Trumpeter Fred: A Story of the Plains

"That's what puzzles me, sir, but Brooks says there is no mistake. It's the cavalry shoe, of course. It's just after pay day at Robinson. Could it have been a deserter?"

"No man in his senses would have dared such a thing," is the impatient answer. "It may be some other infernal trick to get us away from our legitimate business. What we've got to do is reach that Sidney road by sunset. By Jove! if I'm court-martialed for this business, it won't surprise me." And the captain's horse evidently felt the sudden grip of the knees, for he took a sudden spurt and set most of the troop at the nerve-wearing jog-trot. Mr. Park said nothing more, but for the life of him he could not help thinking of those lone hoofprints and of that solitary rider. Who could he be?

It is time we got back to him. Only one man or boy, known to us at least, could have come that way. It was Trumpeter Fred.

Daybreak Friday had found him a few miles south of the Niobrara, and close to the Laramie road. At noon Friday he had halted at the Rawhide to rest his horse and take a bite of luncheon, but all his young soul was athrill with eagerness; every faculty was alert. Warned of the recent presence of Indians on every side, he was yet seeking to gain the Platte before nightfall; cross to the south bank, where there was comparative safety; ride southeastward until his horse was exhausted, picket him where grass and water were near at hand, sleep till dawn again, and then push on. He must reach the Sidney road before Sunday morning and strike it far below the river.

But here, as he neared the valley, a sight had met his eyes which made his young heart leap. The banks of the Rawhide were dotted here and there by fresh pony tracks, and, coming from the distant ridges to the east, they had gone in as though to water, and then turned down toward the Platte, the very way he wanted to go. An hour, with his horse hidden behind him in a shallow ravine, Fred Waller was lying prone upon the ground, and peering over a ridge into the low, level wastes stretching far to the southeast, bordering the Platte to the very horizon. What most attracted his gaze was a little dust cloud, miles away downstream, into which tiny black dots were moving, with other little dots scurrying about at some distance from the main cluster. No need to tell him they were Indians.

It was some minutes before he could determine which way they were really going, but when he finally saw that they were bound down the valley, the boy's heart beat high with hope. He could venture down to the Platte as soon as they had passed entirely out of sight, and find some place to cross well to the west of them. An hour he waited and still they were in view. Then they seemed to disappear in a little clump of timber. He waited fifteen to twenty minutes, and they were still there. Then it suddenly dawned upon him that the whole band were resting in the shade while their scouts searched the neighborhood. He was five or six miles from the river, and every inch of ground in front was open. He knew well that their eyes were keener than his, and should he make a dash for it they would certainly see and give chase. What he could not detect, and did not dream of, was that miles still further away down the Platte another dust cloud was slowly advancing – Wallace's troop coming upstream – and their scouts were watching that.

At last, after another hour of anxiety, he determined to slip away westward, go up the Rawhide a few miles until he could gain the shelter of some low-lying ridges, crossing the stream, and making a wide circuit, sweep around to the Platte. He might still reach it before dark and find a ford, or at least a place to swim across; he could trust "Big Jim" for that. But even as he would have put this plan in execution, he saw to his dismay a new move among the warriors. Four little dots came riding from the timber and pushing back up the valley. These were only the advance. In half an hour the whole band came jogging leisurely out of the shadows, and little dots farther east came streaking across the flats to join them. Fred saw that the whole war party was now retracing its steps and coming back upstream, and that now, if he waited, he might pursue his original intention of crossing at the shallows, ten miles below the mouth of the Rawhide. And so, patiently and pluckily, he kept his ground, – "Big Jim" contentedly filling himself with buffalo grass the while, – and not until the sun was low in the west did Fred realize their real intent. Just as the scouts, far in advance of the main party, reached the winding banks of the Rawhide, they seemed to hold brief consultation; one of them plunged through to the western side, the other three turned and came straight toward the watching boy.

Great Heavens! It meant that the whole party was coming up the Rawhide, and before dark would find and follow his track. Fred's first impulse was to mount, and giving Jim the spurs, ride on the wings of the wind back to the north – back to the Niobrara, where he had left the troop in bivouac. There at least was safety, for they could not trail him in the dark. But the second thought covered him with shame. Go back – go back now! Never, so long as he had a chance for life and hope. Away from here, and instantly, he must speed on his mission, and in another moment his girth was tightened, and "Big Jim," astonished, was racing away eastward, but keeping the sheltered ridge between him and the Platte.

CHAPTER XIII.

AWAY TO THE RESCUE!

THAT night Fred Waller slept fitfully on the open prairie, with "Big Jim" tethered close at hand. Saturday morning found him ten miles to the east and ten miles further from the river than the point where he watched the Sioux the previous evening. Hungry and worn with anxiety as he was, the poor boy's heart sank within him when he cautiously peered over the ridge into the valley. After an early morning ride, he saw the dust clouds near the stream, and felt that he was still cut off. Noon was near when, far as he could see up or down, the valley was clear; and then creeping out from his lair, he again mounted and rode straight for the Platte. Warily he watched in every direction, but no intruders came. He was spurring over the flats only a mile from the river before the first sign of pursuit was made. Then, far back toward the bluffs he had left, Fred spied a little party of warriors coming after him full tilt. Never stopping for more than one glance he gave Jim the rein, urging him to full speed; marked, as he flashed across it only a few hundred yards from the bank, the trail of a cavalry command going up the valley and wondered whose it could be; then he and Jim went crashing through the gravel at the water's edge and plunged boldly into the running stream. Deeper and deeper brave old Jim pushed in until the waters foamed about his broad and muscular breast; then Fred threw himself from the saddle, and keeping tight hold of the pommel and steadying his carbine with the same hand, "Swim for it, old man!" he shouted to his gallant horse, and in another minute he and Jim were floating with the current, yet rapidly nearing the other shore. Three minutes and, dripping wet but safe, they were scrambling up the south bank and speeding away over the bounding turf with the baffled pursuers still two miles behind.

And these were the tracks that Wallace found as he came hurrying back downstream.

Saturday again Fred Waller and his faithful horse spent on the open prairie, for in the darkness he found it impossible to make his way. The moon was gone by one o'clock, and her light had been all too faint before. But Sunday, just a little after noon, he had come in sight of the goal he had sought through such infinite pluck and peril – the Sidney road; and as he gazed at it from afar, peering at it as usual from behind a sheltering bluff, his heart sank into his boots. He had come too late; there on that distant trail were the tiny columns of blue smoke floating skyward which told of burning wagons, now in crumbling ruins. Worse than that, here close at hand, over on the other side of the long, shallow swale, were twoscore Indian warriors in all their barbaric finery, excitedly watching the coming of other victims.

With a moan of anguish Fred Waller marked, a mile beyond and rapidly approaching them, a four-mule ambulance with a single soldier cantering along behind.

"Oh, my God, my God!" he groaned aloud. "I am too late, after all."

But the wagon halted on the distant hills. The Indians, absorbed in their cat-like watch, were eagerly gesticulating and excitedly pointing to some object far beyond. Several of their numbers lashed their ponies into a tearing gallop and sped away in wide circuit to the southward, keeping the bluffs between them and the wagon. Others followed part of the distance. He knew the maneuver well; already they were planning the surround. In helpless agony he watched, for he was powerless to aid – powerless even to warn. He seized his ready carbine, loosened the cartridges in his belt, and looked eagerly to Jim's girths. Then once again he faced the southeast, and saw, far away across the waves of prairie, a little puff of dust and a little black dot – a rider – coming full tilt in the wake of the wagon.

"Who can it be?" he wondered. "Can he possibly know of this ambuscade?"

All too late! A sudden flashing signal from the leader, and all at an instant with trailing feathers, with war cry and the thunder of a hundred hoofs, the painted band has whirled across the ridge in front and is down in the dip beyond. Every Indian has vanished from his view and whirled into sight of the victims on the crest beyond.

In an instant, too, Fred Waller is in saddle, and spurring on to the ridge which they have just left, and then once more he reins in where he can just peer over the crest. He notes with a cheer of joy that the charge is checked – that the Indians have veered off and are now dashing in a great circle around the central point on the height beyond. He sees the wild stampede and tangle of the mules, the overthrow of the ambulance; the quick, cool, resolute reply of the attacked. He marks with a glow of mad delight, of reviving hope, that there is not a woman or child with the party.

"Thank God!" he cries aloud, "It isn't Mrs. Charlton." He waves his hat with exultation as he sees a pony stumbling in death upon the prairie, and his rider limping painfully away; he knows now that they are soldiers, holding their own for at least a time, and that all depends on getting aid for them before nightfall. Far up the valley on the other side he had marked at noon a dust-cloud sailing slowly toward him. It must be the Sorrels or the Grays, hastening back to clear the Sidney road. Here is the thing to do: gallop back, recross the river, meet and guide them to the rescue. There is still time to get them here before the sun goes down – if only the besieged can hold out that long.

One more glance he takes at the stirring picture before him, longing to drive a shot at the nearest Indians, and as he gazes there comes staggering, laboring into sight from around a point of bluff beyond the beleaguered party, a horse all foam and blood, who goes plunging to earth only a few yards away from the ambulance, and rolls stiffening and quivering in his death agony; but the gray-haired old rider has leaped safely to the ground, and his carbine flashed its instant defiance at the yelling foe. Even at that distance there is no mistaking the well-known form. Fred Waller's wondering eyes have recognized at once – his father.

Now indeed he speeds away for help! Now indeed, has Jim to run for more than life! Turning his back upon the thrilling scene, the little trumpeter goes like a prairie gale, whirling back to the valley of the Platte.

* * * * *

The sun is sinking behind the bluffs, and its last rays fall on a bullet-riddled ambulance; on the stiffening bodies of a half dozen slaughtered animals – a horse and some mules; on a grim, determined little band of soldiers – two of them sorely wounded. The red shafts gleam on a litter of empty cartridge-shells and tinge the canvas top of the overturned wagon. Out on the rolling prairie several hundred yards away, the turf is dotted here and there by Indian ponies, the innocent victims of this savage warfare. Such Indian braves as have fallen have long since been picked up by their raging comrades and borne away. Despite their numbers, never once yet have the savages managed to reach the defenders. Time and again they have swooped down in charge only to be met by cool, well-aimed shots that tumbled some of their numbers to the turf and sent the others veering and yelling into the old familiar circle. At last they are trying the expedient of long-range shots from different points of the compass, hoping to kill or cripple the whole party by sundown. The bullets clip the turf and scatter the dust all over the ridge. There is practically no shelter, for the ground is too hard to dig. Old Sergeant Waller is prostrate with a bullet through the thigh. Colonel Gaines has bound his handkerchief tightly around his arm. The driver lies flat on his face – dead. Every now and then the others turn longing eyes southward, hoping for some sign of infantry coming from the post, so many a mile away. They know well that Edwards will have levied on every wagon in Sidney to bring them; but not a whiff of dust-cloud do they see. One of the soldiers gives a low moan and clasps his hands to his side; and Cross mutters between his set teeth, "Five minutes more of this will settle it."

But what means this sudden scurry and excitement among the besiegers? Why do they crowd and clamor there at the north? What can they see over that ridge beyond the little stream? Presently others join them. Then more and more. Then there are whoops of rage; a few ill-aimed, scattering shots. Three or four of the red men ride daringly, tauntingly down, as though to resume the attack, and shout vile epithets in vilest English in response to the shots with which they are greeted, and then they too go riding away. "Lie down, you idiots!" yells Captain Cross to the two soldiers who would spring up to cheer, but a moment more and even the wounded wave their feeble hands and join in the triumphant shout. The ridge is cleared of every vestige of the foe. The warriors go speeding away eastward toward the Platte. Far out over the prairie, to the northeast, a troop of blue horsemen are driving in pursuit, and, over the neighboring crest, come a half dozen friendly forms and faces, spurring their foam-flecked horses in the race.

"Look up, sergeant! Look up, old man! Here's Fred himself. Didn't I tell you he was no deserter?" It was Cross' voice, and it is Cross' strong arm that lifts the wondering, trembling veteran to his feet. The young fellow has leaped from his horse and is springing toward them. With wondrous look of relief, of inexpressible joy, of gratitude beyond all words, of almost Heaven-born rapture mingling with the sunshine in his old face, the sergeant stretches forth his trembling arms and cries aloud, "My boy! my boy!"

CHAPTER XIV.

INNOCENT OR GUILTY

THE provost sergeant at Fort Robinson is a man who has seen and heard a great deal in the course of his army life, and who has the enviable faculty of knowing everything that is going on around him, without appearing to know anything at all. It had been his duty, a day or two previous, to expel from the limits of the reservation a rascally pack of gamblers – a species of two-legged prairie wolf that in the rough old days on the frontier followed every movement of the Army paymasters, and lured and trapped the soldiers until every cent of their money was gone. In point of number the gamblers were strong enough to take care of themselves in case of Indian attack, yet rarely did they venture far from the protection of the nearest troops. Driven out of post and forbidden to return, they had simply camped with their whole "outfit" at the lower edge of the military reservation, where the laws of the State of Nebraska and not the orders of Uncle Sam took precedence. And here they "set up shop" again, and had a game going in full blast this very sunshiny Sunday morning, and the provost sergeant knew all about it. He also knew by ten o'clock that Sergeant Dawson and Private Patsy Donovan of Charlton's troop, with some adventurous spirits from the garrison, were down there, "bucking their luck" against the tricks of these skilled practitioners; and it was not hard to predict what the result would be.

"Shall I take a file of the guard and fetch them back, sir?" he asked the colonel commanding, and that gentleman glanced inquiringly at his cavalry friend.

"How say you, captain?" Charlton reflected a moment and then replied:

"No, colonel. I should say let them have all the rope they choose to take. I can get them when they are needed. You are sure about their whereabouts on Tuesday and Wednesday nights?" he asked, turning to the sergeant.

"Perfectly, sir; and just what they lost and how much they owed the quartermaster's gang when they left."

"Just see where they are at noon then, and let me know," and the provost sergeant went his way, leaving the officers in consultation.

At noon the soldier telegrapher came hurrying to the colonel and handed him a dispatch.

"I feared as much," said the old soldier as he handed the paper to Captain Charlton. "This means work for you at once. Let us go to the office; there will be dispatches from Omaha presently. Isn't it strange that no one at Sidney should have heard of the Indians getting over the Platte?"

At two o'clock Charlton's troop was in saddle, with only three familiar faces missing from the line. In the new excitement the men had ceased to speak of Trumpeter Fred. What puzzled them now was the absence of Dawson and Donovan. A sergeant sent into the garrison, to warn them that the troop was to march at once, came back to say that he had searched every stable and corral; the horses were nowhere about the post or the Agency stores, and men on guard said that they had seen the two troopers riding away down White River soon after one o'clock, and they had not come back. And when Graham reported them absent to Captain Charlton, as the latter in his familiar scouting costume rode out to take command, the whole troop was amazed that their leader seemed to treat it as a matter of no consequence whatever. He returned the sergeant's salute and inquired:

"Every horse fed and watered?"

"Yes, sir."

"Every man got two days' hard bread and bacon?"

"Yes, sir."

"How much ammunition?"

"Eighty rounds carbine per man – twenty revolver, sir."

"Very good, sergeant;" and this brief colloquy ended, the sergeant reined about and rode to the right flank. "Prepare to mount – mount!" ordered the captain. "Form ranks!" and without further delay, "Fours right – march!" and away they went up the lonely valley, along the winding water, breaking into columns of twos and riding "at ease" the moment they had passed the point where the post commander and a little knot of officers had assembled to bid them God-speed. Captain Charlton bent down from his saddle to grasp the colonel's extended hand and whisper a few words in his ear. The colonel nodded appreciatively. "They can't escape," he answered low, and then, watched by friendly eyes in that little group until out of sight, and by fierce and lurking spies until darkness shrouded them from view, the troop rode jauntily on its mission; Charlton and Blunt in murmured consultation in the lead, and forty-eight stalwart troopers confidently and unquestioningly following in their tracks. Who cared that an all-night ride through Indian-haunted wilds was before them? It was an old, old story to every man.

Were there "ghost lights" on the Niobrara that night? The Indian spies could swear by the deeds of their ancestors that the troop soon climbed out of the valley of the White River and rode briskly southward by the Sidney trail, and that every man was in his place in column when they wound down in the "Running Water" flats at twilight. Yet hours afterward, far to the west, miles away at the Laramie crossing, there were twinkling, dancing, "firefly" gleams – like will-o'-the-wisps – through the chinks and loop-holes of that old log hut, and when morning came the ground was stamped with a fresh impress of half a dozen set of hoof tracks – shod horses, not Indian ponies this time.

It must have meant "bad medicine" for the Sioux, for when morning came all the bands that had been so confidently raiding the trails through the settlements found themselves compelled to seek the shelter of their reservations. From Laramie to Sidney the stalwart infantry came marching to the scene, and from east, north, and west the cavalry came trotting, troop after troop, to hem in and head them off. The very band that ventured south of the Platte and killed in cold blood those helpless teamsters, and then sought the destruction of Gaines and his men, fleeing now before Wallace's troops, were met and soundly thrashed by our friends of Company B, with Captain Charlton and Lieutenant Blunt in the lead, and by Monday night the broad valley was clear of savage foes, the cavalry were resting by their bivouac fires, and then, from the lips of Captain Wallace, Charlton heard the story of Fred Waller's exploit, and of the long gallop that brought about the rescue of Colonel Gaines. Our captain could hardly wait for morning to come, but in two days more he was standing by the bedside of his old sergeant at Sidney barracks, and Trumpeter Fred was there too.

One week later, in the big, sunshiny assembly room of the old barrack, an impressive scene took place, and a long remembered though very brief trial was brought to an abrupt close. A court-martial was in session at Sidney; the general who commanded the department had himself arrived to look into the condition of affairs about the Indian reservation, and with Captain Charlton had had a long consultation, at the close of which the bearded, kindly-faced brigadier had gone to the hospital with the troop commander, and bending over old Waller as he lay upon the narrow cot, took his hand and talked with him about Five Forks and Appomattox, and then promised him that his wish should be respected. It was a singular wish – a strange thing for a father to ask. Old Sergeant Waller had insisted that his boy should be brought to trial before the court-martial then in session, and convicted or acquitted of the double charge of theft and desertion that had been lodged against him. In vain Charlton represented to him that it was not necessary, nobody believed the stories now; the veteran was firm and positive in the stand he made.

"Everywhere in this department, sir, my boy's name has been held up to shame as a thief and a deserter. There is only one way to clear him; let him stand trial, prove his innocence, and let us fix the guilt where it belongs." And Waller was right.

Who that was in the court room that hot August morning, when the south wind blew the dust-cloud into the post and burned the very skin from the bronzed faces around the whitewashed wall, will ever forget the closing incidents of that trial? At the long wooden table sat the nine officers who composed the court with their gray-haired president at the head, all dressed in their full uniforms, all grave and silent. At the lower end of the table was the keen, shrewd face of the young judge advocate who conducted the entire proceedings. On one side of him, quiet, self-possessed, and patient, sat little Fred, neat and trim as a new pin in his faultless fatigue dress. A little behind the boy was his captain, Charlton, and along the wall, at the end of the room, Colonel Gaines, with his arm still in a sling, and Captain Cross, with his piercing restless eyes and "fighting face." On the other side of the judge advocate stood the chair in which witness after witness had taken his seat and given his testimony, and now at high noon it was empty, and the crowd of spectators, sitting in respectful silence around the room, craned their necks and gazed at the doorway in hushed, yet eager curiosity to see the man whose name had just been passed to the orderly. It was understood that the case for the prosecution depended mainly upon his evidence.

CHAPTER XV.

COURT-MARTIAL

FIRST SERGEANT GRAHAM had sworn to the disappearance of the money at the Niobrara and the fact that at daybreak the trumpeter had gone with his horse, arms, and equipments. He also told of his belief that he and the men who slept near him that night had been stupefied by chloroform. Two other troopers told of the loss of their money at the same time; the hospital steward from Fort Robinson testified to Fred's coming to him and getting a little vial of chloroform on a forged request from Sergeant Graham. Corporal Watts had positively identified a ten-dollar bill, which was in the trumpeter's possession when he was searched (at his own request) when first accused of the crime, as one stolen from him at the Niobrara. He had had some experience, he said, and had made a record of the numbers; and this record, in a little notebook, was exhibited to the court.