This officer supplied me with a fresh horse, as requested by General Sheridan in a letter I brought to him. After an hour's sleep and a meal, I jumped into the saddle, and before sunrise was on my way. I reached Fort Dodge, twenty-five miles further on, between nine and ten o'clock without having seen a single Indian.
When I had delivered my dispatches, Johnny Austin, an old friend, who was chief of scouts at the Post, invited me to come to his house for a nap. When I awoke Austin told me there had been Indians all around the Post. He was very much surprised that I had seen none of them. They had run off cattle and horses, and occasionally killed a man. Indians, he said, were also very thick on the Arkansas River between Fort Dodge and Fort Larned, and had made considerable trouble. The commanding officer of Fort Dodge was very anxious to send dispatches to Fort Larned, but the scouts, like those at Fort Hays, were backward about volunteering. Fort Larned was my Post, and I wanted to go there anyhow. So I told Austin I would carry the dispatches, and if any of the boys wanted to go along I would be glad of their company. This offer was reported to the commanding officer. He sent for me, and said he would be glad to have me take the dispatches, if I could stand the trip after what I had already done.
"All I want is a fresh horse, sir," said I.
"I am sorry we haven't a decent horse," he replied, "but we have a reliable and honest Government mule, if that will do you."
"Trot out the mule," I told him. "It is good enough for me. I am ready at any time."
The mule was forthcoming. At dark I pulled out for Fort Larned, and proceeded without interruption to Coon Creek, thirty miles from Fort Dodge. I had left the wagon road some distance to the south, and traveled parallel to it. This I decided would be the safer course, as the Indians might be lying in watch for dispatch-bearers and scouts along the main road.
At Coon Creek I dismounted and led the mule down to the river to get a drink of water. While I was drinking the brute jerked loose and struck out down the creek. I followed him, trusting that he would catch his foot in the bridle rein and stop, but he made straight for the wagon road, where I feared Indians would be lurking, without a pause. At last he struck the road, but instead of turning back toward Fort Dodge he headed for Fort Larned, keeping up a jogtrot that was just too fast to permit me to overtake him.
I had my gun in hand, and was sorely tempted to shoot him more than once, and probably would have done so but for the fear of bringing the Indians down on me. But he was going my way, so I trudged along after him mile after mile, indulging from time to time in strong language regarding the entire mule fraternity. The mule stuck to the road and kept on for Fort Larned, and I did the same thing. The distance was thirty-five miles. As day was beginning to break, we—the mule and myself—found ourselves on a hill looking down on the Pawnee Fork, on which Fort Larned was located, only four miles away. When the sunrise gun sounded we were within half a mile of the Post.
I was thoroughly out of patience by this time.
"Now, Mr. Mule," I said, "it is my turn," and threw my gun to my shoulder. Like the majority of Government mules, he was not easy to kill. He died hard, but he died.