GEORGE AT THE FORT.
CHAPTER I.
DISCONTENTED RECRUITS.
"Captain, this thing must be stopped. I say it must be stopped, even if we have to resort to summary measures. We must find out who the ringleaders are, and make an example of them."
The speaker was Colonel Brown, the commanding officer of Fort Lamoine. As he uttered these emphatic words he slammed a paper-weight down upon a pile of reports which the adjutant had just brought in, and, settling back in his chair, looked sharply at the officer who stood in front of the table. The red sash the latter wore around his waist proclaimed him to be the officer of the day.
"How many did you say there were in the party who deserted last night?" continued the colonel.
"Seven, sir," replied the officer of the day, "and there is a list of their names. They took no horses with them, but they each secured a carbine and a box of cartridges."
An Unexpected Guest.
"That makes thirty men who have deserted since I took command of this post," said the colonel, angrily, "and not more than half of them have been captured.—Orderly, tell Corporal Owens I want to see him. He is one of the few non-commissioned officers in the command whom I am not afraid to trust.—Captain, have six picked men, with two days' rations, detailed to go with him in pursuit of these deserters. He can find and arrest them if anybody can."
The officer of the day closed the door of the colonel's head-quarters behind him, and in a few minutes the orderly opened it again to admit a sturdy young soldier, about eighteen years old, who wore upon his arms the yellow chevrons of a corporal of cavalry. This was Bob Owens—the boy who stole the mail-carrier's hard-earned money and ran away from home to enjoy it. He had not changed much in appearance. He had grown taller and his shoulders were broader, but any one who had known him before he entered the army would have recognized him now. The fact that he had been selected to perform the hazardous duty of pursuing and arresting the deserters who had left the fort the night before fully armed, and who would not hesitate to make a desperate resistance rather than allow themselves to be taken back to stand the punishment that would be inflicted upon them by a court-martial, and the colonel's declaration that he was one of the few non-commissioned officers in the command whom he was not afraid to trust, seemed to indicate that our old friend Bob had won a reputation since he enlisted in Galveston, nearly a year ago, and done something to win the confidence of his superiors. Let us go back and see what it was.
The last time we saw Bob Owens he was just coming out of a recruiting-office, having enlisted in the regular cavalry and sworn away his liberty for a long term of years. He did not take this step of his own free will, but was driven to it by force of circumstances.
When Bob found Dan Evans in his camp in the woods and stole from him the money that David, with Dan and Bert Gordon's assistance, had earned by trapping quails, he ran away from home, and after escaping from the constable who arrested him at Linwood on suspicion of being a horse-thief he took passage on board the steamer Sam Kendall for St. Louis. While he was on the steamer he made the acquaintance of George Ackerman, who was one of the pilots, and whom he twice saved from drowning. George owned an extensive cattle-ranche in Texas, which was held in trust for him by his uncle, John Ackerman, who was his guardian. After the Sam Kendall was burned he tried to show his gratitude to his preserver, whom he believed to be alone in the world, by offering him a home at his house. At first Bob was inclined to refuse. His imagination having been excited by the cheap novels he had read, he had left home intending to go on the Plains and make himself famous as a hunter and Indian-fighter; but George, who had seen more than one professional hunter in his frontier home, said so much against it, and painted the poverty and worthlessness of this class of men, and the dangers of the life they led, in such gloomy colors, that Bob was finally induced to give up his long-cherished idea, and to consent to accompany his new friend to his home in Texas. As George had no money, Bob footed all their bills, and in due time, in spite of the efforts which Uncle John Ackerman made to separate them in New Orleans, they arrived in Galveston.
They had scarcely stepped ashore before their troubles began in earnest. Bob's pocket was picked while he was passing through the crowd on the wharf, and the boys found themselves alone in a strange city, without money enough in their possession to pay for supper or lodging, and no friend to whom they could go for assistance. They spent the night on the streets, keeping constantly in motion to avoid attracting the attention of the police, and when morning came they found a good-natured grocer who gave them a breakfast of crackers and cheese, and provided George with the means of writing to Mr Gilbert for money to pay his fare and Bob's by rail and stage-coach to Palos. If they could only reach that place, their troubles would be over, for George was well known there, and everybody would be ready to lend him and his new friend a helping hand. But Mr. Gilbert lived a long way from Galveston, the mail facilities between Palos and his rancho were none of the best, and the boys were utterly at a loss to determine how they were going to exist during the two or three weeks that must elapse before George could receive an answer to his letter.
The two friends passed the day in roaming about the city looking for work, but nobody needed them. When the afternoon began drawing to a close they were almost tired out, and George talked of going to some station-house to spend the night—a project to which Bob could not bear to listen. The idea of having a policeman's key turned upon him was dreadful; the bare thought of it was enough to make him gasp for breath. As he walked along the streets he was continually searching his pockets in the faint hope of finding the missing money tucked away in some unexplored corner, and finally he discovered fifty cents in currency in the watch-pocket of his trousers. His heart bounded at the sight of it. It was enough to provide him with supper and a night's lodging, but was not enough to pay for the same comforts for George.
When Bob found this stray piece of currency he was not long in making up his mind how to act. He resolved to slip away from George, and accomplished his purpose by gradually slackening his pace and allowing the young pilot to get some distance in advance of him, and then he turned down a cross-street and took to his heels. He made his way to a cheap lodging-house, ate a hearty supper and went to bed, wondering how George was getting on and where he would pass the night. The latter, as we know, fared much better than Bob did, and the latter made a great mistake in deserting him. His companion had not been gone more than a half an hour before George encountered Mr. Gilbert, the friend to whom he had written that morning, and who had come to Galveston on business. The two looked everywhere for Bob, but were finally obliged to abandon the search. The missing boy had disappeared as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up.
The first question that forced itself upon the mind of Bob Owens when he awoke the next morning was, "What shall I do next?" A careful examination of all his pockets showed him that there were no more fifty-cent pieces in them, and he was obliged to confess to himself that the future looked exceedingly dark. He walked the streets in a very disconsolate frame of mind, and had almost decided that he would step into the nearest grocery-store and ask the proprietor if he would not give him a job of sawing wood to pay for something to eat, when he happened to pass a recruiting-office. A sign posted up in front of the door conveyed to the public the information that men were wanted there for the United States cavalry service, and suggested an idea to Bob. He took a few minutes in which to run it over in his mind, and then faced about and entered the office.
The law against enlisting minors without the consent of their parents or guardians is very strict, but Bob got around it by repeating the story he had told George Ackerman, that he was an orphan, and that there was no one who had a right to control his actions. The recruiting-officer was a young man, not more than two or three years older than himself, but he had seen service away up in the Yellowstone country, and the scar on his forehead, which was not yet fully healed, marked the track of the Indian bullet which had come very near putting an end to his career as a soldier. Being unable to do duty in the field, he had been sent to Texas to recuperate his health and to recruit men to fill up some of the depleted cavalry regiments. He questioned Bob very closely, but the latter gave satisfactory replies, and, having passed the surgeon, his "descriptive list" was taken and he was duly sworn into the service. There were a number of newly-enlisted men hanging about the office waiting to be ordered to some post, and one of them, who acted as quartermaster-sergeant, took Bob into a back room and served out a uniform to him.
"What shall I do with my citizen's rig?" asked Bob as he twisted himself first on one side and then on the other to see how he looked in his new clothes. "I suppose I can't keep it?"
"Of course not," was the sergeant's quick reply. "It would come too handy in case you should make up your mind to desert."
"I shall never make up my mind to any such thing," exclaimed Bob, indignantly. "I have gone into this business with my eyes open, and I am going to see it through."
"That's the right spirit," said the sergeant. "But wait till you have ridden twelve hundred miles at a stretch in pursuit of a band of hostiles, and perhaps you'll weaken."
"What do you know about hostiles?" asked Bob.
"Well, I should think I ought to know all about them, for I have been there. This is my third enlistment in the regular army."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Bob. "I should think that after so many years' service you ought to be an officer."
"I was a non-com when I was discharged, and that is as high as any enlisted man can get now," replied the soldier. "I was a captain during the war, but they don't take men out of the ranks and make officers of them any more. When I enlisted this time I had to go in as a private; but I have my old warrants in my pocket, and perhaps they will help me get a new one when I reach the post where I am to serve."
"What's a non-com?" asked Bob.
"Why, a non-commissioned officer," answered the soldier, staring at Bob as if he were surprised at his ignorance. "You never did any soldiering, I'll bet."
"No, I never did," replied the recruit; "this is my first experience."
"And before you get through with it you will wish that you had never had any experience at all."
"Don't you think I shall like the army?"
"Well, I know I don't like it."
"Then why did you enlist again?"
"Because I couldn't do anything else. A man who has soldiered for nearly fourteen years isn't fit for civil life. Now, make your citizen's clothes into a bundle and take them around the corner to a little Jew store you will find there. Mose buys all the recruits' cast-off clothing. He'll not give you much for them, but the little he will give you will keep you in gingerbread as long as you stay in the city."
"How long do you suppose that will be?"
"I am sure I don't know, but if recruits keep coming in as rapidly as they have during the last few days, the lieutenant will probably take a squad off next week."
"Where will he take it?"
"That's a conundrum. A private never knows where he is going until he gets there."
"Where do you eat and sleep?"
"We take our meals at the restaurant next door, and having no bunks we sleep on the benches in the office. You can go about the city as much as you please, but you must be sure and report at meal-time. If you fail to do that, you will have the police after you."
"Why will I?" asked Bob in surprise.
"Because the lieutenant will think you have deserted."
Bob was beginning to feel the tight rein of military discipline already. At home he had always been accustomed to go and come when he pleased, and he did not like the idea of having his liberty restricted or of being obliged to obey without question the orders of a boy scarcely older than himself. But it was too late to think of that now. The youthful officer was backed up by the entire military and police force of the United States, and there was no such thing as getting out of reach of his authority.
"I am in for it," thought Bob as he rolled up his clothes and started for the little Jew store around the corner, "but I don't know that I could have done anything else. I shall have plenty to eat and a place to sleep, and at the same time I shall be earning money to pay off that debt I owe Dave Evans. What an idiot I was to keep that money! To pay for that one act of folly and dishonesty I am compelled to waste some of the best years of my life in the army. I hope I shall get a chance to show them that I am no coward, if I am a greenhorn."
It was little indeed that Mose gave Bob for the articles he had to offer for sale—just four dollars for clothing that had cost over thirty; but those four dollars made him feel a little more independent. They brought him a few delicacies to supplement the plain fare that was served up to him and his companions at the cheap restaurant at which they took their meals, and were the means of gaining him the friendship of one of the recruits, Bristow by name, who stuck to him like a leech until the last cent had been expended.
Bob remained in Galveston nearly two weeks, and during that time he saw everything of interest there was to be seen in the city. Then he began to grow tired of having nothing to do, and took to hanging about the office as the others did, and making comments upon those who presented themselves for enlistment. He was glad indeed when the lieutenant mustered all the recruits one night and ordered them to report at the office the next morning at nine o'clock, sharp; but he was provoked because the officer did not tell them where they were going. This, however, only proved the truth of the old sergeant's words—that a private never knew where he was going until he got there. Bob knew that they were bound for Brownsville when a steamer landed them there a few hours later, and he found out that they were going from there to Fort Lamoine when they arrived at that post after a weary tramp of more than three hundred miles.
The recruits camped beside the trail at night, and during the daytime plodded along behind the army-wagon which contained their tents, blankets, rations and cooking-utensils. It was very fatiguing to all of them, and it was not long before Bob began to learn something of the dispositions of the men with whom he was to be intimately associated during his term of enlistment. The majority of them grumbled lustily, and even talking of deserting, and there were not more than two or three besides himself who bore the discomforts of the march with anything like patience. There was not much restriction placed upon their actions, and, although they were not permitted to stray away from the line of march during the daytime, they were allowed to visit any ranches or farm-houses that might be in the neighborhood of their camping-grounds. The people they met along the route were very liberal with the products of their gardens and with their milk, butter and eggs, and the recruits fared sumptuously every day; but it would have been much better for some of them if they had remained in camp at night and left the settlers entirely alone. Not a few of the men with whom they exchanged civilities unconsciously sowed among them seeds of discontent that were destined eventually to bear a fruitful crop of trouble. By endeavoring to live up to the sentiments they heard expressed on every hand, more than one of the recruits found themselves landed in the military prison at Fort Leavenworth.
"I don't see why you chaps swear away your liberty, and work for thirteen dollars a month, when you might just as well get forty and be free men," said a rancheman one night, after he has given Bob and three companions, one of whom was Bristow, all the milk he had to spare. "You'll soon get enough of soldiering, I tell you. I know, for I have tried it. It is a heap easier to ride around on your horse and watch your cattle while they are fattening themselves for market on the rich grass."
"But we don't happen to have any cattle to watch," said Bob.
"Who would give us forty dollars a month?" demanded Bristow, who was one of the loudest and most persistent grumblers among the recruits.
"You could get it almost anywhere in this country," replied the rancheman. "I'd give it to you, for one, and I know of a dozen others who stand ready to snap up the first man that comes along, no odds whether he ever herded cattle or not. You have made precious fools of yourselves, and you'll get a fool's reward. You'll have mean grub, hard work and poor pay, and be niggers to every little snipe who wears a shoulder-strap."
"We've found that out already—haven't we, boys?" said Bristow, as he and his companions reluctantly took leave of the hospitable rancheman and retraced their steps toward the camp. "We are precious fools to work for thirteen dollars, when we might just as well earn three times that amount, and be our own masters besides. There is no need that anybody should tell us that our officers will treat us like niggers, for we have found that out too. Look at that lieutenant! He rides in the wagon every day, while we have to hoof it."
"But you must remember that he is not strong," said Bob. "He has not yet fully recovered from the effects of his wound."
"I don't believe a word of it," declared Bristow. "He's just as able to march and cook his own grub and pitch his own tent as we are. It makes me sick to see how that man Haskins waits on him." (Haskins was the one who had served out clothing to the recruits in Galveston.) "But a blind man could see what he is working for," added Bristow. "He wants to get into the good graces of the lieutenant, hoping that he will be recommended for a non-com's position when we reach the fort. I tell you I have seen enough of soldiering already, and the very first chance I get I am going to skip out."
"I'll go with you," said one of the recruits.
"All right! Shake on that."
"You may depend upon me," said the recruit as he grasped Bristow's proffered hand. "Do you remember that big-whiskered, loud-voiced rancheman who gave us the potatoes the other night? He is sadly in need of help, and he told me that if I would come to his house, bringing three or four friends with me, he would give us citizens' clothes and hide us until the officers gave up looking for us. All he asked was, that we should agree to work for him for twelve months, and promise not to leave without giving him due notice."
"I am in for that," exclaimed the recruit who had not spoken before.—"What do you say, Owens?"
"I say I am out of it," was the quick reply. "If I did a thing like that, I never could look a white man in the face again. I have been guilty of a good many mean acts during my life—some that I would gladly recall if I could—but I am not mean enough to desert. Besides, I have no desire to have a bullet sent into me."
Bob's companions did not know whether to be surprised or angry at this plain speech. They stared hard at him for a moment, and then Bristow said,
"Are you really afraid of being shot? Well, I can set your fears on that score at rest. I know that the penalty for desertion in the face of the enemy is death, but we are not in the face of the enemy now. The country is at peace."
"I know it is nominally so," answered Bob, "but it is not so in reality, and never will be so long as these hostile Indians and lawless Mexicans continue to raid over the Texas border. If you skip out, as you threaten to do, you may rest assured that you will be brought back by force of arms, and if you resist you will be shot."
"How does it come that you know so much more than the rest of us?" demanded Bristow angrily. "You are not an old soldier."
"I am aware of that fact, but I have been talking to an old soldier, and that was Haskins. He told me that Major Elliot, one of General Custer's officers, pursued a party of deserters, and when they resisted he shot three of them; and Haskins himself was one of the squad that did the shooting."
"I don't believe a word of it," exclaimed Bristow.
"Neither do I," said another of the recruits. "Of course we expect to be pursued, but we shall take good care that we are not caught. Any of these ranchemen who want herdsmen will furnish us with citizens' clothing, and before our year is out the thing will blow over, and then we'll go home, and stay there."
"It won't blow over as easily as you think for," said Bob. "It will be known to your home authorities and to everybody else that you are deserters, and all the detectives in the United States will be on the lookout for you. If you want to live in constant fear of arrest, you can do it, but I won't."
Bob stuck to his resolution, and his discontented companions stuck to theirs. We shall see in due time which of the four made the wisest decision.
CHAPTER II.
AN OLD FRIEND TURNS UP.
The long, toilsome journey was completed at last, and late one afternoon the weary and footsore recruits found themselves drawn up in line on the parade-ground at Fort Lamoine. After the roll had been called and the colonel commanding the post had hurriedly inspected them, they were turned over to a sergeant, who marched them into the barracks. There they found about two hundred or more soldiers, who, as soon as the order was given to "break ranks," crowded about them inquiring for late papers and asking a thousand and one questions in regard to what was going on in the States.
Learning from the sergeant that no duty would be required of him that day, Bob spread his blankets in one of the empty bunks, and, stretching himself upon them, placed his hands under his head and looked about him with no little curiosity. Presently a young trooper, a boy about his own age, who looked as though he were just recovering from a long siege of sickness, approached, and, seating himself on the edge of Bob's bunk, began a conversation with him. Those of our readers who have met this boy before in citizen's dress might have seen something familiar about him, but still it is doubtful if they would have recognized in him—Well, we will let him reveal his identity. After a few commonplace remarks Bob inquired, as he nodded his head toward a soldier who was hobbling about the room with the aid of a crutch,
"What's the matter with that man?"
"Raiders," was the sententious reply.
"Been in a fight?" asked Bob.
The young soldier nodded his head.
"How long since?"
"Last full moon."
"I hope these fights don't occur very often."
"Well, they do—much oftener than I wish they did. I have been in two pretty hard ones, and that's enough for me. I suppose we shall have more of them now, for I understand that we have received orders to follow the raiders across the river and thrash them wherever they can be found."
"Were you wounded in one of those fights?" asked Bob. "Then you must be sick," he added when the boy shook his head.
"Yes, I am sick," was the reply—"homesick and sick at heart. I have been in the army nearly two years and a half, and I don't see how I can live to serve out the rest of my time. I am dying by inches."
"What did you come into the army for, anyhow?"
"Because I was a fool," answered the young soldier bitterly.
"Shake," exclaimed Bob, extending his hand; "I came in for the same reason."
"Did your parents give their consent?" asked his new acquaintance.
"No, they didn't. They live in Mississippi, and don't know anything about it."
Bob's long tramp had taken a good deal of spirit out of him, and somehow he could not muster up energy enough to tell any more falsehoods concerning himself.
"My parents live in Ohio," said the soldier.
"Then how in the world did you happen to stray down here to Texas?" asked Bob.
"Shake," said Bob, again extending his hand; "that's just what I did."
The two runaways shook each other's hands in the most cordial manner, and instantly all reserve between them vanished. They were companions in misery and united by a bond of sympathy. The young soldier at once became very communicative. He had closely guarded his secret for more than two years, because there was not one among the rough men by whom he was surrounded who could understand or appreciate his feelings. But here was one who could sympathize with him, and it was a great relief to him to know that he could speak freely and run no risk of being laughed at for his weakness.
"My name is Gus Robbins," said he, moving up a little closer to Bob and speaking in a low, confidential tone. "I had as good a home as any boy need wish for, but I wasn't contented there; still, I don't believe that I ever should have left it as I did if circumstances had not smoothed the way for me. My father is the senior partner in the largest dry-goods store in Foxboro', and he had in his employ two persons, father and son, who are in a great measure responsible for all the trouble I have got into. The buy was a clerk like myself, and his father was our bookkeeper. They had a very wealthy relative, a rancheman, living here in Texas, and when that relative died it was found that he had willed his property to our bookkeeper, to be held in trust for his (the rancheman's) son. They came to Texas to take charge of the estate, and after a while I received a letter from Ned (that was the boy's name) inviting me to pay him a visit. As he sent me money enough to bear the expenses of the journey, I came; and I am very sorry for it. We got ourselves into trouble by shooting some cattle that had broken into Ned's wheat-field, and had to dig out for Brownsville at a gallop. Ned went squarely back on me, and as I had no money to pay my way home, and hadn't the cheek to ask my father for it, I did what I thought to be the next best thing—I enlisted. I am very sorry for that too, for there was where I made my mistake. I ought to have gone back into the country and hired out to some stock-raiser. Then I could have gone home as soon as I had earned and saved money enough to take me there; but now I must stay my time out; that is, unless—"
Gus paused and looked at Bob. The latter understood him. Here was another fellow who had made up his mind to desert at the first opportunity.
"Don't do that," said Bob, earnestly. "You'll only get yourself into trouble if you attempt it."
"I don't care if I am shot for it. I'll make a break for liberty the very first good chance I get."
The tone in which these words were uttered satisfied Bob that it would be of no use whatever to argue the matter. It was plain that Gus had made up his mind after mature deliberation, and that he was not to be easily turned from his purpose.
"Where did your friend Ned go after you reached Brownsville?" asked Bob, who was much interested in the young soldier's story.
"I don't know; I left him at the hotel. He will come to some bad end, and so will his father, for they are both rascals. The property of which they have charge, and which brings in a big fortune every year, rightfully belongs to George Ackerman, Ned's cousin; but Ned and his father—"
"George Ackerman?" exclaimed Bob, starting up in his bunk.
Gus nodded his head, and looked at the recruit in great surprise.
"Is he a cub pilot?" continued the latter.
"'A cub pilot'?" repeated Gus. "No, he's a herdsman, or I ought rather to say he was a herdsman. He had stock of his own worth six thousand dollars. Where he is now I don't know, for on the morning after we left his ranche, while we were camped in the edge of the timber making up for the sleep we had lost the night before, we were surprised by a couple of Greasers, who made a prisoner of George and carried him across the river into Mexico. I don't know what they did with him, for all George could induce them to say was that 'Fletcher wanted to see him.'"
"It's the same fellow," exclaimed Bob, rising from his blanket and seating himself on the edge of the bunk by his companion's side. "He told me all about it, but his story was so very remarkable that I didn't know whether to believe it or not. He gave those Greasers the slip, secured a berth as cub pilot on a Mississippi River steamer, and that was where I found him."
With this introduction Bob went on to tell how he had saved George from going to the bottom when Uncle John Ackerman pushed him overboard from the Sam Kendall; related all the thrilling incidents connected with the burning of the steamer; described how Uncle John had tried to separate them in New Orleans; in short, he gave a truthful account of his intercourse with the cub pilot up to the time he deserted him in Galveston. Bob was heartily ashamed of that now, and could not bear to speak of it.
"I became separated from him in some way—it is very easy to lose a companion in the crowded streets of a city, you know—and that was the last I saw of him," said Bob in conclusion; and when he told this he forgot that he had afterward seen George go into a hotel accompanied by Mr. Gilbert. "Then I didn't know what to do. I had no money; I was hungry and sleepy, utterly discouraged; and, like you, I sought to end my troubles by enlisting. I see now that I made a great mistake, but I am going to serve faithfully during my term of enlistment, if I live. Is George's ranche far from here?"
"I don't know, for I am not much acquainted with the country east of here, never having scouted in that direction. It is about one hundred and fifty miles from Palos, if you know where that is. As you are George's friend, I am sorry that you enlisted, for I know that you are going to have a hard time of it; but since you did enlist, I am glad you were ordered to this post, for misery loves company, you know. Let's walk out on the parade, where we can talk without danger of being overheard. Perhaps you would like to take a look at the place which will always be associated in your mind with the most unhappy days of your existence."
It was plain that Gus took a very gloomy view of things, and of course his discouraging remarks made an impression upon Bob, although they did not take away the interest he felt in his surroundings. Everything was new to him, and he asked a great many questions as he and Gus walked slowly around the parade toward the stables.
Fort Lamoine was situated on a high, rocky eminence which overlooked the surrounding country for half a dozen miles or more in every direction. The stockade, which enclosed about two acres of ground, was built of upright logs deeply sunk in the earth. The tops were sawed off level, and a heavy plate of timber, through which stout wooden pins had been driven into the end of each log, held them firmly in their place. The officers' quarters, barracks, store-houses and stables were built in the same manner. On the outside of the parade were long rows of stately cottonwood trees, interspersed with shrubs and flowers. In one corner, on the right-hand side of the principal gate, was the well that supplied the garrison with water, and in the other was the flagstaff, from which floated the Stars and Stripes.
"Emblem of liberty!" said Gus with a sneer as he pointed up at the flag—"emblem of tyranny, rather."
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Bob quickly.
"Oh, you will find out before you have been here long," replied Gus, shaking his head and looking very wise. "A bigger lot of tyrants than the officers who command us were never crowded into any one post."
"Perhaps you don't do your duty as well as you might?" mildly suggested Bob.
"I know I don't. I do no more than I am obliged to do, I tell you, and for the simple reason that I didn't enlist to act as lackey to a lot of shoulder-straps. I am just as good as they are, but they say I am not. Why, the last time the paymaster was here his little snipe of a clerk remarked in my hearing that enlisted men were nothing more than servants to the officers. What do you think of that?"
Bob did not know what to think of it, so he said nothing in reply. He simply resolved that he would not pass judgment upon his superiors until he had had some experience with them himself.
"This is by no means the gloomy place that I expected to find it," said Bob as he and Gus resumed their walk.
"Oh, the fort itself is good enough," replied Gus; "it's the people who live in it that I object to. If one could pick his own company, and could do as he pleased, he might manage to live here for a few years very comfortably; but we have to associate with some rough characters there in the barracks, and the officers hold us with our noses close to the grindstone all the time. They look upon a private as little better than a dog, and they'll slap him into the guard-house on the slightest provocation. Now, this is one of the stables; it will accommodate seventy horses. Those you see in here are blooded animals, and they belong to the officers. The government horses are always picketed outside, except when there is danger of a visit from the raiders, and then they are brought in for safe-keeping. Now, take a good look at the stable, and then come out and take another look at the stockade. Every night there are two sentries placed over this stable—one at the front, and the other at the rear, between the stable and the stockade—and a guard sleeps inside. Would you believe that, after all these precautions, it would be possible for anybody to come into the fort and steal a horse?"
Bob said he would not.
"Well, it was done not more than two weeks ago," continued Gus. "One stormy night these two logs were removed from the stockade, and four of the best horses in the stable were run off. It must have taken hours to do the work, and although the sentries were changed while it was going on, no one knew that a theft had been committed until the next morning."
"Who did it?" inquired Bob.
"A couple of Comanches, who were surprised and killed by the squad that was sent in pursuit of them. The Comanches are acknowledged, even by the Indians themselves, to be the most expert horse-thieves on the Plains. Why, one night, when a scouting-party to which I was attached were in camp and fast asleep, a Comanche crept up and stole the lieutenant's horse; and in order to do it he had to cut the lariat that was tied to the officer's wrist. He got away with the horse, and never awoke one of us."
Gus Robbins had accumulated an almost inexhaustible fund of such anecdotes as these during his two and a half years of army-life, and he related a good many of them to Bob while they were walking about the fort examining the different objects of interest. From some of them Bob gained a faint idea of what might be in store for himself.
The next morning the newly-arrived recruits were formed into an awkward squad and turned over to the tender mercies of a grizzly old sergeant, who proved to be anything but an agreeable and patient instructor. He drilled them for four hours without allowing them a single moment's rest, abusing them roundly for every mistake they made; and when at last he marched them to their quarters, it was only that they might eat their dinner and take half an hour's breathing-spell preparatory to going through the same course of sprouts again in the afternoon. This routine was followed day after day until the members of the awkward squad were declared to be sufficiently drilled to warrant their appearance on dress-parade. After that they were assigned to the different troops (or companies) that stood the most in need of men, Bob, to his delight, finding himself in the same troop to which his new friend, Gus Robbins, belonged. But even then their troubles did not cease. Instead of drilling eight hours each day, they drilled six, and were obliged to do guard-duty besides. Among the three hundred and eighty men who composed the garrison there were not a few old soldiers who hated this hard work as cordially as some of the new-comers did, and there was a good deal of grumbling among them; but Bob Owens never uttered a word of complaint. Firmly adhering to the resolution he had made when he first enlisted, he set himself to work to learn just what was required of him, and when he found out what his duty was, he did it cheerfully and faithfully. He was always on hand when he was wanted, his equipments were always ready for inspection, and his horse shone like satin. When his own steed had been fed and groomed, he turned his attention to the horse belonging to the lieutenant who commanded the troop to which he belonged, and thereby aroused the indignation of some of his brother-soldiers.
"What are you doing that for?" demanded Gus Robbins one day as he and Bristow entered the stable and found Bob busy at work grooming the lieutenant's horse. "You are in pretty business, I must say!"
"Yes, I rather like it," answered Bob. "I always liked to work about horses, and I am doing this because I haven't anything else to do just now."
"Well, I wouldn't do it any more if I were in your place," continued Gus. "The law expressly prohibits an officer from compelling, or even hiring, an enlisted man to do his dirty work."
"It does, does it?" exclaimed Bob. "Didn't you tell me when I just came here that enlisted men were nothing but servants to their officers?"
"I didn't mean that, exactly," stammered Gus. "What I did mean was, that they don't treat us like human beings. If an officer wants a servant, he must hire a civilian and pay him out of his own pocket; that's what the law says."
"I am aware of that fact; but the law doesn't say that I shall not groom the lieutenant's horse if I choose to do it of my own free will, does it?"
"Let the toady alone, Robbins," said Bristow angrily. "The troop hasn't got all the non-coms that it is entitled to, and Owens is working for chevrons. You know the lieutenant said the other day that there were four corporals' and two duty sergeants' warrants waiting for those who were willing to win them; and this is the way Owens is going to work to get one of them."
Bob straightened up, looked sharply at Bristow for a moment, and then drew back the brush he held in his hand, as if he had half a mind to throw it at his head.
"That's what all the boys say, Bob," observed Gus. "If you want to keep on the right side of the privates, you must not try to curry favor with the officers."
"If you want a non-com's warrant, why don't you wait until you get a chance to win it in battle?" added Bristow. "That's what I intend to do, and I shall think much more of a promotion earned in that way than I should of one I had gained by cleaning an officer's horse."
"Look here, fellows," said Bob earnestly: "I don't do this work for the lieutenant because I hope to gain anything by it. I do it simply to pass away the time, for I can't see any fun in loafing about the quarters doing nothing. If the boys don't like it, let's see them help themselves."
"If the lieutenant was a decent man, I wouldn't say a word," answered Bristow. "But he is so mean that I wouldn't turn my hand over to save his life."
"Anybody with half an eye could see what is the matter with you," retorted Bob. "You have been in the guard-house about half the time since you have been here, and spent the other half in doing extra duty; and that's the reason you don't like the lieutenant. If you will wake up and attend to business, he will treat you well enough."
Bob's prompt and soldier-like way of performing the work that was required of him very soon attracted the attention of Lieutenant Earle (that was the name of the officer in command of the troop to which Bob belonged), and he took his own way to reward him for it. If he was ordered off on a scout, Bob Owens was always one of the "picked men" who accompanied him. If he was sent out with a squad during the full of the moon to watch the ford a few miles below the fort, Bob was one of the members of that squad. This did not excite the jealousy of the good soldiers, for they were always glad to have a brave comrade to back them up in times of danger, no matter whether he was a greenhorn or a veteran; but the grumblers and the discontented ones, especially those who belonged to his own troop, had a good deal to say about it, and declared that the lieutenant took Bob with him on his expeditions to pay him for grooming his horse. They disliked him cordially, and it was not long before an incident happened that caused the dislike of at least one of them to grow into positive hatred.
One pleasant afternoon some of the men received permission to go outside the gates for a short stroll. They wandered off in squads, some going one way and some another, and Bristow and two companions—one of whom was Gus Robbins—bent their steps toward the crumbling remains of an old adobe outpost which marked the spot where more than one desperate fight with the Apaches had taken place in the days gone by. There they seated themselves and entered into conversation, Bristow's first words indicating that they were about to discuss a subject that had before occupied their attention.
"I tell you, Robbins," said he, "if you are in earnest in what you say, now is the time to prove it."
"I certainly am in earnest," answered Gus; "but, to tell you the honest truth, I am afraid."
"'Afraid'!" repeated Bristow in a tone of contempt. "What in the world are you afraid of?"
"Of pursuit," replied Gus. "If we resist, we run the risk of being shot; and if we are captured, we stand an excellent chance of going to prison."
"Now, Robbins," said Bristow earnestly, "let me once more explain our arrangements to you, and you will see that we do not risk anything. In the first place, the horses are left picketed outside the stockade every night. They are never brought in, as you know, unless there is danger of a visit from the raiders. Four of the six men who are to act as horse-guards to-night belong to our party. When the time for action arrives, these four men will go to work on the other two and try to induce them to accompany us. If they don't succeed, they'll bind and gag them, and so put it out of their power to give the alarm. The sentry who will be on duty between the stable and the stockade is also one of us, and of course he will raise no objection when we slip out of the quarters, one by one, and climb the stockade. As fast as we get over we will select our horses—I've got mine picked out, and I could put my hand on him in the darkest of nights—and when the last one has made his escape we'll mount and put off. Of course we hope to escape by running, but if we can't do that, we shall turn at bay and make a fight of it. We have all sworn to stand by one another to the last, and thirty determined, well-armed men can make things lively for a while, I tell you."
Bristow continued to talk in this strain for half an hour, his companion now and then putting in a word to assist him; and he talked to such good purpose that Gus Robbins finally consented to make one of the large party that was to desert the post that very night. Bristow then gave him the names of the other members—there were several non-commissioned officers among them—and after urging him to be very careful of himself, and to say and do nothing that might arouse the suspicions of "outsiders," the three got upon their feet and walked toward the fort.
They had scarcely left the ruins when a fatigue-cap arose from behind a pile of rubbish scarcely a dozen feet from the place where the three conspirators had been sitting, and a pair of eyes looking out from under the peak of that cap watched them as they moved away.
CHAPTER III.
BOB'S FIRST COMMAND.
The eyes that were so closely watching the movements of Bristow and his companions belonged to Bob Owens. The latter had strolled off alone, and thrown himself behind an angle of the ruined wall to indulge in a few moments' quiet meditation, and thus unwillingly placed himself in a position to overhear the details of the plot which we have just disclosed. If Bristow had not so promptly entered upon the discussion of the subject of desertion, Bob would have made his presence known to him; but after he had listened to the first words that fell from his lips he thought it best to remain quietly in his place of concealment, for he knew that if he revealed himself, then he would be accused of playing the part of eavesdropper.
"Now, here's a go!" thought Bob, rising to his feet when he saw Bristow and his two friends walk through the gate into the fort, "and I wish somebody would be kind enough to tell me what I ought to do about it. Shall I stand quietly by and let them go, or shall I tell the officers what I have heard? If I let them go, they will run the risk of being gobbled up by that party of Kiowas who are now raiding the country north of us; and if I tell the colonel, and it should ever be found out on me, I should lead a hard life in the quarters. I wish I had been somewhere else when they came here."
Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, Bob left the ruins, and, walking slowly around the stockade, entered at a gate on the opposite side. His first care was to hunt up the sergeant-major of his regiment, whom he found in the quarters. This man had grown gray in the service, and he was a soldier all over—brave, faithful and untiring in the performance of his duty. He readily responded to Bob's significant wink, and followed him out on the parade.
"Sergeant," said Bob as soon as they were beyond earshot of everybody, "I have accidentally come into the possession of a secret, and I don't know what to do with it. There are thirty men in the garrison who are going to desert to-night."
The old fellow took a fresh chew of tobacco, pushed his cap on the back of his head and looked at Bob, who, after telling him where he had been and how he happened to overhear the plot, continued:
"It would never do to let them go. You know I was detailed to act as the colonel's orderly this morning, and I heard that scout who came in just before noon tell him that there is a large party of hostiles between here and Fort Tyler. These deserters intend to take their weapons with them, and think they can make a good fight; but those Kiowas are strong enough to annihilate them."
"Small loss that would be to us!" growled the veteran. "We are going to have some hot work to do before long, and such men are no good in a fight."
"It would never do to let them go," repeated Bob, "but there is only one way to prevent it that I can see; and that is by telling the colonel all about it. If I do that, and they should find it out, they would go back on me, sure."
"Of course they would," said the sergeant.
"Well, what would you do if you were in my place?" asked Bob.
"What would I do? I would go straight to the officer of the day and tell him the whole thing. The good-will of such men don't amount to anything, any way, and what do you care if they do go back on you? There's only thirty of them, and that leaves three hundred and fifty good fellows who will always be ready to befriend you. Do you know who these deserters are? I'll report the matter if you are afraid, and then let's see one of them open his head to me."
Bob repeated the names of the would-be deserters which Bristow had given as nearly as he could recall them, and the sergeant hurried off to hunt up the officer of the day, while Bob went back into the quarters. He had been there but a few minutes when the orderly appeared at the door and sung out,
"Owens, the colonel wants to see you."
"Aha!" exclaimed Bristow, "our good little boy has been doing something bad at last.—There are no bunks in the guard-house, Owens."
Bob made no reply. He followed the orderly across the parade and into the colonel's head-quarters, where he found the officer of the day, the sergeant-major and all the ranking officers of the garrison. The colonel questioned him closely in regard to the plot he had discovered, and finally dismissed him and the sergeant without making any comments. Half an hour later the entire cavalry force of the garrison was drawn up in line, the names of forty men who were ordered to the front and centre were read off, and the rest of the troopers were sent back to their quarters. Then the bugle sounded "Boots and saddles!" and in a few minutes more these forty men—one of whom was Bob Owens—rode out of the gate, led by the scout who had brought the information concerning that war-party of Kiowas. The squad was commanded by Lieutenant Earle.
"That's all right," whispered Bristow to one of his fellow-conspirators as they stood in front of their quarters and saw their comrades ride away. "There will be just so many men less to follow us to-morrow morning. But I wish we knew which way they are going," he added in a tone of anxiety; "and we must find out if we can. We don't want to run into them if we can possibly avoid them, for there are some of the best men in the garrison in that party."
"I suppose we are off after the hostiles," said the soldier who rode by Bob's side. "The scout told the colonel that there were three hundred braves in that party, didn't he?"
Bob answered that that was what he understood him to say.
"Then I wish we had a hundred men instead of forty," continued the trooper. "Our squad is too large to conceal itself, and too small to make a successful fight against such overwhelming odds. Well, if worst comes to worst—"
The speaker thrust his hand into his boot-leg and drew out a loaded Derringer. He intended to send its contents through his own head rather than fall alive into the hands of the hostiles. Probably nine out of ten men in that squad were provided with weapons just like it, and which they intended to use in the same way should circumstances require it. Veteran Indian-fighters never fail to give this advice to a recruit: "When it comes to a fight, save the last shot for yourself."
But, as it happened, Bob and his companions were not out after hostiles on this particular afternoon, for that raiding-party of Kiowas was already beyond the reach of any force that the commander of Fort Lamoine could have sent in pursuit of it. They found out in due time that their mission was of an entirely different character. They rode at a sharp trot until it was nearly dark, and then they went into camp in a belt of post-oaks and cooked and ate their supper. After an hour's rest they mounted and rode back toward the fort again. Arriving within a mile of the stockade, a halt was ordered, the men were dismounted, and, every fourth trooper being left to hold the horses, the others marched off through the darkness, armed only with their revolvers. Then Bob began to understand the matter. The object of the expedition was to capture the deserters. It had been led away from the fort simply as a "blind," and in order to lull the malcontents into a feeling of security no change whatever had been made in the guards who were to do duty that night.
After the lieutenant had marched about half a mile another halt was ordered, and sixteen men, divided into squads of four men each, were told off to begin the work. The officer approached each squad in turn, and after designating some one to take charge of it, gave him his instructions in a whisper. When he walked up to Bob he asked,
"Do you know where post No. 4 is? and can you go straight to it without making any mistake?"
"Yes, sir, to both your questions," was the prompt reply.
"Very well. Take command of this squad and go and arrest Dodd, whom you will find on guard there. Then put Carey in his place, and come back and report to me at post No. 1, and I will tell you what else to do. The countersign," added the lieutenant, coming a step nearer to Bob and speaking in a tone so low that no one else could catch his words, "is 'Custer.' Be quick and still. Forward, march!"
As Bob moved away with his squad he told himself that fidelity is sometimes appreciated. This was his first command, and he knew that much depended upon the way in which he executed the orders that had been given him. If they were faithfully and skilfully carried out, he might hope to be entrusted with other commands in future, and so be given opportunities to distinguish himself and win promotion; for Bob, like every ambitious boy, was anxious to get ahead as rapidly as possible.
"What's the matter, Owens?" asked all the members of his squad in concert as soon as they were out of the lieutenant's hearing. They were all in the dark, and so was every man belonging to the expedition with the exception of the lieutenant, the sergeant-major and Bob Owens. The latter explained the state of affairs in as few words as he could, and the general verdict was that it would have been no loss to the garrison, or to the service either, if Bristow and his companions had been permitted to depart in peace.
In a few minutes Bob and his men arrived within sight of the place where the horses were staked out, and a hoarse voice broke the stillness. "Halt! Who comes there?" was the challenge.
"Friends, with the countersign," answered Bob after bringing his squad to a halt.
"Advance, one friend, and give the countersign," was the next command.
"Now, boys," said Bob in a low whisper, "you stay here, and when I call out 'Advance, squad,' come up briskly and surround Dodd, so as to be ready to overpower him if he shows the least disposition to resist or cry out."
So saying, Bob moved off in the direction from which the hail sounded, and presently discovered the sentry, who stood at "arms port."
"Halt!" commanded the guard when Bob had approached within a few feet of him. "Give the countersign."
Bob whispered the magic word.
"The countersign is correct," said the sentry, bringing his carbine to a carry.—"It's you, is it, Owens? What's the matter?"
"Advance, squad," said Bob in a low tone. "You haven't seen anything suspicious going on about your post, have you?" he added, wishing to occupy the sentry's attention until his men could come within supporting distance of him. "No? Well, I am sorry to say that there is something suspicious about you, and I am ordered to put you in arrest."
He laid hold of the carbine as he said this, and at the same moment two of his men placed their hands upon the sentinel's shoulders. The latter, seeing that resistance was useless, promptly gave up his piece and dropped his hands by his sides. "It's all that Bristow's work," said he in angry tones. "I knew he wouldn't do to tie to."
"Don't say too much," interposed Bob. "You don't want to condemn yourself.—Carey, take this post until relieved."
As Bob marched his squad and his prisoner to the place where he was to meet his commanding officer, he found the intervening posts in the charge of trusty men. Four of the discontented ones had been secured, and it only remained for the lieutenant to perfect arrangements for seizing the others as fast as they came out of the fort. He had already decided upon his plan of operations, and Bob Owens was called upon to take the first step toward carrying it out. After he had listened to some very explicit instructions from his commander, he stole off into the darkness, and, creeping along the outside of the stockade until he reached a point opposite the place where the sentry was posted behind the stables, he stopped and waited to see what was going to happen. About ten feet from him on his left was another soldier, standing upright and motionless in the shadow of the stockade. Ten feet beyond this soldier was another. These were all that Bob could see, but he knew that there were good men and true stationed at regular intervals all along the stockade, waiting to act the several parts that had been assigned to them.
Bob waited and listened for a quarter of an hour or more, and then he heard a conversation carried on in a low tone on the other side of the stockade. He could not catch the words, but he knew that the deserters were beginning to bestir themselves, and that one of their number was talking with the sentry. Presently a scratching, scrambling sound, accompanied by heavy, labored breathing and those incoherent exclamations that men sometimes use when they are exerting themselves to the utmost, told Bob that somebody was making his way up the logs. Keeping his eyes fastened on the top, he saw a soldier climb up and seat himself on the plate. He could see him very plainly against the light background of the sky, and he recognized him at once. It was Bristow. He was about to swing himself off when he discovered Bob standing beneath him. He stopped, peered down into the darkness for a moment, and then called out in a frightened whisper,
"Who is it?"
"It's all right," whispered Bob in reply; "come on."
"Who is it, I say?" repeated Bristow in still more earnest tones.
"Why, don't you know Dodd? Hand me your carbine."
"Oh!" said Bristow with a great sigh of relief. "It is all right, isn't it? Here you are."
Holding his carbine by the strap, Bristow passed it down to Bob, who promptly slung it upon his back. The latter then pushed up his sleeves, moved back a little from the stockade, and when Bristow swung himself down by his hands and dropped lightly to the ground, Bob stepped up and took him by the arm.
"I don't need any help," said Bristow, who had landed squarely on his feet. "But I say, Dodd—"
"We'll talk about it as we go along," interrupted Bob. "But not a loud word out of you, unless you want to be gagged."
"Why, good gracious, it's Owens!" gasped Bristow, reeling back against the stockade. He did not ask what Bob was doing there or why he had seized him, for he knew without asking.
"Yes, it is Owens, and the men you saw ride out of the gate with me this afternoon are with me now. Here's one of them," added Bob as a soldier named Loring stepped up and took his place in readiness to catch the next deserter who came over the stockade.
Just then the sentry on the inside placed his mouth close to one of the cracks between the logs and asked, in a cautious tone,
"How is it, Bristow? Is the coast clear?"
"All clear," replied Loring, speaking through the same crack. "Tell the boys to hurry up; we've no time to waste."
If Bob's captive had any idea of attempting to escape or of alarming his companions by crying out, he abandoned it very quickly when he saw the soldiers that were stationed along the stockade. There was a trooper for every deserter, and as fast as the man at the head of the line caught one, another moved up and took his place.
"This bangs me!" said Bristow, in great disgust. "Now comes a court-martial of course, and Goodness only knows what will come after that—the guard-house and a heavy fine, or the military prison at Fort Leavenworth.—I say, Owens, how did the colonel find it out?"
"Do you suppose he tells his secrets to us privates?" asked Bob in reply.
"We spoke to somebody who was not worthy of the confidence we placed in him," continued Bristow. "The thing never could have become known unless one of our own number had proved treacherous. But we can easily find out who he is. There are just thirty of us, and if there are only twenty-nine arrested, the missing man is the guilty one. When I find out who he is, I shall take particular pains to see that the next battle he gets into is his last."
This threat was uttered in a very low tone of voice, for Bristow and his captor had by this time reached the place where the lieutenant had stationed himself to receive his men when they came in with their prisoners. Bob reported, "Your orders have been obeyed, sir," and took his stand close behind his officer.
"I counted only twenty-six," said Bristow when the sergeant-major came up and announced the complete success of the undertaking. "There must be four traitors among us."
"Have you counted in the horse-guards?" asked Bob. "There they are on the top of that ridge."
No, Bristow had not counted them in, for he did not know until that minute that they had been arrested. He was very much astonished when he learned that every one of his party had been secured, and could not for the life of him imagine how the colonel had found out about it; for that he knew all about it was evident from the manner in which the arrests had been effected.
Having sent one of his men back to order up the horses, the lieutenant formed his captives in line, threw a guard around them and marched them into the fort. Halting them on the parade, he went in to report to the colonel, and when he came out again he put every one of them into the guard-house; after which Bob and his companions went to the quarters and tumbled into their bunks.
Great was the astonishment among the soldiers the next morning when it became known that the expedition, which they supposed had gone out in search of the hostiles, had returned to the fort and captured thirty armed men, and that the work had been done so quietly that the sentry at the gate never knew anything about it until it was all over. Of course they were quite at a loss to determine who it was that told the colonel about it; and the general impression seemed to be that if there were a traitor among the deserters, he had allowed himself to be captured with the others in order to avoid suspicion.
Among the non-commissioned officers who had attempted to desert was one of the corporals belonging to Bob's troop, and the next morning Bob was ordered to take his place and do duty as corporal of the guard. He saw the prisoners served with breakfast, and the numerous orders he had to give opened the eyes of one of them, who began to think he had made a discovery. And so he had, but he could not prove it.
"I'll tell you what's a fact, boys," said Bristow as he walked to a remote corner of his prison with a cup of coffee in one hand and some cracker and bacon in the other: "I know whom we have to thank for our arrest."
"Who is it?" asked a dozen voices at once.
"I'd like to send him my compliments in the shape of a bullet from my carbine," said the corporal whose place Bob was then filling. "Tell us who he is, so that we can improve the first chance to get even with him."
"There he is," said Bristow, shaking his piece of cracker at Bob. "He has been trying to get on the blind side of the officers for a long time, as you all know, and he has accomplished his object at last by going back on his comrades."
The prisoners looked at Bob as if they expected him to deny the accusation; but, to the disappointment of some of them who really liked him, he had nothing to say.
"Why don't you speak up and declare that it isn't so?" demanded the corporal.
"Because he dare not," exclaimed Bristow. "He couldn't without telling a lie, and, as he is a good little boy, he wouldn't do that for the world."
"I don't believe he did it," said another of the culprits. "He is not one of us, and how could he have found it out? I believe that the traitor is right here in the guard-house under arrest."
"I know he isn't," declared Bristow. "Bob Owens is the only traitor there is, and you may depend upon it. Now, let me tell you just what is going to happen when the court-martial comes off: it will be proved to the satisfaction of all of you that Owens found out about our plans in some way or other, and went straight to the colonel with them. You will be disrated, Corporal Jim, and Lieutenant Earle, in order to reward Bob for carrying tales and to encourage him to carry more, will give him your place. Why, he has just as good as got the stripes on his arm now."
Corporal Jim looked daggers at Bob, and declared that if he was the one who had disclosed their plot to the colonel, he was too mean for any use, and ought to be drummed out of the fort.
"I promised that if I ever found out who the informer was I would serve him worse than that," said Bristow in savage tones. "I shall keep my promise, too, if I ever get the chance, for I am one who never forgets an injury."
Bob Owens—who, as we know, was not wanting in physical courage—was not at all alarmed by this threat and a good many others like it to which he listened during the fifteen minutes the prisoners were occupied in eating their breakfast. He believed that he was able to take care of No. 1; and when the critical time came, as it did a few weeks later, he proved to the satisfaction of everybody that his confidence in himself was not misplaced.
The court-martial was not long delayed, and the findings being approved by the proper authorities, the sentences were promptly carried out. The culprits were confined in the guard-house for different periods of time, those who had been the most active in inducing their comrades to desert serving a longer sentence than their victims, and fines were imposed upon all of them, Bristow's being by far the heaviest, as he was proved to be the ringleader. He and Gus Robbins—both of whom had been almost constantly in trouble ever since they arrived at the post—were given to understand that if they were detected in another attempt at desertion they could make up their minds to see the inside of the military prison at Fort Leavenworth. Bristow proved to be a first-class prophet. During the progress of the trial it came out that Bob Owens was the one who discovered the plot, and that through him it was communicated to the colonel. Corporal Jim was of course reduced to the ranks, and Bob was promoted to fill the vacancy.
During the next few weeks nothing of interest happened at the fort. The deserters were released as fast as the terms for which they were sentenced expired, some of them penitent and fully resolved to do better in future, while the others were more than ever determined to escape from military control, in spite of all the officers and guards that could be placed around them. They carried out their determination, too, at every opportunity, deserting in parties numbering half a dozen or so, and they generally succeeded in eluding pursuit. It was a singular fact that when the pursuers were commanded by commissioned officers they very often returned without having accomplished anything, but when they were commanded by sergeants or corporals they were almost always successful. Luck was on the side of the "non-coms," and the colonel finally learned to put a great deal of confidence in them. Bob Owens was particularly fortunate in this respect, and that was the reason his superior sent for him one morning after the officer of the day had reported that seven men had deserted during the previous night, taking their arms and a supply of ammunition with them.
CHAPTER IV.
A PERILOUS UNDERTAKING.
"Corporal," said the commandant, taking off his eye-glasses with a jerk, as he always did when he was about to say something emphatic, "there are the names of seven men who deserted last night. I want you to take command of a squad and follow them up and arrest them."
"Very good, sir," replied Bob.
"I don't know which way they went, or anything about it," continued the colonel. "That is something you will have to find out for yourself. I do know, however, that they went on foot, and that they are armed and well supplied with ammunition. I want you to capture them at all hazards—at all hazards, I say," repeated the colonel, bringing his open hand down upon the table with a ringing slap. "If you come back without them you need not offer any excuses, for I shall not listen to them. Arrest anybody you catch outside the stockade wearing a United States uniform, no matter who he is. There have been no passes granted this morning, and no one except the guards and the officer of the day has any business outside. That's all."
Bob saluted and hurried from the room. As he passed through the hall he glanced at the list he held in his hand, and saw that it was headed by the names of Bristow and Gus Robbins.
"This is about the easiest job I have had yet, and these fellows are just as good as captured already," said he to himself. "I know right where to look for them, and I wouldn't be in their shoes for all the money the paymaster had in his safe the last time he was here. They are booked for Leavenworth, sure.—May I go out, Willis?" he asked of the sentry at the gate; "I am acting under orders."
"That's all right," was the reply; "the officer of the day told me to pass you. You are going after those deserters, I suppose? Well, now, look here," added the sentry, after looking all around to make sure that there was no officer in sight: "you remember those mulewhackers who brought that freight here the other day, don't you? Well, Bristow and the rest have gone off to join them. I am certain of it, for I heard Bristow talking with them, and they assured him that the wagon-master would give him steady work and good wages if he would hire out to him. Bristow didn't hesitate to talk with them about it in the presence of a dozen of us."
"That was only a ruse on his part," said Bob confidently. "If I followed the trail of those teamsters I should have my trouble for my pains. I am going as straight toward Brownsville as I can go, and I shall have my hand on Mr. Bristow's collar before I have gone thirty miles. You may rest assured that I shall not come back without him, for if I do I don't know what the colonel will say to me."
Bob hastened toward the place where the horses were picketed, and there he found the officer of the day and the six picked men who had been detailed to accompany him. It was the work of but a few minutes to lead their horses into the fort and put the saddles and bridles on them; and when this had been done, and Bob and his men had secured their carbines, sabres and revolvers and put two days' rations in their haversacks, they mounted and rode through the gate at a sharp trot. They were quiet and orderly enough as long as they remained within sight of the fort, but when the first ridge over which they passed shut them out from view they abandoned their efforts to keep in column, threw off all restraint and shouted and sang at the top of their voices. They looked upon an expedition like this as a "lark," and enjoyed it as much as a schoolboy enjoys a picnic.
Bob did not stop at the first ranches he passed, for he knew that the deserters (provided, of course, that they had fled along that trail) must have gone by them in the night, and that consequently their inmates could give him no information. Besides, Bob had learned by experience that there was very little confidence to be placed in anything the ranchemen might say regarding a deserter. A good many of them had served in the army during the war, and, knowing how very hard is the life a soldier leads, they sympathized with him in his efforts to escape, and aided him by every means in their power. Where there was one farmer or stock-raiser who would give a squad like Bob's any information that could be relied on, there were a dozen who would conceal the deserter in their houses and send his pursuers off on the wrong trail.
After Bob and his troopers had ridden about fifteen miles, and had shouted and sung off a little of their surplus enthusiasm, they relapsed into silence and settled down to business. They halted on the top of every ridge to survey the country before them, and called at every ranche that lay along their route; but nothing was to be seen or heard of Bristow and his party. About noon they came within sight of a squatter's cabin, and Bob decided to stop there and eat dinner. The owner of the cabin was at home, and he welcomed the horsemen with every appearance of cordiality.
"Alight an' hitch, strangers," said he, when he had succeeded in quieting the small army of dogs which came out from under the cabin to dispute the further advance of the troopers. "You're as welcome as the flowers in May."
"Thank you," said Bob as he swung himself from his saddle. "We intend to stop here and rest for an hour or so. We'll boil our coffee and cook our rations on your stove, if you have no objections."
"I ain't got no stove," replied the squatter hastily—"leastways, none that you can do cookin' on," he added, with some confusion, when he saw Bob and one or two of his men look up at the stovepipe which projected above the roof.
"All right!" replied the corporal, silencing by a look one of the troopers who was about to say something. "Then we shall have to build a fire outside; but that will do just as well, for we are used to cooking our grub in that way.—Now, Carey, if you and Loring will skirmish around and find some wood and start the coffee-pot going, we will look out for your nags."
"Corporal," whispered one of the troopers, "there's a bug under that chip. In other words, this old rascal has some reason for wishing to keep us out of his cabin."
"Say nothing out loud," replied Bob with a warning gesture. "We are on the right track, and I know it. If we fail now, it will be through our own blundering."
Having seen the horses staked out, Bob walked back to the cabin, and found the squatter in conversation with Carey and Loring. His first words indicated that he had been trying to pump them, but without success.
"Say, soldier, where might you be a-travellin' to?" he asked as Bob came up. "I asked them two fellows, an' they told me I had better ask you."
"We are looking for seven deserters who passed this way some time this morning," answered Bob. "They were on foot and carried carbines. Seen anything of such a party?"
The squatter brought his hands together with a loud slap before he replied.
"I jest knowed them fellows wasn't what they allowed they was," said he. "In course I seed 'em, an' they told me they was a-lookin' for deserters themselves. They went off that way, toward the old Brazos trail," added the squatter, pointing in a direction which lay exactly at right angles with the course Bob had been pursuing.
"Did they?" exclaimed the corporal with a great show of eagerness. "Thank you for the information. We will go that way too as soon as we have eaten dinner. How long ago did they pass this way?"
"Jest at daylight."
"That's another lie," said Bob to himself. "They didn't desert until after midnight, and they couldn't have travelled between fifteen and twenty miles in less than five hours on foot. An infantryman might do it on a pinch, but a trooper couldn't."
"You'll have to hurry up if you want to ketch 'em," continued the squatter, who seemed to grow nervous when he saw how deliberately the troopers went about their preparations for dinner. "They was a-lumberin' along right peart."
"Oh, there's no need that we should throw ourselves into a perspiration," replied Bob indifferently. "We don't care if we don't find them for a week. You see, when we are out on an expedition like this we are not obliged to drill, and our pay goes on just the same. If you have anything good to eat, trot it out; we're wealthy."
But the squatter protested that he had nothing in his cabin except bacon and crackers, and his supply of these necessary articles was so small that he could not possibly spare any of it. He said so much on this point that the troopers would have been dull indeed if they had not suspected something.
"He wants to get us away from here, doesn't he?" said Carey as soon as he had a chance to speak to Bob. "He thinks that if he provides us with a good dinner we will spend a long time in eating it. Now, corporal, I will bet you anything you please that—"
"I know," interrupted Bob, "and I want you to take a look into the matter at once. This is my plan."
Here Bob whispered some rapid instructions to the trooper, who winked first one eye and then the other to show that he understood them. Pulling his pipe from his pocket, he proceeded to fill it with tobacco, while Bob walked up to the squatter, and, taking him confidentially by the arm, said, as he led him out of earshot of the men, who had seated themselves about the fire,
"May I have a word with you in private? You see, I am an officer, and it won't do for me to talk too freely in the presence of those I command."
So saying, Bob led the squatter behind the cabin and began making some very particular inquiries concerning Bristow and his party: What sort of looking fellows were they? What did they say? Did they get anything to eat at the cabin? and did his friend the squatter really think they had gone toward the old Brazos trail? The man was very uneasy, and seemed impatient to go back to the fire again; but by holding fast to his arm, and plying him with such questions as these, Bob managed to keep him behind the cabin for about five minutes, and that was long enough for Carey to carry out the orders that had been given him.
As soon as Bob and the squatter disappeared around the corner of the cabin, Carey put his pipe into his mouth, and, enjoining silence upon his comrades by shaking his fore finger at them, he quickly mounted the steps that led to the porch and walked into the cabin. As he did so there was a faint rustling in one corner of the room, and, looking over his left shoulder without turning his head, Carey saw a man who was lying on a rude couch draw a blanket quickly over his face. In his eagerness to conceal his features the man probably forgot that he had a pair of feet, for he pulled the blanket up a little too high.
"Aha! my fine lad," said the trooper as he noiselessly opened the stove-door and looked into it, as if he were searching for a live coal with which to light his pipe, "I see a pair of No. 12 army brogans, and also the lower portions of a pair of light blue breeches with a yellow stripe down the seams. Bryant, my boy, that's you. I see also that this stove is in perfect order, but as there are no coals in it, I'll have to get a light at the fire outside."
When Carey came out of the cabin his comrades' faces were full of inquiry, but the trooper only winked at them and nodded his head, as if to say that he could tell something that would astonish them if he only felt so disposed.
By this time dinner was ready, and Loring's loud call of "Coffee!" brought Bob and the squatter from behind the cabin. The latter accepted Loring's invitation to drink a cup of coffee with "the boys," but he disposed of it in great haste, hot as it was, as if he hoped by his example to induce them to do likewise. But Bob and his companions were in no hurry. They lingered a long time over their homely meal, and then the smokers were allowed to empty a pipe apiece before the order was given to "catch up." The squatter began to breathe easier after that, and when he saw the troopers in their saddles and ready to start, his delight was so apparent that they all noticed it.
"Wa'l, good-bye, if you must go," said he cheerily. "Will you stop when you come back?"
"Oh, you needn't expect to see us here again," said Bob. "If we go to Brazos City, we shall take a short cut across the country when we return to the fort."
"That's where I reckon they're goin', as I told you; an' my advice would be for you to go straight to Brazos, without stoppin' on the way, an' when they get there you'll be all ready to take 'em in. See?"
"Yes, I see," answered Bob, "and it's something worth thinking of.—Forward, column left! Trot! gallop!"
The troopers moved rapidly away from the cabin, and, to the intense surprise and indignation of all his followers, who thought that their corporal had been deceived by the squatter, Bob led them off toward the old Brazos trail. At length one of them ventured to remonstrate.
"Corporal," said he, "you're going wrong."
"I know it," answered Bob.—"Carey, tell us what you saw in that cabin. Were our suspicions correct?"
"Indeed they were," was Carey's reply. "In the first place, that stove was all right, but the squatter didn't want us to use it, for Bryant was hiding in the cabin. He was lying on the floor, covered up with a blanket."
"How do you know it was Bryant?" asked Bob. "Did you see his face?"
"No, I didn't; it was concealed by the blanket. I saw his feet," said Carey; and his answer was received by the troopers with a sigh of satisfaction. It was all that was needed to establish the identity of the man who had taken refuge in the squatter's cabin.
"I didn't think I could be wrong," observed Bob, "for that man condemned himself before we had been in his presence ten minutes."
"Why don't you go back and snatch Bryant?" demanded one of the troopers, seeing that the corporal did not slacken his pace. "Why didn't you do it while we were at the cabin?"
"Because I had no right to do it," answered Bob. "If I should go to searching houses, I might get myself into trouble with the colonel. Another thing, boys: I shouldn't care to enter that man's castle to look for anything unless I was a civil officer and armed with a search-warrant. He is a hard one, unless his looks belie him."
"I thought so myself," said Loring. "But you are not going back without Bryant, are you? What do you suppose he is doing there, anyway?"
"Of course I shall not go back without him," answered Bob quietly. "He has probably hired out to that squatter, and we must watch our chance and catch him out of doors before we can arrest him."
"Well, are you going to Brazos City?"
"Not by a long shot. Bristow and the fellows who are still with him have not gone that way. As soon as we get behind that belt of post-oaks you see in advance of us, I intend to circle around and go back toward the river again."
Although the troopers rode at a rapid gait, it took them nearly three hours to carry out this programme. At the end of that time they struck the old stage-road, which, in the days gone by, had served as a highway between Brownsville and some of the remote frontier-towns; but when the raiders forced the settlements back into the interior the stage-route was abandoned, and all that now remained to tell of the business that had once been done on it were the half-ruined stations which were scattered along the road at intervals of fifteen or twenty miles.
These stations were built of stone, and were large enough to accommodate a dozen horses and half as many stable-men and drivers, besides the necessary food for both men and animals. Each station was provided with a "dug-out," a miniature fort, into which the employees of the route could retreat in case they were attacked by hostile Indians or Mexican raiders. It was simply a cellar of sufficient size to shelter nine or ten men at close quarters, covered with logs and dirt, and furnished with loopholes on all sides at the height of a foot or more above the ground. It looked like a mound of earth supported on logs about two feet high. The only way of getting into one of these little fortifications was through an underground passage-way which led from the stables. With these arrangements for their defence a few well-armed and determined men could hold their own against all the raiders that could get around them.
About four o'clock in the afternoon Bob and his troopers came within sight of one of these stations, and as soon as their eyes rested upon it they drew up their horses with a jerk, at the same time uttering exclamations of astonishment and delight. Standing in front of the open door were several men dressed in the uniform of the regular army. They seemed to be holding a consultation, and so deeply engrossed were they with their deliberations that they did not notice the approach of the troopers, although the latter had stopped their horses on the summit of a high ridge in plain view of them.
"I wonder if those are our men?" said Carey, with some excitement in his tones.
"We shall soon know," was Bob's calm reply. "Whoever they are, they will have to give an account of themselves, for I am instructed to arrest everybody I meet wearing a uniform."
"If they are our fellows, we've got them corralled," remarked Loring.
"Yes, but I don't much like the way we have 'corralled' them," returned Carey. "Do you see that dug-out about twenty yards from the northwest corner of the station? If they go in there they can laugh at us. The only way we could get them out would be to starve them out."
"That would take too long," said Bob; and the tone in which the words were uttered made his comrades look at him with some curiosity. "Let's go down there and interview them, and then we shall know how to act. Forward! Trot!"
Just as these commands were given a commotion among the men in front of the station indicated that somebody had sounded an alarm. They gazed at the troopers for a moment as if they were thunderstruck, and then made a simultaneous rush for the entrance. This action on their part told Bob as plainly as words that they were the men of whom he had been sent in pursuit, and that they did not intend to go back to the fort if they could help it. A moment later a loud slamming and pounding indicated that the deserters were trying to close and barricade the door. This had scarcely been accomplished when the troopers dashed up to the station and swung themselves out of their saddles.
Leaving two of his men to hold the horses, Bob and the rest walked around the corner of the station and looked at the dug-out. There was a face in front of every loophole. Anybody could see that the deserters had the advantage of position, and the troopers wondered what Bob was going to do about it. They glanced at his face, but could see nothing there to tell them whether he was excited, afraid or discouraged. It wore its usual expression.
"Well, boys," said Bob at length, "if you have grown tired of roaming about the country, come out, and we will go back to the post. The colonel wants to see you."
"We don't doubt it, but we don't want to see him," replied a voice that Bob recognized at once. "We think we see ourselves going back! We didn't desert for that."
"Gus Robbins, I am sorry that you are in there," said Bob. "What will you say to your father and mother when you see them again?"
"Don't know, I am sure," answered Gus. "Haven't had any time to think about that. But you know yourself that I can't go back to the post. The colonel said that if I were ever court-marshaled again for desertion, I should go to prison; but I'll fight till I drop before I'll do that."
"Say, Bob," shouted another voice, "do you remember what I said I would do to that informer if I ever found out who he was? You are the fellow, and here's your pay."
It was Bristow who spoke, and as he uttered these words he thrust the muzzle of his carbine through the loophole in front of him. The chorus of ejaculations and remonstrances which arose from the inside of the dug-out showed that the rest of the deserters were not yet ready to resort to the use of their firearms; but Bristow was almost half crazed by rage and fear, and just as somebody seized him from behind and jerked him away from the loophole, his carbine roared, and Bob Owens turned halfway round and staggered back a step or two, as if he were struck and about to fall.
This unexpected act excited Bob's troopers—with whom he was an especial favorite—almost to frenzy. Believing that he had been seriously if not fatally injured—it did not seem possible that anybody could miss a mark of the size of his body at the distance of ten paces—one of them sprang forward to support him, while the others discharged their carbines at the loopholes in rapid succession. Their volley was not entirely without effect, for a loud yell of agony came from the inside of the dug-out, bearing testimony to the fact that one bullet at least had found a target somewhere on the person of one of the deserters.
Storming the Dug-Out.
He gently released himself from the embrace of the strong arms that had been thrown around him, and looked down at the gaping rent Bristow's bullet had made in the breast of his coat. The missile had passed through his thick carbine-sling and breast-belt, had cut into his coat, vest and shirt, and ploughed a deep furrow through a well-filled wallet which he carried in his inside pocket. Fortunately, it was a glancing shot, but the force with which it struck him was almost sufficient to knock him off his feet.
"I'm not hurt at all," said he as his men crowded about him, "but I shall have to put a patch on my coat when I get back to the post.—I say, there," he shouted, addressing himself to the inmates of the dug-out, "was there anybody hurt in there? I thought I heard a yell."
"Yes, and you'll hear another yell if you don't go away and let us alone," replied Bristow. "I'll make a better shot the next time I pull on you."
"All right!" said Bob. "I'll give you a chance in just about five minutes.—Loring," he added in a lower tone, "you and Phillips stay here and hold the horses, and the rest of you follow me."
"Are you going to storm them?" asked Loring.
"I am," was the decided reply. "It is the only way I can get them out, for they'll not come of their own free will."
"Then I sha'n't stay here and hold the horses; that's flat," declared Loring.
"Neither will I," chimed in Phillips. "The picket-pins will hold them as well as we can."
"All right!" replied Bob. "Stake them out, and while you are doing it Carey and I will see how we are going to get into the station."
The door to which Bob now turned his attention did not prove to be a very serious obstacle. It was made of heavy planks, and if it had been in good condition it would have taken a good deal of chopping with a sharp axe before one could have forced his way through it; but the hinges had rusted off, and the planks had shrunk to such a degree that the bar which held the door in its place could be seen and reached with a sabre. A few blows with one of these weapons knocked this bar from its place, and when that was done, the door, having nothing to support it, fell back into the stable with a loud crash. Bob entered, with Carey at his heels, and, making his way to a small apartment which had once been used as a sleeping-room by the stable-men and drivers, he found there a trap-door, which he threw open, revealing a flight of rude steps leading into the underground passage that communicated with the dug-out. By this time the rest of the troopers arrived on the scene. They looked dubiously at the dark passage-way, and then they looked at Bob.
"Do you really mean to go down there, Owens?" asked Loring. "It's sure death."
"I believe so myself, but I am going all the same," replied Bob, who was thoroughly aroused by the attempt that had been made on his life. "If we are not willing to face death at any moment, we had no business to enlist. Must I go alone?"
"Not much," was the unanimous response. "If you are bound to go, we are going too."
"Leave your sabres and carbines here," commanded Bob. "They will only be in the way. Draw revolvers, but don't shoot except in self-defence."
Bob knew as well as his men did that he was about to enter upon a very perilous undertaking. Bristow had shown that he was desperate enough to shoot, and he had even threatened that if he got another chance at Bob he would make a better shot than he did before. Some of the men who were with him were known to be hard characters, and it was very probable that they would back him up in the resistance he seemed determined to make. But Bob, having made up his mind as to the course he ought pursue, never once faltered. He was a soldier, and a soldier's first duty was to obey orders. He had been commanded to find the deserters and arrest them at all hazards; and, having obeyed the first part of his instructions, he was resolved to carry them out to the letter or perish in the attempt.
"Now I think we are all ready," said Bob, after the sabres and carbines had been laid in the empty bunks and the revolvers drawn and examined. "Stick close to me, and remember that if we don't take them they will kill us. Bristow, Sandy and Talbot are the only men we have to fear, and if we can only get the drop on them we are all right. Come on."
Although Bob was the youngest soldier, he was the calmest one of the seven troopers who descended those steps. When he reached the bottom he looked along the passage-way toward the dug-out, which was dimly lighted by the sunbeams which streamed in through the loopholes on the western side, and saw the deserters standing in line awaiting his approach.
"Halt!" cried a voice. "Come a step nearer and you are all dead men."
It was Bristow who spoke, and the words were followed by the ominous click of the lock of his carbine.
CHAPTER V.
THE NEW SCOUT.
"Halt!" cried Bristow again. It was so dark in the passage-way that he could not see the troopers, but the sound of their footsteps told him that they were still advancing toward the dug-out. "That's twice," he continued. "If I have to halt you the third time, I'll send a bullet out there."
"Bristow, you had better not try that," answered Bob, without the least tremor in his voice. "You have already done more than you will want to stand punishment for. Besides, I have got you covered, and if you move that carbine a hair's breadth you are a gone deserter."
"And I've got the drop on you, Sandy," said Carey, thrusting his cocked revolver over Bob's shoulder, "so don't wink.—I say, corporal," he added in a whisper, "I don't see Talbot anywhere."
"Neither do I," answered Bob. "Keep your eyes open, for he may be up to playing us some trick."
Whether it was the cool determination exhibited by Bob and his men, or the consciousness that they were in the wrong that took all the fight out of the deserters, we cannot tell; but they were cowed by something, and when Corporal Owens and his troopers filed into the dug-out, and the former sternly commanded them to "throw up," every carbine was dropped to the ground and five pairs of hands were raised in the air.
"Where's the other?" demanded Bob. "There ought to be six of you."
"Here I am," said a faint voice.
Bob looked in the direction from which the voice came, and saw Talbot sitting in a dark corner, his carbine lying by his side and both his hands raised above his head. He wore a handkerchief around his forehead, and, dim as the light was, Bob could see that it was streaked with blood.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked with some anxiety.
"No, he isn't," exclaimed Bristow, before the wounded man could speak. "A glancing ball cut a little crease in his scalp, and he thinks he is killed."
"I wish you had this little crease in your own scalp," said Talbot, looking savagely at Bristow. "If it hadn't been for you I never should have been here."
"And if it hadn't been for you, and a few cowards just like you, we never should have been captured," retorted Bristow. "We could have held our own against a squad four times as big as the one Owens has brought with him; but now—"
"That'll do," interrupted Bob. "I am not going to have any quarrelling here; and, Bristow, there's a court-martial coming, and you had better keep a quiet tongue in your head.—Carey, stand in the mouth of that passage-way.—Phillips, pick up the carbines, and the rest of you sound them."
These orders were promptly obeyed, and when the "sounding" had been completed the deserters had not even a pocket-knife left.
"Now, boys," continued Bob, "as you seem to like these quarters so well, you can stay here to-night—all except you, Talbot; you will come up and have your wound examined. We didn't come prepared to take care of injured men, but we will do the best we can for you.—We will get some supper for you men, and when you feel so inclined you can spread your blankets on the floor and go to sleep.—Go on, Carey."
At a sign from Bob the troopers followed Carey, who led the way along the passage; then Talbot fell in, carrying his blanket over his shoulder, and Bob brought up the rear. The trap-door was shut, and Talbot was informed that the sleeping-room was to be his prison for the night. His wound was dressed with some cold coffee that Bob happened to have in his canteen, and the deserter was assured that there was no cause for apprehension. The wound, which was scarcely an inch long, was only skin-deep, but it bled profusely, and that was probably the reason why Talbot was so badly frightened. When two sentries had been posted—one at the door of the stable to keep an eye on Talbot, and the other at the dug-out to see that the deserters who were confined there did not attempt to work their way out during the night—Bob ordered supper to be served at once. He had performed a brave act, and now that the danger was over he began to realize that he had passed through something of an ordeal. He lifted his cap, and found that his forehead was covered with great drops of perspiration.
"You have done well," said Carey, extending his hand to Bob when the latter came out of the sleeping-room. "I didn't know you had so much pluck. I shall take particular pains to see that the lieutenant hears of this day's work."
"He will tell you that I did nothing but my duty," replied Bob, who was very glad to know that his men were satisfied with his conduct.
"But it isn't everybody who is brave enough to do his duty," said Carey as he touched a match to the light-wood he had piled in the fireplace; "and perhaps the lieutenant will say that you ought to be a sergeant. That was Bryant back there in that squatter's cabin, wasn't it? I looked for him the minute we entered the dug-out."
"So did I," answered Bob, "and I saw at a glance that he wasn't there. We will attend to him to-morrow."
"But perhaps he won't be there."
"I think he will. It is my opinion that he has hired out to that squatter, and that he intends to trust to disguise to escape recognition. A man in citizen's clothes doesn't look much like the same man in uniform; did you ever notice that? But even if he isn't there, what odds does it make to us? We are having a good time, and I would just as soon stay out here on the plains for a week or ten days as to go back to the fort and drill."
"I say, corporal," exclaimed the sentry who was stationed at the door, "here's somebody coming, and unless my eyes are going back on me he is dressed in uniform."
"Who in the world can it be?" exclaimed Carey.
"We'll soon find out," replied Bob, "for if he has got any of our uncle's clothes on we are bound to take him in, unless he proves to be an officer."
Bob and his men hurried to the door, and, looking in the direction in which the sentry was gazing, saw a horseman about a quarter of a mile away. He had halted on the top of a ridge, and Loring, who had good "Plains eyes," declared that he was looking at them through a field-glass. He certainly was dressed in uniform, and had with him a small black mule which bore a good-sized pack on its back.
"I can't make him out," said Bob, waving his hand in the air and beckoning the horseman to approach. "He is a soldier, but what is he doing with that pack-mule? It isn't Bryant, is it? If it is, where did he get that mule and that field-glass?—Loring, you and Phillips put the bridles on your horses—never mind the saddles—and stand by to give him a race if he tries to run away. Don't mount until I give the word."
But the horseman had no intention of running away. He replied to Bob's signal by waving his hand over his head, and after putting away his field-glass rode down the ridge and came toward the station at a gallop. As he approached nearer the troopers saw that he was a stranger, and a very good-looking one, too. He was almost as dark as an Indian, his hair was long enough to reach to his shoulders, and the eyes that looked out from under the peak of his fatigue-cap were as black as midnight and as sharp as those of an eagle. He rode a magnificent horse, and his seat was easy and graceful. His only weapon—that is, the only one that could be seen—was a heavy Winchester rifle, which was slung at his back. If he was a soldier, he was a very fancy one, for his cavalry uniform, although in strict keeping with the regulations, was made of the finest material; he wore white gauntlet gloves on his hands; and instead of the ungainly, ill-fitting army shoe he wore fine boots, the heels of which were armed with small silver spurs. The troopers thought from his dress and carriage that he must be an officer, and when he drew rein in front of the station they stood at "attention" and saluted him.
"I don't deserve that honor, boys," said the stranger with a laugh; "I am not a shoulder-strap."
"You are not?" exclaimed Bob, who was not a little astonished as well as provoked at the mistake he had made. "Well, it seems to me that you are throwing on a good many frills for a private. Where do you belong?"
"At Fort Lamoine," said the stranger; and the answer was given in a tone quite as curt as was that in which the question was asked.
"So do I, but I don't remember to have seen you there, and so I shall have to ask you to give an account of yourself. Dismount."
"I shall do as I please about that," replied the stranger, who had all the while been staring very hard at Bob.
"Well, you won't do as you please about it," returned the corporal, while Carey walked up and took the stranger's horse by the bit. "You will do as I please. If you belong at Fort Lamoine you will go there with me in the morning, and then I shall be sure you get there. I am acting under orders."
The horseman thrust his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, and pulling out a bill-book took from it a paper which he opened and handed to Bob to read.
"If you are acting under orders I have no more to say," said he, "but there is something which I think will see me through until day after to-morrow. It is my furlough. Look here, partner," he added suddenly, "isn't your name Bob Owens?"
The latter started as if he had been shot, his under jaw dropped down, and for a few seconds he stood looking at the speaker as if he could hardly believe his ears. Then a light seemed to break in upon him, and springing forward he grasped the horseman by the arm and fairly pulled him out of the saddle. After that he shook one of his hands with both his own and executed a sort of war-dance around him, while the troopers stood and looked on in speechless amazement.
"George Ackerman, I am delighted to see you again," cried Bob as soon as he could speak. "I take it all back, George: I didn't mean to insult you."
"It's Owens, isn't it?" said George, for it was he.
"Of course it is; and if you hadn't been blind you would have known it as soon as you saw me," replied Bob.
"I don't think my eyesight is any worse than your own, for you didn't know me until I called you by name," retorted George. "Your uniform tells me where you have been and what you have been doing since I last saw you, but it doesn't tell me how I came to lose you in Galveston so suddenly and mysteriously. If we had kept together a little while longer we should have been all right, for I had scarcely missed you before I ran against Mr. Gilbert—the friend to whom I wrote for money, you know. If you belong at Fort Lamoine, what are you doing here?"
"Stake out your horse and mule and I will tell you all about it," answered Bob. "But first tell me what right you have to wear those clothes."
"I am a United States scout," replied George. "At least, that was the title under which I was sworn in, but it does not clearly explain the duties that are expected of me. I am to act as guide to the troops when they cross the river in pursuit of the raiders."
"Oh yes," exclaimed Bob; "I remember all about it now. I was off after the hostiles when you came to the post and offered your services to the colonel. When I came back I found that the men had a good deal to say about our new scout, who, they said, looked about as much like a scout as they looked like the queen of England; but I had no idea who he was; and, seeing it's you, I'll not arrest you," he added with a laugh.—"Great Cæsar! that was the second close call I have had to-day."
"If I had had any idea that you were going to touch him I should have warned you," said George. "It won't do for a stranger to come within reach of him, and it's the greatest wonder in the world that he didn't knock your brains out."
While the two friends were talking, George Ackerman, with the dexterity acquired by long experience, relieved the mule of his heavy pack and slipped the halter over his head, leaving the animal at liberty. Bob, judging the mule by those unruly members of his species that were employed in the quartermaster's department at the fort, stepped up and attempted to lay hold of his foretop; but the animal dodged him very cleverly, and, wheeling like lightning, sent both his heels at the boy's head. The latter dropped just in time to escape the blow, but he felt the "wind" of the heels in his face and heard them whistle close by his ear.
"Does he always act that way when strangers approach him?" asked Bob as he picked up his cap. "If he does, you need not be afraid that anybody will steal him. I tried to catch him because I was afraid he would run off."
"Oh, he'll not do that. I never think of staking him out, for he always stays by my horse, and I can catch him anywhere. There's a horse for you, Bob, and the best one I ever owned. He is a present from Mr. Gilbert, who bought him in Kentucky for his own private use, but when he found that I was going into the army he gave him to me, with the assurance that Fletcher and his band could never make a prisoner of me while I was on his back. I lost my old horse, Ranger, at the time I was captured by the Greasers, and he was killed at the battle of Querétaro. Now, what are you doing so far away from the fort?" asked George as he picked up his picket-pin and led the horse around the station to find a good place to stake him out. "How did you come to go into the army, anyway, and what have you been doing to win those stripes?"
"It would take a long time to answer your last two questions," answered Bob, "and so we will leave them until the rest of the boys have gone to bed. I came here in pursuit of seven men who deserted last night."
"You did? Well, Bob, your superiors must have a good deal of confidence in you to send you off on such an expedition. Where do you expect to find them?"
"I have found them already, and arrested them too; that is, I have caught six of them, and I know where the other one is. I intend to take him in hand to-morrow, though, to tell the truth, I don't know just how I am going to do it. I could have arrested him to-day if I had had authority to take him out of a house; but I wasn't sure on that point, and so I let him go until I could have time to make up my mind to something. I got that about fifteen minutes before you came up," said Bob, directing his friend's attention to the hole in his coat that had been made by Bristow's bullet. "My men returned the fire and slightly wounded one of the deserters, who is now laid out on his blanket in the sleeping-room. By the way, do you know Gus Robbins?"
"I should say I did," replied George, after he had followed the course of the bullet through Bob's clothing and expressed his surprise at his friend's narrow escape. "He ran away from his home in Foxboro', and came down here to visit my cousin, who was at that time living with his father at my ranche. He and Ned, who were constantly pluming themselves on the numerous scrapes from which they had narrowly escaped, could not rest easy until they kicked up a row in the settlement, and they did it by shooting Mr. Cook's cattle. The consequence was, that I had to show them the way out of the country. Don't you remember I told you all about it on the morning we walked from that trapper's cabin to White River Landing? I say, Bob, have you any idea of becoming a trapper when your term of service expires?"
"Nary idea," was the emphatic reply. "A soldier's life is hard enough for me, and there is quite as much danger in it as I care to face."
"What do you know about Gus Robbins?" continued George. "He left my cousin Ned very suddenly in Brownsville, and none of us ever heard of him afterward. It can't be possible that he enlisted too?"
"Yes, he did. He belongs to my troop, and is just as fond of getting into scrapes as he ever was. When he is not in the guard-house he is almost sure to be doing extra duty for some offence against military discipline. He was one of the deserters I was ordered to capture, and he is in the dug-out now. But I almost wish he had got away. You know him, and when I was arresting him I almost felt as if I were doing something against you. I haven't forgotten that you offered me a home, and—"
"The obligation is all on my side," interrupted George. "You saved my life twice. Let's sit down here and talk a while. Go ahead and tell me something."
The boys threw themselves on the grass near the place where George had staked out his horse, and Bob began and described some of the interesting incidents that had happened since he last saw the cub pilot. He told the truth in regard to everything, not even excepting the parting in Galveston. His experience in the army was rapidly working a change in him, and he had not told a wilful lie since he assured the recruiting-officer that he was an orphan and that there was no one in the world who had a right to say whether he should enlist or not.
"I have done a good many mean things in my life, I am sorry to say," Bob added in winding up his story, "but about the meanest trick I ever played upon anybody I played upon you on the day we parted. I found fifty cents in my watch-pocket, which I had carelessly shoved in there when money was plenty, and I knew it would buy me supper and lodging. It wasn't enough for both of us, so I ran away from you and went off by myself. That's the way we became separated, and I tell you of it at the risk of losing your friendship."
"You risk nothing at all," replied George, extending his hand. "I couldn't expect that you would take care of me and pay my way at the sacrifice of all your own personal comfort; but I do wish you had waited just a little longer, for then you never would have had to enlist. I am ready to prove that I think as much of you now as I ever did. I shall keep an eye on you until your term of service expires, and then you must go home with me. I am sole master there now—Mr. Gilbert is my guardian, but he never has a word to say—and as you have no home of your own—"
"That was a lie, George," interrupted Bob. "I have a home at Rochdale, a few miles below Linwood, where I first pulled you out of the river—you know where it is—and as kind a father and mother as any scoundrel of my size ever had. When I ran away I intended to drop my identity altogether, and that was the reason I told you I was alone in the world. What do you think of me now?"
George was greatly astonished at this confession, for he had put implicit faith in Bob's story. He was strictly truthful himself, and he could not understand how a boy as physically brave as Bob Owens had showed himself to be could be coward enough to tell a lie.
"I feel sorry for you," said he at length; "and if I were in your place I would go home as soon as I received my discharge—if you keep on as you have begun you may rest assured that it will be an honorable one—and try to make amends for my misdeeds. Remember that
'No star is ever lost we once have seen;
We always may be what we might have been,'
and go resolutely to work to 'live it down.' You've got the pluck to do it, I know."
"Coffee!" shouted Carey, thrusting his head around the corner of the station.
"By the way," continued George as he and Bob arose to their feet, "what did you mean by saying that, seeing it was I, you wouldn't arrest me?"
"Oh, the colonel was mad when he started me out this morning, and ordered me to gobble up everybody—that is, privates and non-commissioned officers—I caught outside the stockade. But of course I couldn't touch you if I wanted to, for your leave of absence protects you. You will stay here to-night and ride to the fort with us to-morrow, will you not?"
"Certainly I will. Having found you again, I am not going to leave you in a hurry. Say, Bob, would you have any objections to bringing Gus Robbins up to eat supper with us?"
"None whatever. I am sorry to be obliged to keep him and the rest so closely confined, but I know that they are a slippery lot—every one of them has deserted before—and if I should let them get away now that I have got a grip on them, the colonel would give me Hail Columbia. Gus has got himself into a mess, George. The first time he deserted he was simply put into the guard-house and fined, but this escapade is going to land him at Leavenworth. Now I will make you acquainted with our boys, and then I will go down and tell Gus that you want to see him."
After the new scout had been introduced to the troopers, Bob raised the trap-door and descended into the dug-out, while George opened his pack-saddle and took out of it a tin cup and plate, a can of condensed milk, a box or two of sardines and a few other delicacies, which he laid upon the table beside the simple fare that Carey had just served up. By the time he had finished the work of opening the cans with the aid of a formidable-looking hunting-knife which he drew from his boot-leg, Bob returned, followed by a soldier who looked so unlike the dashing, fashionably-dressed Gus Robbins he had seen in company with his cousin Ned that George could hardly bring himself to believe that he was the same boy. He looked pale and haggard; and that was not to be wondered at, for the prison at Fort Leavenworth was constantly looming up before him.
George, as we know, had a very slight acquaintance with Gus Robbins, having passed only a few hours in his company, and he was under no obligations whatever to interest himself in his behalf; but when he saw how utterly miserable he was, his heart bled for him, and he at once hit upon a plan for getting him out of the trouble he had brought upon himself. He greeted Gus very cordially, gave him a seat beside himself at the table, and tried to put a little life into him by talking about almost everything except life in the army.
The deserters must have thought that their captors felt very much elated over their success, for a noisier party than that which was gathered about that rough board table was never seen anywhere. Being almost entirely free from military restraint—sergeants and corporals do not hold their men with so tight a rein as the commissioned officers do, although they exact just as prompt obedience to their commands—they told stories and said witty things and sung songs until they were hoarse. The additions to their larder which George had been able to supply gave them a better supper than they were accustomed to, and they were merry over it.
None of the members of Bob's squad had ever seen the new scout before, and, although they treated him with the greatest respect, they were sadly disappointed in him. The scouts with whom they were familiar were great, rough, bearded men, strong of limb and slovenly in dress, who had lived among the Indians all their lives, and had the reputation of being able to whip their weight in wild-cats; but this one looked as though he had but just come out of a fashionable tailor's shop, and, moreover, he was nothing but a boy in years. What could the colonel have been thinking of when he engaged this stripling to lead men across the river and into the midst of the desperadoes who were known to have their strongholds there? It was dangerous work, and the guide ought to be a person of courage and experience; and George didn't look as though he had either. That was what the troopers thought as they sat at the table casting furtive glances at the new scout, who was talking earnestly with Gus Robbins; but it was not long before they found out that it took a brave man to follow where he dared lead.
The first trooper who finished his supper took the place of the sentry at the door, and the next relieved the one who was standing guard over the dug-out. When these two had satisfied their appetites the dishes were washed, the table was laid again and the deserters were ordered up. Some of them appeared to be very much disheartened, and would scarcely look their comrades in the face, while the others were so defiant, and had so much to say about the colonel who had ordered their arrest and the men who had carried those orders into execution, that Bob was obliged to warn them that if they did not eat more and jaw less he would put them back into the dug-out without any supper.
When the deserters had had all they wanted to eat they were sent down to their prison, the outside sentry was relieved, and Bob stood guard at the door, with George for company. They had much to talk about, and it was long after midnight when they went to bed. They slept on the same blankets, and the new scout went off into the land of dreams with his arm thrown lovingly around the boy who had twice saved his life, and whom he had never expected to see again.
CHAPTER VI.
AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.
"Well, old fellow, what do you think of me now?"
It was George Ackerman who uttered these words, and the question was addressed to his herdsman, Zeke. The former stood in front of a full-length mirror that hung against the wall (among other extravagant and useless things for which Uncle John had spent his nephew's money were two elegant pier-glasses, one for his own room and the other for Ned's), and Zeke was sitting on the edge of a chair, with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin supported by his hands.
When the commander of Fort Lamoine accepted his proffered services, George had asked for and received a furlough for thirty days to enable him to procure an outfit and to consult with his guardian in regard to the management of the ranche during his absence. That furlough had nearly expired, and George was about to start for the fort. The honest fellows who had so long been employed on the ranche that they began to look upon themselves as members of the Ackerman family could not bear the thought of parting from him, and Zeke especially felt very gloomy over it. He had often denounced, in the strongest terms, the circumstances which seemed to render it necessary that his young friend should cast his lot among the soldiers for a season, and on this particular morning he looked as though he had lost everything that was worth living for.
George had just put on his new uniform for the first time, and no one, except a very intimate acquaintance, would have recognized in him the rough-looking cowboy whom we introduced to the reader in the first volume of this series of books. During the eighteen months he had lived in the pilot-house he had fallen in with some of the ways of those by whom he was surrounded, and grown very particular in regard to his personal appearance, although he did not by any means go to extremes, as his cousin Ned had done. As he placed the jaunty fatigue-cap over his long, curly hair he looked rather complacently at the handsome face and figure that were reflected from the polished surface of the mirror.
"Come, Zeke, don't be cross," said he, walking up to his herdsman and giving him a slap on the back. "Say just one kind word to me before I go."
"I won't," growled Zeke in reply.
"Then wish me good luck in my new calling," added George.
"I won't," repeated the herdsman in a still louder tone. "You're always going off on some new callin' or another, an' I don't see no sort of sense in it. Didn't I stay home here, quiet an' peaceable, takin' care of your critters, while you was a-philanderin' up and down the river on boats that was likely at any minute to burn up or bust their boilers? Now that you have got safe home again, why in creation don't you stay here? Good land o' Goshen!" shouted Zeke, jumping up, spreading out his feet and flourishing both his huge fists in the air, "of all the fool notions that ever a livin' boy got into his head—"
"That'll do, Zeke," interrupted George with a laugh. "I have heard that a thousand times, more or less, already. You will bid me good-bye when I get ready to go, I suppose?"
"I s'pose I won't do nothin' of the kind," exclaimed Zeke. "Of all the fool notions that ever a livin' boy—"
"I understand. Come here and pack my clothes-bag for me; you can do it better than I can."
"I won't. Them things is goin' to hang you higher'n the moon the first you know," said Zeke, scowling savagely at the elegant Mexican costume which George lifted from the bed. "Don't you never go 'crost the river with them duds on, 'cause if you do Fletcher'll string you up for a spy."
"Not in peace-times, I guess," answered George.
"What odds does it make to sich as him whether it's peace-times or not? You'll see."
"Well, he will have to catch me before he hangs me. Go and tell the cook that I am getting tired of waiting for breakfast."
"I won't; I won't never do nothin' for you no more, nor say another word to you, nuther."
"I am sorry you feel so bad about it," said George as he proceeded to pack his clothes away in a canvas bag he had provided for that purpose; "but the thing is done, and it can't be undone."
"I don't care if the Greasers come over here next full moon an' steal every huf an' horn you've got," exclaimed the angry herdsman.
"I do," replied George; "I don't want them to do anything of the kind. I don't want them to steal another steer from me or anybody else, and that is the very reason I became a scout. Our troops are going to teach those fellows to stay on their own side of the river, and I am going to help them do it."
"There's enough without you," growled Zeke.
"Suppose that everybody thought so; where would we get the men to fight our battles?—What in the world is that?"
For just then there was a terrific uproar on the porch. Above the stamping of heavy boots and hoarse but subdued ejaculations of rage, such as men sometimes utter when they are engaged in a fierce struggle, arose the voice of one who spoke in pleading accents, but whose words suddenly ceased with a kind of gasping sound, as if his throat had been seized by a strong hand. Zeke sat up on his chair and looked at George, whose face expressed the utmost bewilderment. Before either of them could speak the door was thrown open with great violence, and a dishevelled and half-strangled man, dressed in a dingy blue jacket and a pair of dirty leather trousers, was pitched into the room, with such force that when he brought up against Zeke that worthy herdsman was knocked out of his chair, and the two came to the floor together.
"What do you mean by such work as this?" demanded George, looking first at the prostrate man and then toward the door, where stood Jake and Bob with their hands clenched and their faces flushed with anger.
"Jest take a good squint at that feller's figger-head an' answer the question for yourself, Mr. George," answered Jake, shaking his fist at the man who had been so unceremoniously introduced into the room.—"Give it to him good an' strong, Zeke!—Well! I'll—be—blessed!—Won't you, Bob?"
This exclamation was called forth by an action on the part of George Ackerman that astonished Jake and Bob beyond measure. Zeke had instantly recognized the man who had so unexpectedly prostrated him, and, seizing him by the back of the neck in his iron grasp, began shaking him as a dog would shake a rat. George also recognized the man after he had taken a second look at him, and springing forward he seized Zeke's arm and tore his grasp loose. Then he assisted the man to his feet, and taking his hand in his own shook it cordially.
"Well, I will be blessed!" repeated Jake, who stood looking the very picture of astonishment.—"Won't you, Bob?"
"I should say I would," replied the latter, who was equally amazed. "That's something I never expected to see—an Ackerman shaking hands with a cattle-thief!"
"Springer," exclaimed George, "I am glad to see you again; and without your crutches, too! I hope you have entirely recovered."
Yes, the man who had made his entrance into George's room in so unusual a manner was Springer, whom we have often spoken of as the wounded cattle-thief. He had, as we know, once been in the employ of George's father; but proving to be utterly unfit for the position he held, Mr. Ackerman had discharged him, and Springer had sought revenge by making an unsuccessful effort to burn the ranche. Of course he could not stay in Texas after that, so he fled across the river and joined his fortunes with the Contra-Guerrillas, a regiment of desperadoes in the employ of the ill-starred Maximilian. He belonged, with other renegade Americans, to Fletcher's band, who were the principal foragers for Maximilian's army; but instead of robbing the adherents of Juarez, who probably had no stock worth stealing, they made numerous raids across the river and ran off the cattle belonging to the Texans. Springer was one of the band who stampeded George's herd at Catfish Falls, and during the short skirmish that followed Zeke sent a bullet through each of his legs, wounding him severely. He managed to keep up with the band a few miles, but the rapid motion was too much for him, and he was finally abandoned by his companions, who hurried the captured cattle toward the river, leaving Springer to look out for himself.
The pain occasioned by the wounds that had been inflicted upon him by Zeke's Winchester was so intense that the raider was forced to travel very slowly. Arriving on the banks of a little stream that ran across the trail he was pursuing, he rolled out of his saddle to quench his thirst, which had became almost unbearable; but his bridle slipping from his hand, his horse wandered away, and, as Springer was not able to walk, he could not catch him again. He sank helplessly down beside a tree, where he was presently discovered by George Ackerman, who was making his way on foot toward Mr. Gilbert's ranche. The boy ministered to his wants by bringing him water in his hat and sharing with him his slender stock of provisions, and Springer showed his gratitude by warning George of a plot which his uncle John and cousin Ned had laid against him. He went into all the details, but George refused to believe a word of it until subsequent events, which we have already described, proved to his entire satisfaction that the thief had told him nothing but the truth.
After spending half an hour in the man's company, George caught his horse, assisted him into the saddle, and Springer succeeded in crossing into Mexico without being discovered by any of the settlers whom Zeke had gathered together to recapture George's herd. He made his way to Don Miguel's ranche, and there our hero found him when he was captured by Fletcher's men. The raider seemed to be sorry for his misdeeds, and George had assured him that if he ever made up his mind to turn over a new leaf and lead a different sort of life, he would assist him by every means in his power.
"Springer," said George, drawing up an easy-chair for the use of his guest, "what brought you over on this side of the river? Have you abandoned Fletcher for good?"
The cattle-thief gasped and coughed three or four times, as if he were trying to clear his throat of something that stuck there and choked his utterance, and finally nodded his head in reply.
"Don't pay no attention to him, Mr. George!" exclaimed Bob. "He don't know nothin' but stealin' an' lyin', that feller don't, an' I wouldn't trust him as far as I could sling a yearlin'."
"If it wasn't for sich fellers as him you could stay to hum quiet an' peaceable like, an' not have to go off fur a soldier," added Jake.
"When I was a prisoner among the Greasers he gave me advice that assisted me in making my escape, and why should I not treat him kindly?" demanded George, turning indignantly upon the speakers. "No visitor at the Ackerman ranche was ever treated so shamefully before, and I tell you I don't want the thing repeated."
"Why, Mr. George," stammered Jake, "he rid up to the porch an' said he wanted to speak to you, an' so we brung him in—me an' Bob did."
"Go and tell the cook to put another plate on the table and to hurry up breakfast," said George with an air of disgust.
"Mr. George," said Zeke solemnly, "do you mean by that that you're goin' to break bread with this—this varmint?"
"I mean that Springer is going to eat a good breakfast with me, if that is what you want to know," replied George.
"Then, Bob, you needn't say nothin' about that there other plate," continued the herdsman, picking up his hat and moving toward the door. "Springer can have the one I was goin' to use."
"Zeke, sit down and behave yourself," exclaimed George.
"No, I won't. I ain't agoin' to eat salt with a man what tried to burn this ranche over your dead father's head, an' you a little babby at the time, without no power to help yourself. I don't know what this family is comin' to, anyhow."
"No more do I," chimed in Bob, while he and Jake looked daggers at their employer's new guest. "Things ain't as they used to be in the good ole days. I won't wait on no table that he sets at."
As if moved by a common impulse, the three men left the room, Zeke closing the door behind him with no gentle hand. The cattle-thief seemed to be greatly relieved to see them go, but their extraordinary conduct made him very uneasy, and he looked toward George to see what the latter thought about it.
"Never mind them," said the boy encouragingly. "They were employed on this ranche before I was born, and have finally come to think that they have more rights here than I have. Now, what did you want to see me for? How can I help you? If I were going to stay at home, so that I could stand between you and the settlers, I would give you a herdsman's berth, if that is what you want; but I am going to Fort Lamoine as soon as I have packed my things and disposed of my breakfast, and I may not be back for a year. I am a United States scout."
"I wondered what you were doin' with them soldier-clothes on; an' that explains it," said Springer, speaking with difficulty. "I don't reckon you can help me none jest now, but mebbe I can help you by puttin' you on your guard agin' Fletcher."
"Is he after me again?" cried George. "I was in hope I had seen and heard the last of him."
"Them kind of fellers is always turnin' up when they isn't wanted," replied Springer. "He's come back to his ole hole at that there ranche, bringin' a good many of his ole men with him, an' some new ones that would be wusser than he is, only that ain't possible. Amongst them all, they have laid a plan to visit you next full moon."
"Let them come," said George, snapping his fingers in the air; "they'll not get me, or any stock either."
"He wants you more'n he wants stock," continued Springer. "That is, he wants you first. Your uncle John put the very mischief into that there feller's head, an' he's goin' to make a pris'ner of you, like he did afore. He knows that you are master here now—that you've got more money an' cattle than you know what to do with; an' he thinks you would rather give 'em all up than lose your liberty."
"No doubt I would," answered George, "but before he can make any demands upon me he must catch me. That he will never do, for the next time—"
He was about to say that the next time he saw Don Miguel's ranche he would be so strongly backed up that he would stand in no fear of the boss cattle-thief and his band. But he didn't say it, for he did not know how far it would be safe to trust his friend Springer. He need not have been so particular on this point, however, for the cattle-thief knew as much about the contemplated movements of General Ord's forces as George did himself. The Mexican authorities had been notified that if the raids from their side of the river were not stopped our troops would take the matter in hand and punish the thieves wherever they could be found; and those same authorities had been accommodating enough to warn Fletcher, and so put him on his guard.
"Where have you been since I last saw you?" inquired George, "and what has become of my horse? What did the 'boss' say when he found I had slipped through his fingers? I told you I shouldn't stay there and allow myself to be robbed. Did he follow me?"
"No, he didn't foller you, 'cause nobody knowed till mornin' come that you had skipped out," answered Springer. "When Fletcher went to call you to breakfast, an' you wasn't there, he thought you was a-loafin' around somewheres about the ranche; but when somebody told him that the hoss with the four white feet, that follered us acrost the river on the night we tried to get the strong-box out of this house, was gone, he knowed in a minute what was up, an' he was about the maddest man you ever see. But he couldn't take time to hunt you up, an' all he could do was to swear that he'd hold fast to you the next time he got his hands on to you."
"He'll never get his hands on me again," said George confidently.
"I hope he won't, but if he does it'll be worse for you. That there black hoss of your'n is dead," continued Springer; "he was shot at Querétaro. You see, when we got down to the place where the fightin' was goin' on, we knowed in a minute that Max couldn't hold out much longer, so we started one dark night to cross over to Juarez. His soldiers seen us comin', an', thinkin' that we were up to some trick or another, they turned loose on us an' cut us up fearful."
"It served you just right," said George, with honest indignation. "You had no business to go in with Maximilian in the first place, but having joined him you ought to have stood by him to the last."
"We did stand by him after that, 'cause we had to," answered Springer. "But it didn't take 'em long to captur' the place, an' it didn't take them long either to say what should be done with Max. He an' Mejia an' Miramon were took out on a hill near the ruins of an old stone fort an' shot. I didn't see it, 'cause I was under guard with Fletcher an' the rest; but I heared some of 'em who did see it say that just before the shooting was done Max he says to Miramon, 'The bravest man should have the post of honor;' so he puts Miramon in the middle, an' Max he stood on the left. It was a mean piece of business all the way through," said Springer, drawing his hand nervously across his forehead, "an' I am powerful glad that I am well out of it. Now, Mr. George, seein' as how you belong to the army, mebbe I had oughter tell you something. You remember them two Greasers who shot that cowboy down to Rio Grande City, an' was put in jail for it, don't you? Well, they belong to our gang, an' Fletcher an' the rest are getting ready to go down there an' take 'em out."
"Very well. Go right down to the commanding officer at Eagle Pass and tell him of it," said George promptly. "Then come up to Fort Lamoine, and we'll see if the colonel won't do something for Fletcher when he comes over here to capture me."
"An' there's another thing I had oughter tell you, Mr. George," continued Springer, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. "I come over here as a sort of spy, like. I am to find out all I can about your ways—where you go of nights, an' all that, you know—an' then I am to go down to Rio City, take a look about the jail, see how many guards there are, an' everything else that is worth knowin', an' after that I am to go back an' tell Fletcher."
"I am glad you didn't say so while my men were in here," observed George.
"I was just a trifle too sharp for that," said Springer, shaking his head and looking very wise. "I don't want to make them any madder at me than they be now."
"But you are not going back to Fletcher with any news, are you? You told me you had left him for good."
"Mr. George," said Springer earnestly, "I ain't agoin' to take no news acrost the river that will do anybody there any good. I ain't forgot that you helped me when I was a-starving for grub an' water, and I ain't likely to forget it, nuther. I did say I had quit them fellers for good, an' when I said it I meant it; but you can see by the way your own men used me, right here under your nose, that I couldn't stay here without nobody to back me up. I can't starve, so I'll have to go back till you come home again."
"If you will stay on this side of the river I will see that you don't starve," replied George. "After you have told the commanding officer at Eagle Pass of the attempt that is to be made to release those murderers, come up to Fort Lamoine and I will find some honest work for you to do. The soldiers at the post are not acquainted with you, and consequently there will be no one to trouble you. I will say that you used to work for my father, and that will help you to a position."
While Springer was trying to make the boy understand how grateful he was to him for his kindness, there was a rap at the door, and Bob thrust his head into the room to announce in a surly tone that breakfast was ready.
"Where's Zeke?" asked George.
"Gone," was the laconic reply.
"All right! If he is foolish enough to go off without any breakfast, let him go. He'll meet me somewhere along the trail and say good-bye, I know. Bob," added George, pointing to the clothes-bag, which he had packed while he and his visitor were conversing, "put this into the pack-saddle, and have everything ready, so that I can start as soon as I have eaten breakfast.—Come on, Springer."
George led the way into an adjoining room, and found an excellent breakfast waiting for him. The cook, knowing that this was the last meal the young master of the ranche would eat at that table for long months to come, had exhausted all his knowledge of the cuisine in the effort to serve up a breakfast that would tempt George to eat, no matter whether he was hungry or not.
True to his promise, Bob kept out of the breakfast-room, and George and his guest were obliged to wait on themselves; but as they were used to that, they got on very well. While they were eating George once more repeated the instructions he had given Springer, and reiterated his promise to furnish him with steady employment and give him a chance to make an honest living.
Breakfast over, George accompanied his guest to the door, and saw him ride away toward Eagle Pass. As soon as he was out of sight the boy went into the house after his weapons and to take leave of the servants, who were good-natured enough now that Springer was gone. After shaking them all by the hand, and listening to their hearty wishes for his safe and speedy return, he mounted his horse, which stood at the porch saddled and bridled, took his pack-mule by the halter and rode away toward Mr. Gilbert's ranche. The first person to greet him as he drew rein in front of the door was Zeke, who had so emphatically declared that he would not have another word to say to him.
"Where's that pizen varmint?" demanded the herdsman in no very amiable tones.
"Look here, Zeke," replied George, "if you should happen to meet that man while I am gone, I want you to treat him civilly; do you understand? If you see him in trouble, I want you to help him out. He is sorry for what he has done, and intends to lead a better life; and if you don't assist him in every way you can, you are not the fellow I take you for."
"Humph!" exclaimed Zeke contemptuously. "Sorry, ain't he? Wants to lead a better life, don't he? Well, it's mighty little chance he'll have if he makes a business of bumpin' up agin me the way he did this mornin', I bet you."
"He couldn't help it; Jake and Bob threw him against you. I know he is in earnest, for he has proved it. He came to the ranch to tell me that my old friend Fletcher is coming over to capture me next full moon, and he has now gone down to warn the officer in command at Eagle Pass that an attempt will soon be made to liberate the murderers who are in jail there.—Good-morning, Mr. Gilbert. I have stopped to say good-bye."
"Why don't you slap your foot down an' tell him he sha'n't go, Gilbert?" demanded Zeke.
"I am as sorry to have him go as you are," replied Mr. Gilbert. "But it is to our interest to do all we can to break up this raiding business, and George can do more than any of us. In fact, he is the only one in the settlement who can do anything, for you know the colonel wouldn't accept the services of our company of Rangers when we offered them to him.—Come in, George, and say good-bye to Mrs. Gilbert and the girls."
This was soon done, for the boy did not like to linger over the parting; but still, it was much harder for him to take leave of these good friends than he thought it would be. The whole family accompanied him to the door, and when he came out Zeke turned his back to him.
"Say good-bye to me," said George, giving him a pat on the shoulder; "it's your last chance."
"I don't care if it is," shouted the old fellow; "I won't do it."
"Then I will say it to you: Good-bye, Zeke. It will be a long time before I see you again, if indeed I ever do, but I never shall forget you. You have been a good friend to me."
This was altogether too much for the honest herdsman. He faced quickly about, and, seizing George's hand with a grip that brought tears to his eyes, churned it up and down like a pump-handle. Then he dropped it and turned away, while George, without saying another word, vaulted into his saddle and rode off. Zeke watched him as long as he remained in sight, and then in broken accents addressed the silent group who stood in the doorway:
"Thar's that there boy."—here he waved his hand in the direction in which George had disappeared—"he was all I had, an' now he's gone off to fight them Greasers without askin' me would I let him go. I toted him in them there arms when he was a yellin' babby not knee-high to a duck; I put him on the fust hoss he ever rid; I slept under the same blanket an' herded cattle with him when he got bigger; I larnt him how to throw the lasso an' shoot the rifle; an' now he's went off an' left me alone! Dog-gone them pizen Greasers!" roared Zeke, flourishing both his fists in the air.
He lingered a moment, looking rather sharply at Mr. Gilbert, as if he had half a mind to take him to task for giving his consent to George's "fool notion," and then, thinking better of it, he lumbered down the steps, mounted his horse and galloped off toward the place where he had left his herd in charge of an assistant.
George camped two nights on the prairie, and on the third afternoon, an hour or two before sunset, he arrived within sight of one of the stage-company's deserted stables. Or, rather, it was deserted the last time he saw it, but now there was an armed soldier in front of the door, and he was presently joined by others, one of whom, by signs, invited him to approach. George complied, and presently found himself surrounded by a squad of troopers under the command of Corporal Bob Owens, who greeted him as we have described.
CHAPTER VII.
HOW BRYANT WAS CAPTURED.
Reveille was sounded the next morning by Corporal Owens, who, having no drum or bugle at his command, sprang up at daylight and aroused his slumbering companions by shouting out the order, "Catch up!" More from the force of habit than anything else, he called the roll while he was bundling up the blankets on which he and George had slept, and, making the sergeant's salute to an imaginary officer, he announced: "All present or accounted for." Then Carey was ordered to boil the coffee, and Bob and the three troopers who were off duty went out to groom the horses. Having brought no brushes or currycombs with them, they were obliged to content themselves with rubbing the animals down with handfuls of grass; but they "went through the motions," as Bob expressed it, and that was all the most exacting officer could have expected of them under the circumstances.
As soon as breakfast had been eaten the troopers and their prisoners set out on the return march, Bob and the new scout leading the way. Behind them came the deserters, guarded on each flank and in the rear by two cavalrymen. Their advance was necessarily slow, for the captives had travelled rapidly the day before in order to put a safe distance between themselves and the fort, and they were weary and footsore. Gus Robbins, especially, was nearly "done up." He was in a worse condition than Talbot was, for the latter seemed to have slept off the effects of his wound. George felt the greatest compassion for Gus, and offered to lend him his horse; but Bob, who had grown somewhat hardened to suffering during his experience in the army, positively forbade it.
"It wouldn't do, George," said he, looking admiringly at his friend's sleek, well-conditioned animal, which was constantly champing his bit and tossing his head as if he were growing impatient at the slow progress they were making. "Gus would make a break for liberty sure, and as that nag of yours is able to distance anything in my party, I'd have to—" Here Bob tapped his carbine significantly. "That's something I don't want to do. Gus isn't so nearly exhausted as he seems to be. He is more distressed in mind than he is in body, for he is thinking of the prison at Fort Leavenworth. After we have gone a few miles we will rest them by taking them up behind us, but it wouldn't be a very bright trick to give one of them a horse to himself."
About eleven o'clock a halt was ordered, and the deserters, who were riding behind the troopers, having dismounted, Corporal Owens took Carey off on one side and gave him some very emphatic instructions. Then he and George also dismounted, and, leaving their horses behind, made their way cautiously toward a ridge a short distance in advance of them. As they neared the top they threw themselves on their hands and knees and crept up until they could look over it. They were in plain view of the squatter's cabin at which the troopers had stopped to eat their dinner the day before. Bob took just one look at it, and then hastily backed down the ridge again.
"Did you see that fellow chopping wood in front of the shanty?" said he, addressing himself to George. "That's the man I am looking for."
"Am I sure that I have a pair of good eyes?" asked Bob in reply. "Of course I am. I recognized him in spite of his citizen's clothes. That squatter has rigged him out in some of his own duds, but they'll not save him if I can manage in some way to get between him and the cabin."
"Perhaps, in order to make 'assurance doubly sure,' you had better take my field-glass and have another look at him," said George. "A false move might prove fatal to you, for it would show the squatter that you suspect him of harboring one of your men, and that would put both him and the deserter on their guard. But if that is your man, I am sorry for it."
"Why are you?" demanded Bob, looking at his companion in great surprise.
"I mean that I am sorry you found him here," George hastened to explain, "for the chances are that you will not take him without a fight. Peasley—that's the name of the owner of the cabin—is a notorious rough, and he would think no more of putting a bullet into you, if he thought he could escape the consequences, than he would of knocking over an antelope for breakfast."
"I thought he looked like that kind of a chap," said Bob. "Well, if he wants a fight he can be accommodated at very short notice. That's my man, and I am going to have him, squatter or no squatter."
As Bob gave utterance to this emphatic declaration he took the field-glass, which George handed over to him, crept up to the top of the ridge, and after taking a short survey of the cabin and its surroundings came back to his friend's side again.
"I knew I couldn't be mistaken," said he. "I had a fair view of his face, and as I have seen him every day for the last year, of course I couldn't fail to recognize him. The squatter is sitting on the porch smoking his pipe. Now, how shall I go to work to nab him? That's the question."
"Ride straight up to him and tell him that you want him," answered George. "I know of no easier way. I will go with you and see that Peasley doesn't double-team on you."
"But Bryant will run into the house the moment he sees me," said Bob.
"Then run right in after him and pull him out again," answered George promptly.
"I am almost afraid to do it. You see, the civil law is supposed to be supreme, and we soldiers have to mind what we are about, or else there'll be a big row raised about 'military despotism' and all that. I'd have to surround the house and keep him in there until I could send to the post and get authority from the colonel to go in after him. That is something I shouldn't like to do, for I have carried this thing through so far without help from anybody, and I want to complete the work myself. If I should ask for advice, the colonel would probably send a shoulder-strap down here to rob me of all the glory I have won," added Bob with a smile.
"Oh, you needn't laugh over it," exclaimed George. "You have covered yourself with glory. It isn't every fellow who would go down into a dug-out to capture six armed men after one of them had given positive proof that he was not afraid to shoot. That bullet-hole in your coat is a badge of honor. Now, I have just thought of something: I have brought with me a full suit of Mexican clothes, and also a saddle and bridle of the Mexican pattern. You are just about my size—"
"That's the very idea—nothing could be better," exclaimed Bob, as he arose to his feet and led the way toward the place where he had left his men. "It will disguise me completely, won't it? I can ride up and get between him and the house before he suspects anything, can't I? But how about the squatter?"
"I'll join you as soon as I see that you have corralled your man," replied George. "And you had better tell your followers to hold themselves in readiness to come up promptly when I signal to them from the top of the ridge."
The troopers awaited the boys' return with no little impatience, for the long consultation they had held on the ridge convinced them that their officer had discovered something on the other side of it. Bob gave them a wink and a nod, which instead of satisfying their curiosity only increased it, and then, to the surprise of all of them, began to divest himself of his outer clothing, while George threw off the canvas covering that protected his pack, and drew out of it an elegant silver-mounted saddle and bridle, and also a suit of clothes made in the height of the Mexican fashion.
"If that man of yours is at all sharp he will notice those army-brogans the first thing, and so you had better pull them off and put on these," said George, tossing a pair of light patent-leather shoes toward Bob. "There are the spurs. You had better take my horse too, for that 'U. S.' brand on your own nag would give you away in a minute. Now go easy, like an honest Greaser who is going about his legitimate business. Take my mule with you, for if you try to separate him from the horse he'll raise row enough to scare all the deserters out of the State."
It is wonderful what an alteration is sometimes made in one's appearance by a mere change of clothing. After Bob had got into the Mexican suit and exchanged his cap for the wide sombrero with its gaudy cord and tassel, it was doubtful if there was one among his brother-troopers who would have recognized him if he had chanced to meet him unexpectedly. Although he was not quite yellow enough for a Mexican, he was nevertheless pretty well tanned, and George assured him that all he needed was a black moustache and a long goatee to transform him into a very good-looking Greaser.
Everything being in readiness, Bob mounted George's horse, took the pack-mule's halter, which his friend passed up to him, and, after giving Carey instructions to bring up the squad and the prisoners promptly when he was signalled to do so, he rode slowly away, the new scout following a short distance in his rear, mounted on Bob's nag.
Arriving at the top of the ridge, Corporal Owens rode over it without pausing, and had not proceeded far before he became aware that he was discovered. The squatter got up and came to the end of the porch, the deserter ceased his chopping and leaned on his axe, and both shaded their eyes with their hands and looked at him. It was plain that they were not very well pleased with the result of their observations, for, after gazing at him for a few seconds, the squatter returned to his seat and puffed furiously at his pipe, and the deserter resumed his chopping. At the same moment the dogs appeared in force from under the cabin, their every action indicating that they had been summoned by the voice of their master. They looked up at him, wagging their tails vigorously, and then, encouraged, no doubt, by a low hiss or an order to "hunt 'em up," began running about with their heads high in the air. Discovering the approaching horseman, they started for him on the instant, each one striving to lead in the race and to growl and bark louder than his companions.
"They don't think much of Greasers in this part of the country," said Bob to himself; "and I don't blame them. If I were a stock-raiser I shouldn't feel very hospitably inclined toward a class of men who are always on the watch for a chance to jump down on me and steal my cattle. I wonder if I shall have pluck enough to dismount in the midst of all these dogs and make the arrest?" added Bob as the fierce brutes closed about him, all of them with their ears laid back close to their heads and their hair turned the wrong way, and some crouching at his side as if they were about to spring up and pull him out of his saddle.—"Get out! If you interfere with my business there won't be as many of you to-night as there were this morning. Aha! there's one of you out of the muss already."
Bob Captures the Deserter.
For just here the mule gave a tug at his halter, and Bob, looking over his shoulder to see what was the matter, caught a momentary glimpse of a tawny body as it rose in the air, and, turning a complete somersault, landed on the ground all in a heap. One of the dogs, in his eagerness to do something grand, had approached a little too close to the mule's heels—an impertinence which that sagacious quadruped promptly resented by kicking out with both hind feet and knocking his would-be assailant into a cocked hat. The dog was not killed, but he was terribly demoralized, and his howls of anguish did much to dampen the ardor of his companions, who quickly withdrew to a more respectful distance.
Bob rode straight up to the house, but the squatter never looked at him, nor did the deserter stop his work. He drew rein in front of the porch, swung himself out of the saddle as quick as a flash, and, paying no attention to the dogs, which bayed him at a distance, but were too cowardly to assault him, he walked up to the deserter and tapped him on the shoulder.
"Bryant, I want you," said he.
The deserter, whose back was turned toward Bob, wheeled on the instant, revealing a face that was as white as a sheet. Bob backed around a little, so that he could keep one eye on Bryant while he watched the squatter with the other, and saw the man spring to his feet in the greatest astonishment, his pipe dropping from his mouth as he arose.
"You didn't expect to see me again so soon, did you?" said Bob, addressing himself to nobody in particular.
"Corporal Owens!" gasped the deserter, retreating a step or two, at the same time grasping his axe firmly in both hands and lifting it over his head. "Keep away from me; if you come a step nearer I'll—"
"Drop it!" commanded Bob sternly; and Bryant obeyed, for he saw the muzzle of a cocked revolver looking him squarely in the face.
All this happened in less time than we have taken to tell it, but meanwhile the squatter had not been idle. Quickly recovering from his amazement, he darted into the cabin, and just as Bryant dropped the threatening axe he appeared upon the porch with his rifle in his hand. Cocking it as he drew it to his face, he covered Bob's head with the weapon, and said, in a voice that trembled with rage and excitement,
"Look a here, young fellow, that's a game two can play at. Lower your shootin'-iron or I'll make daylight shine through you."
"Plump him over, Peasley!" cried Bryant, "plump him over! You are not going to stand there and let him take me back to the fort, are you? You promised to protect me. Plump him over! put the dogs on him! Do something, and be quick about it."
Bob bore himself with surprising courage during this trying ordeal. He did not know at what instant the squatter might comply with Bryant's frantic order to "plump him over" or to "put the dogs on him," but he never flinched. He did not even change color; and there is every reason to believe that his bold front saved his life.
"Bryant," said he in a calm voice, "don't you know that the colonel will be sure to hear of this, and that you are only making a bad matter worse by holding out against the inevitable?—As for you, Peasley, you've got the drop on me, and you can shoot if you feel like it; but if you do you are a gone squatter. Look there," he added, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
Peasley looked, and saw George Ackerman coming down the ridge at a furious gallop.
"That is one of my backers, and there are six more who will be along in a minute. What did I tell you?" exclaimed Bob as the troopers and their prisoners came into view over the top of the ridge. "Now, Peasley, if you don't behave yourself I'll take you to the fort under arrest. I am in the discharge of my duty, and I am not going to put up with any more nonsense."
The squatter lowered his rifle, looked first at Bryant and then at the troopers, and seemed undecided how to act. While he hesitated George Ackerman dashed up to the porch, jumping out of his saddle before his horse had fairly stopped, and, knocking the dogs right and left with the heavy cavalry sabre which he had found fastened to Bob's saddle, he mounted the steps and laid hold of the squatter's rifle.
"Peasley, what are you about?" he exclaimed as he twisted the weapon out of the man's unresisting grasp. "Are you a born idiot? If you are not, don't you know that if you raise a fuss here you won't have any roof left over your head in less than five minutes?"
The squatter, muttering something under his breath, went back to his seat and picked up his pipe, and in a few minutes more the troopers and their prisoners arrived. At a sign from his officer, Loring dismounted and stood guard over Bryant, while Bob walked up to the porch.
"What do you think of the situation now, friend Peasley?" said he cheerfully. "I can't take that man to the fort in those clothes, and so I would thank you to trot out his uniform."
"Don't know nothing 'bout no uniform," growled the squatter; "ain't none here."
"I know better," answered Bob. "There is one here, and I must have it. You can either bring it out yourself or I shall search for it; and I give you fair warning that if I turn my boys loose in your shanty they'll handle things rough.—Now, what shall I do if that threat doesn't start him?" said Bob to himself. "I'll search the cabin and take the consequences; that's what I'll do."
"Come, Peasley, save yourself trouble by bringing out the uniform," said George. "There's no use in being a fool."
The squatter evidently began to think so too, for he sullenly rose from his seat and went into the cabin, coming out again in a few minutes with a bundle of clothing, which he threw spitefully down upon the porch. Bob quietly picked it up, and, carrying it down to Bryant, commanded him to pull off the squatter's clothes and put on his own; and Bryant at once complied, for he knew that if he did not Bob would detail two or three men to make the exchange for him. The new prisoner was then ordered to fall in with the rest, and the cavalcade once more took up its line of march for the fort; but a short stop was made as soon as they were out of sight of the squatter's cabin, during which Bob pulled off his disguise and put on his own garments.
"If I am ever obliged to wear this suit, I hope it will serve me as well as it has served you to-day," said George as he stowed the Mexican costume away in his pack and placed the silver-mounted saddle and bridle on top of it. "I didn't think it would so soon be brought into use."
"If it hadn't been for that same suit I might have got myself into trouble," said Bob. "Knowing where Bryant was, I never should have gone back to the fort without him, and if he had taken refuge in the house I might have gone in after him. What the colonel would have said to me if I had done that, I don't know."
During the ride to the fort Bob Owens, to quote from the troopers, "laughed all over." It was plain to everybody that he was highly elated over the results of the expedition, as he had an undoubted right to be. The pursuit and capture of the deserters had been conducted with considerable skill, and with as much determination as any veteran officer could have exhibited. Now that the danger was over, and his efforts to carry out the orders of his superior had been crowned with complete success, Bob was rather proud of that bullet-hole in his coat.
The next time the order was given for the troopers to take the prisoners on their horses, George beckoned to Gus Robbins, who quickly mounted behind him. After conversing a while upon the various exciting incidents that had transpired while Gus was Ned Ackerman's guest at George's ranche, the latter said,
"I never expected to meet you again, and I would rather not have met you at all than see you in this scrape."
"Well, it can't be helped now," answered Gus, with a weak unsuccessful attempt to appear defiant. "The colonel told me just what I might expect if I were ever again court-marshaled for desertion, and I went at it with my eyes open. I am not sorry I tried it, but I am sorry I didn't get away. If they don't watch me pretty closely, they will never have a chance to take me to Leavenworth."
"What do you suppose your father will say when he finds it out?" asked George.
"He will never find it out if I can help it."
"Don't you correspond with him?"
"Not by a great sight. He doesn't know whether I am dead or alive. I wish I had changed my name when I enlisted."
"He lives in Foxboro', Ohio, I believe?" said George.
Gus replied that he did.
"Is his name Gus too?"
"No; his name is Thomas, and he is—I say," exclaimed Gus suddenly, "what are you asking so many questions for? Do you intend to write to him about me?"
"Why, what object could I possibly have in doing that?" asked George, turning a very innocent-looking face toward the deserter. "I am sure it is none of my business what you do. Let's talk about something else. We are getting over the ground pretty rapidly now, and if Bob would let me I could land you in the fort in four hours. I don't suppose that you are in any hurry to get there, but what I meant was, that your additional weight would not prevent this horse of mine from travelling from here to the fort at his very best licks."
"No, I don't weigh much now," said Gus with a sigh. "Hard work, hard fare, hard treatment and constant worry have brought me down to a hundred and ten pounds."
"That's not very heavy for a seventeen-year-old boy."
"Oh, I am nineteen," said Gus, "but just now I feel as though I were forty."
"And you look so, too," said George to himself.—"That was the reason I wanted to know your exact age."
George had now learned all he cared to know about Gus Robbins. He was a minor, his father's name was Thomas and he lived in Foxboro', Ohio. He had gone to work in a roundabout way to gain this information, because he was afraid that if he asked Gus leading questions and told him what use he intended to make of his answers, the deserter would refuse to open his head. He had gained his point by strategy, and he did not intend that Gus should go to Leavenworth if he could help it.
Bob's supply of rations being nearly exhausted, his men and the deserters had a very scant dinner, and they did not get anything more to eat until they reached the fort. About ten o'clock that night they were challenged by one of the sentries, and, not knowing the countersign, were obliged to wait until the corporal of the guard was called. Having at last been admitted inside of the stockade, Bob marched up in front of head-quarters, where he ordered a halt, and he and George dismounted and went in to report to the colonel. Bob was very much astonished at the manner in which the officer greeted the new scout, and so was the orderly. They had never before seen him unbend to anybody as he did to George. Having never been admitted into head-quarters except when they had business there—some report to make, some orders to receive or some sharp reprimand to listen to—they knew the commandant only as a stern, exacting officer who seemed to care for nothing but the "regulations," and they had never imagined that he could be cordial or friendly with any one. But now they saw their mistake. The colonel got up from his seat, shook the boy warmly by the hand, told him he was glad to see him, called him by his Christian name and pointed him to an easy-chair, while Bob was left to stand at attention until the colonel got ready to attend to him.
"You are all ready for business I see, George," said the colonel as he resumed his seat at the table. "Well, I'll give you a taste of army-life by sending you out on a scout to-morrow. I will tell you about it pretty soon. There's your room," he added, pointing to an apartment adjoining his own, "and when you get ready you can bring in your luggage. The officer of the day will show you where to put your horse. You will have to be your own servant, unless you are willing to hire a civilian and pay him out of your own pocket. I saw that you came in with Corporal Owens: did he arrest you?"
"He was going to, sir," replied George, "but let me off when I showed him my furlough."
"Corporal," continued the colonel, turning to Bob, who stood lost in wonder, "what report have you to make?"
"I have the honor, sir, to report my entire success," was Bob's reply; "I've got them all."
"On the parade, under guard, sir."
"Very good. Keep them there until further orders. Tell the officer of the day I want to see him."
George thought this was rather hard. Bob had risked his life and displayed most commendable zeal and ability in carrying out the colonel's orders, and now the latter dismissed him without one single word to indicate that he appreciated his services. Why did he not question the corporal in regard to the manner in which the capture of the deserters had been effected, and reward him for his gallantry by making him a sergeant on the spot? That was what George thought he would have done if he had been commandant of the post, and he then and there resolved that a full history of Bob's exploit should be laid before the colonel before he went to sleep that night.