reach his friends and partial shelter, tumbled in a heap at the foot of the ladder, his life-blood welling from his gallant heart. Then – then other smoke, pungent pinewood smoke, came sifting through knotholes and seams, with ominous sounds of crackling and snapping from the side of the long porch. Then, coughing and strangling, the two men who had ventured below forced their way once more through the hole in the floor, a volume of thick smoke rushing up as they were dragged into the room. Then shrill yells of triumph and rejoicing rose on every side without, and then, within, the piteous, hopeless wailing of helpless women and children.