A SHOT AT MIDNIGHT.
While, as has been said, no further news of affairs at Russell reached the regiment before they plunged into the thick of the campaign and were soon cut off from all communication, there were still three or four days in which the officers could talk over matters and write their letters to be sent back from the intrenched camp at Goose Creek by the first party that was numerically strong enough to undertake the journey. The colonel had been furnished a brief synopsis of the charges against Ray, and Stannard swore with a mighty oath when he read them that from beginning to end the whole thing was made up by Gleason and that other scoundrel, Rallston. The officers came together, and Stannard told what he knew of Rallston's shadowy record in the past, and one by one Gleason's hints, sneers, and slurs about Ray were dragged to light and exploded. There were men sitting around the colonel's tent, a hardy, bushwhacking set of frontiersmen they all looked, who for very shame wished themselves away. Canker's cheeks burned as he recalled how often he had permitted Gleason to defame Ray. Crane and Wilkins hung their heads and tugged at their stubby beards, and looked uncomfortable, for the whole tenor of talk was an enthusiastic and vehement vote of confidence in the Kentuckian. Knowing him to be hot-headed and rash, there was great anxiety about him, and one impulsive fellow suggested that they all sign a letter to him expressing their belief in his innocence and their confidence in his cause. This would not do, said the colonel; it was tantamount to insubordination. Individually they were at liberty to write, but it must not be done as a regiment; and so it resulted that only two or three wrote to him, and one of these was Canker.
Stannard was not fully satisfied. It was agreed that at the very first opportunity they should have another general talk, and the officers had then gone to their various tents to send what might be the last messages home. They were to march over against the Rosebud at dawn, and it was only a few miles' gallop across the divide where Custer and his gallant men lay at their shallow graves, most of them by this time disinterred by prowling wolves or vengeful Indians.
Truscott, too, had written to Ray, and it was not easy. He had written to Grace a long letter, and that was harder still. Three days had elapsed since Gleason's explosive announcement of that strange tableau at his home. He had disdained to listen to explanation or to further statement. He would not condescend to ask Webb a single question; but he had called him aside that morning and said a quiet word.
"Should you ever need a solution of what may have seemed a mystery to you, Webb, in what you mention having seen,—Mrs. Truscott and my friend Ray, I mean,—you have simply to remember that the news of that massacre over yonder has unnerved every woman in the army, and that Mrs. Truscott is not now in a condition to bear any shock. I had asked Ray to go regularly to my house."
He was incapable of doubting her. He would not doubt Ray, and yet—and yet there was something about the matter he did not like. She had written to him—three pages—that afternoon after it all occurred, and had mentioned nothing of Ray's being there, nothing of her having been agitated during his visit, nothing at all of it; and yet such a scene had occurred. He could account for there being a scene, but he could not reconcile himself to her utter silence upon the subject.
In his letter to Ray he, of course, said nothing of it. In his letter to his wife he gently, lovingly, pointed out to her that it was not right that he should be told by strangers of her being seen sobbing upon the sofa when alone with Mr. Ray, and that she should make no allusion to a matter that had struck them as so extraordinary. Could he have taken her in his strong arms and used just those words in speaking of it with all the grace of love and trust and tenderness accenting every syllable, she would never have mistaken the mood in which he wrote; but who that loves has not marked the wide difference between such words written and spoken? When the letter came it cut Grace to the heart, and it was the last letter to reach her in one whole month. The next had to come way around by the Yellowstone. Was it likely that in that intervening month she should care to see much of Ray?
All over the Northwest that column went marching and chasing after the now scattered bands of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull: always on the trail, always pushing ahead. From the Tongue to the Rosebud; then over to the Powder; then up to the Yellowstone; then, while Miles went across after the fleeing Uncapapas and their wily old rascal of a leader, the Gray Fox gave his ragged followers a few days in which to bait their horses and patch their boots and breeches; then on he led them after the Ogallallas and Brulés, far across the Little Missouri, over to Heart River, where rations gave out; then down due south by compass through flooding rain, heading for the Black Hills, two weeks' march away. It was summer sunshine when they cut loose from tents and baggage at Goose Creek, with ten days' rations and the clothes they had on. It was freezing by night before they saw those tents and wagons again down in the southern hills, where they came dragging in late in September, having lived for days on the flesh of their slaughtered horses, and in all these weeks of marching and suffering and fighting no line had reached Stannard or Truscott or anybody from the wives at home. There were sore and anxious hearts among them, but those at home were sorer still.
It was the second week in August when those last letters came from the —th to Russell. It was the second week in September before they heard from them at the bivouac on the Yellowstone. It was the second week in October before the next news came,—the hurried letters brought down from the Black Hills, and telling of their homeward coming. It was the last week in October as they rode—bronzed and bearded and gaunt and thin, herding in the disarmed bands of Red Cloud—that the orders were received returning them to winter quarters far down along the Union Pacific, nearly ten days' march to the south; and meantime—meantime how very much had happened at Russell.
It was the twelfth day of Mr. Ray's arrest and the sixth of his sharp illness that Mr. Gleason arrived at the post and went to report to the commanding officer. Mrs. Truscott and Miss Sanford, seated on their piazza, saw him alight at his quarters from the stage, and immediately went in and closed their door. Mrs. Stannard had been with them awhile the evening previous. Ray was entirely out of danger and was sitting up again, but very quiet and weak. Gleason, it seems, had taken a roundabout way on his return, and had stopped two days at Fort Laramie, from which post he did considerable telegraphing. The mail coming direct from Fetterman brought those letters (which were sent by the sergeant) three days ahead of him, and not a lady in the cavalry quarters at Russell, except perhaps Mrs. Wilkins, would now receive him. Mrs. Stannard met him on the walk soon after his arrival, and passed him with a mere inclination of the head and the coldest possible mention of his name, but she saw he was thin and haggard and very anxious-looking. He was closeted with the post commander a long time, and came out looking worse. Old Whaling was swearing mad over a letter from Stannard and one from the commanding officer of the —th, plainly telling him that if he had been induced to take steps against Mr. Ray by any representations of Mr. Gleason, he would find himself heavily involved; and now Gleason plainly wanted to "crawfish," and to declare that Whaling had used as facts what he had only suggested as possibilities. Whaling was also notified that they proposed to ask the department commander to have proceedings against Ray suspended until the return of the regiment from the campaign, and meantime here was the young gentleman sick on his hands at the post, and that blundering, bullet-headed quartermaster of his had got him involved in another row. Mr. Blake had made an application to department headquarters for a board of officers to appraise the value of one public horse, which he, Lieutenant Blake, desired to purchase; had written to a staff friend at Omaha a graphic description of Dandy's and Ray's "devotion to each other," and the decree of divorce which was passed by Colonel Whaling's order. The quartermaster had meantime had Dandy out in the sun for two more days, tied to the post, and had been notified by Mr. Blake that if he ever spoke to him, except in the line of duty, he would kick him, and things were in almost as eruptive a state at Russell in this blessed month of August of the centennial year as they had been at old Sandy during the Pelham régime, only—only who could this time say it was a woman at the bottom of it?
And yet was it not Gleason's unrequited attentions to our heroine that prompted much of the trouble? Fie on it for a foul suggestion! Is woman to be held responsible for a row because more than one man falls in love with her?
And yet again. She who has been so studiously kept in the background all these dreary chapters has been coming to the fore on her own account. In plain cavalry language, Miss Sanford has twice taken the bit in her teeth and bolted. Gleason once discovered, anent the club-room, that she had a temper. Mrs. Turner was the next to arrive at this conclusion. It was the day after Mr. Ray's illness began. Mrs. Whaling was paying an evening visit. Mrs. Turner had dropped in, as she often did where the ladies were apt to gather, and, despite Mrs. Truscott's polite and modest expression of her disagreement with Mrs. Whaling's views, that amiable lady persisted in descanting upon Mr. Ray's intemperate language and conduct, and repeatedly intimating that it was all due to intemperate drink. "The general" had said so, and that settled it. Miss Sanford sat with blazing eyes and cheeks that flushed redder and redder; she was biting her lip and tapping the carpet with the toe of her slipper. Mrs. Whaling was called away by some household demand before she had fairly finished her homily, and then Mrs. Turner, who had narrowly watched these symptoms, determined to test the depth of Miss Sanford's views upon the subject,—the revelation might be of interest.
"It does seem a pity that Mr. Ray should have done so much to ruin his fine record, does it not, Miss Sanford?"
"Ruin it! Mrs. Turner? Pardon me! but you speak of it as though you believed in his guilt,—as though you thought him culpable. If I were a lady of the —th, I should glory in the name he had made for it, and be defending, not abusing him." And, with the mien of a queen of tragedy, she swished out of the room to cool her fevered cheeks upon the piazza.
"Well!" gasped Mrs. Turner. "If I had supposed she cared for him I wouldn't have suggested such a thing an instant."
"It is not a question of her 'caring' for him as you say, Mrs. Turner," spoke up Mrs. Truscott, with unusual spirit. "He is my husband's warmest friend. We're all proud of him, all indignant at his treatment, and your language is simply incomprehensible!"
Just didn't Mrs. Turner tell that interview—with variations—all over the garrison within twenty-four hours? She had incentive enough; the ladies flocked to hear it, and one absurd maiden saw fit the next evening to simper her congratulations to Miss Sanford on "her engagement"; but by that time Marion had recovered her self-control. She met Mrs. Turner as though nothing of an unusual nature had occurred. She laughingly, even sweetly thanked the damsel, and told her she was engaged to no one.
But in another way she had come out like a heroine. She loved horses, as has been said. She had wept in secret over Mrs. Stannard's description of Dandy's seizure, and she was vehement with indignation at the subsequent treatment of Mr. Ray's pet and comrade. No one ever saw Marion Sanford so excited about anything before, said Grace; she could not refrain from going to the door every little while to see if Dandy were still tied there in front of the quartermaster's, and she would have gone to that functionary himself and implored him to send the horse back to the stable, only she could not trust herself to speak. But the second day she could stand it no longer; she boldly assailed Colonel Whaling, pointed out to him that for two days poor Dandy had been kept there in the hot sun, tortured by flies, and begged him to exert his authority and stop it. It made the quartermaster rabid. He knew somebody must have been interfering, but that night the colonel told him he must take better care of the sorrel, who was looking badly already, and ordered him to be returned to the corral for a day or two. But this very night, as Dandy was being led away, she heard Blake say to Mrs. Truscott,—
"I'd give anything to buy him and give him to Ray."
"Could you buy him?" she exclaimed, all flushing eagerness.
"Why, yes, if I had an unmortgaged cent, Miss Sanford," he said, with a nervous laugh.
She rose, her eyes and cheeks aflame, and stood before them, almost trembling, while her hands worked nervously,—
"Then do it! Mr. Blake. Don't let him suffer another minute! buy him—for me, no matter what he costs, and then—you give him to Mr. Ray. I—I mean every word of it. You can have the money this instant,—the check at least."
Grace sprang up and threw her arms around her neck. "You darling! How I wish I could do it!" was all she could say, but Miss Sanford was simply paying no attention to her. She was waiting to hear from Mr. Blake, who was too much astounded to speak. That evening it was all settled that Blake should make immediate application to purchase, and he went home spouting Shakespeare by the page, perfectly enraptured with this new and unsuspected trait in Marion, and perfectly satisfied that—it was not for him.
The paper went in, and, preceded by Blake's personal letter to the staff-officer, was forwarded to Omaha with an unfavorable endorsement. The post quartermaster had said that except the band horses there were none there that were not needed by the quartermaster's service, and daily in use. All the same the order was promptly issued, and came back in four days with the detail of Colonel Whaling, the post surgeon, and Mr. Warner. Gleason was not named,—a singular thing, since he was the only cavalry officer, except Blake, now for duty at the post, and they had begun officer of the day work. But the very day the board met Ray was out on his piazza taking the air with "extended limits," and rejoicing in the letters that had just come to him from the fellows at the front (the same mail had brought Mrs. Truscott that letter from Jack which sent her to her room in misery), and towards evening Mrs. Stannard came down to see him awhile, and hear his letters and tell him of her own. Mr. Gleason passed out of his quarters girt with sabre,—he was officer of the day,—and walked over towards the guard-house across the parade. Blake had gone "up the row." He wanted to give them a chance for a quiet talk, for Ray's heart was full of gratitude to the major's noble wife. She had nursed him like a mother in his delirium and illness; she had nursed him as she had other fellows when they were down, and they none of them forgot it. As Blake passed Number 11 and glanced back towards the rear windows, he saw a sight that, to use the words he often affected, "gave him pause."
Standing cap in hand at the back of the house was the soldier Hogan, a flush of mingled delight and surprise on his face, and his mouth expanded in a grin of embarrassed ecstasy. In front of him was Miss Sanford, daintily dressed as usual, holding out her hand. She caught sight of Blake, pressed something into Hogan's hand and sprang quickly back.
Can she be sending Ray a note? was his first thought. He concluded not to go in just then, but went on his way. That night Hogan was unusually conversational around the house. He was plainly exhilarated. He came to the room where the two officers were seated and stumbled over Mr. Blake's boots.
"What on earth do you want, Hogan?" asked Ray, looking up from his paper and pipe.
"I was wanting to clane the lootenant's pistol, sir, an' it isn't in the holster."
"You needn't clean it to-night," said Ray, coloring. "I want it."
"What the dickens do you want it for to-night?" said Blake. "Let him have it; it hasn't been cleaned for a month."
"Never mind, Hogan, not to-night."
"Could I be gone for a couple of hours, sir, if there's nothing else the lootenant wants?"
"Oh, yes, go ahead; I shall not need you until morning."
"Would the lootenant take care of this for me?" said Hogan, holding out two twenty-dollar bills. "I might lose it if I tuk too much."
"Don't take too much, then, you sinner. Where did you get this money, sir?"
"Shure the lootenant mustn't blow on me," said Hogan, with rapture in his eyes and a glibness born of poteen on his tongue, "but that court-martial was the makin' of me fortune, sir. Shure not only did the lootenant an' Misther Blake give me a fine charactther and ten dollars to boot, but the moment do I get out of the gyard-house Mrs. Thruscott sends Flanigan for me, an' when I get there shure it's the young leddy as wants to see me. 'You're a good soldier, Mr. Hogan,' says she, 'and you're true to Dandy, you are.' 'Faix I am, ma'am,' says I, 'an' long life to him and the man that rides him,' says I. 'Shure it's he's the soldier, ma'am, and the boss rider of the regiment too.' 'I know it, Mr. Hogan,' says she, all a-blushin' like, 'an' I'm proud of ye for bein' so thrue to him in his throuble,' says she. 'Faix, an' the men would murther me, miss, if I wasn't,' says I; and so they would, begorra! and thin says she, 'Now how much did they punish you on that court?' says she. 'Tin dollars blind an' sivin days on the—in the gyard-house, ma'am,' says I; an' says she, 'Here's twinty for the tin they robbed ye of, and five for every day they kep' ye from yer masther an' Dandy.' An', begorra, lootenant, she ran in the house before iver I could shpake another wurrud."
"Go it, Mickey Free!" shouted Blake, roaring with laughter. Ray had grown redder and redder as the Irishman told his tale, and at last, laughing to cover his confusion, bade him begone.
That night was still and beautiful. Too excited by the events of the day to think of sleep, Marion Sanford was awake long after midnight. There was no moon, but the skies were cloudless, and a summer breeze played with the curtains of her open window. Far down by the stables she heard the call of the sentry at half-past twelve o'clock. A few minutes later there was a sharp, sudden report, as of a pistol, somewhere down the row; then as she sprang to the window she heard a stifled cry; then all was silence again—unless—was it fancy? She felt, rather than heard, a running footfall. Excited, startled, she hastily threw on a wrapper and shawl and ran in to Grace, who was sleeping quietly as before. Looking out on the parade, she could hear men running rapidly over from the guard-house. Something terrible had happened she now felt sure. Then a man was heard speeding up the walk towards the commanding officer's. She could see him as he darted by, and listened intently. He banged at the colonel's door, and then presently more men came hurrying by. Still she did not like to call; she feared to awaken or shock Grace. But in another minute, as a member of the guard ran by, Mrs. Stannard's clear voice floated out on the night air,—
"What is the matter, corporal?"
"Lieutenant Gleason's murdered, ma'am; shot dead in his room."
"Good heavens! Who could have done it?"
"I don't—leastwise, ma'am, they—they say 'twas Lieutenant Ray."