With this corroborative evidence, Barclay hailed the major. "Major, may I send a man or two out in that direction?" he asked. "Two of our people report seeing a horse galloping this way."
But, even as he spoke, over a distant divide, popping up against the sky just long enough to catch the eyes of half a dozen men at once, a black dot darted into view and then came bounding down the long, gradual incline, looming larger and larger as it ran; presently the body and legs could be made out, and then the sweeping mane and tail,—a riderless horse, a cavalry horse probably, coming at eager speed to join his comrade creatures in the long column. Cavalry horse undoubtedly, as, bounding nearer and nearer, the flapping rein, the dangling, black-hooded stirrups, the coarse gray blanket, and the well-known saddle could be distinguished, a gruesome sight to trooper eyes, harbinger of disaster if not of death in almost every case,—a cavalry charger riderless! And at last, as with piteous neigh the laboring steed came galloping straightway on, a cry went up from two or three soldier throats at the instant, a wail of soldier sorrow: "God save us, fellows! it's Blarney—it's the colonel's own!" Officers and men, they swarmed about the weary, panting, trembling creature, as hope died in every heart at what they saw: the saddle and blanket, the old overcoat, rolled at the pommel, that so often had stood between Ned Lawrence and the Texas gales, were all dripping with blood, yet Blarney had never a scratch.
CHAPTER XII.
The moon was throwing black shadows into the deep cleft in the San Saba, where the Crockett trail twisted along beside the swift-running rivulet, that rose in the heart of the hills and bubbled merrily away until lost in the westward valley and the brook that found its source at the springs far out under the foot-hills towards the Bravo. Slowly, wearily, warily, half a dozen troopers on jaded horses were feeling their way up the pass, a veteran corporal full thirty yards ahead of his fellows leading on. With the advance rode an officer whose shoulder-straps, gleaming on the shell jacket sometimes worn in the mounted service immediately after the war, seemed almost too bright and new to accord with the dust-grimed chevrons and trimmings of his comrades. New and brilliant, too, were the hilt and scabbard of the sabre that dangled by his side. New and "green" the men of his command had believed him to be, in cavalry matters at least, when first he joined them some weeks before, but the most casehardened old customer among their seasoned troopers had abandoned that view before ever they started on this scout after a gang of notorious outlaws, and now a new and very different theory was grinding its way into their tired brains,—that the "Doughboy Dragoon," as they had earlier dubbed him, "Captain Gallyhad," as one of them heard he was called, could give them points in covering the front of a column that were worth knowing, even if they had been learned in a doughboy regiment and among the Sioux. It would be a smart "Friday" that managed to ambuscade old Brooks's column that cloudless, moonlit, breezeless night, for, with that veteran's full consent, as well as to his infinite relief, Captain Barclay had himself gone forward with the advance the moment they began to wind in among the hills, and there at the post of danger he had held his way, alert and vigilant, despite long hours in saddle that had told heavily on more than half the command, calm and brave despite the fact that their welcome to the westward portal of the Pass was the sight of poor Blarney running to them for shelter, sympathy, and companionship, covered with the blood of his beloved rider.
And what was that rider's fate? It was now almost eleven o'clock, and no man knew. Only briefly had they halted and flocked about the panting steed, for stern was the need that held them to their course. With awe-stricken faces and compressed lips they looked into each other's eyes, as though to ask, What next? Who next? The major, tender-hearted as a woman, well-nigh choked with distress and anxiety as he turned to Barclay for counsel; and long before the rearmost of the column had reached the spot the decision had been made. The leaders were again pushing on. Young Brayton, with half a dozen troopers, had been despatched southwestward along the falda, ordered to search high and low for Lawrence, dead or alive. There was only one theory,—that, pushing eagerly ahead to the relief of Cramer's crippled troop, the gallant ex-captain had taken no thought of personal danger; the old instinct of leadership had possessed him, and, foremost of his little squad, he had been picked off by lurking bushwackers of the outlaws, crouching like Indians in the shelter of the rocks, and had fallen another victim of their desperado efforts. "One more fight in Texas," indeed. Poor, brave, warm-hearted Ned! That one more fight, reported in Washington by an indulgent department commander, might bring about immediate measures for his restoration to the army; but was it worth the risk? Was it worth what might befall those motherless children, praying for father hour after hour that livelong day? Should it have been permitted, had there been any one to prevent, in view of the fact that no longer was there soldier duty to lead him on? The government had released him from all that, had bidden him go. It had no further use for the services of such as he; it had turned him loose upon the world, with heavy stoppages against the stipulated bonus. "Oh, what right had he," cried Brooks, "to forget those babies back at Worth, well knowing as he must that no man's life is worth a hair in front of the rifles of that outlaw gang, much less an enemy such as Lawrence has shown himself to be?" The major's heart and head were heavy as once more the order forward was given. With every inclination to turn from his course with his entire command, to hasten in search of Lawrence's little party and Cramer's halted men, he well knew that should the paymaster and his precious thousands fall into the outlaw hands of the Friday gang he would be held responsible, even though San Saba's cantonment sent with him a force of forty men.
Once within the jaws of the Pass, the little detachment had closed on the head of column, the advance guard, Barclay's leading section, riding on and dispersing itself under his instructions, while Brooks held the other sections until Winn's men were all closed up, bringing with them the little squads that had scouted towards the short cut of the San Saba and had found no living soul in sight, yet had followed fresh hoof-tracks coming their way for miles. Whoever they were, the scouts of the gang were well ahead; whoever he was, "Friday" by this time knew the troops were coming. Then, with the flankers scouring the slopes well out to right and left wherever possible, Brooks's main body too had entered the winding defile and was lost in the bowels of the earth.
At eleven o'clock a watcher, gazing back into the broad shallow depression in which lay Crockett's, and then northward to the low-lying hills along the trail to Worth, could have seen no gleam of light far or near that would speak of human habitation or life or movement, no sign, in fact, of life of any kind; yet no sooner was the last shadowy form of horse and trooper swallowed up in the black gloom of the defile, no sooner had the last faint click of iron-shod hoofs died away in the hidden distance, than there slowly rose from behind the shelter of a clump of rocks, far out to the right of the trail, a crouching figure that went almost on all-fours to the edge of the rivulet, slunk away down the bank, dodging swiftly, softly, from boulder to boulder, until it disappeared around a little shoulder of bluff five hundred yards away, was lost to view a moment, then reissued into the moonlight, this time in saddle, swinging, cowboy fashion, a riata about its head as it rode. Spinning up the slopes and out of the stream-bed, away it went, careering up the billowy rise to the south, and was presently lost to view a second time behind some castellated rocks along the crest. Three minutes more, and these began to glow along their eastward face with the light of some unseen fire that flared for perhaps a minute somewhere about the hidden base of the group, and then, far away to the southeast, far out among the buttes and knolls in the heart of the range, there was a sudden flash of brilliant light, just as though some one had touched off in front of a reflector a pound or so of rifle powder. The hills for one second were lighted up, then as suddenly relapsed into gloom. The blaze at the ledge so close at hand was promptly doused, and the night rolled on, calm, placid, and unbroken.
When the first streak of dawn crept into the orient sky, Barclay's shadowy scouts were issuing from the San Saba on the farther side and halting for the coming of the main body. Neither those who led the advance nor those out on either flank, where flankers were at all possible, had seen a sign of outlaw, cowboy, even of human being, outside their own array. Not only had the Friday gang vanished from the neighborhood of the Pass, but, what was most mysterious, not a sign had appeared of paymaster or escort, who were due at Crockett's early this very morning. Brooks, picking out the lightest rider in his weary column, sent him on the liveliest horse to warn Pennywise and his escort, provided he could find him at the San Saba camp, of what had taken place, notify him that they would here await his coming, and meantime ordered dismount, unsaddle, and graze, and in two minutes every charger was divested of his load, and many of them were kicking and rolling on the turf.