At intervals of several paces, as they could best find points from which to see without being seen from the northern side, the little detachment lay sprawled along the crest, the brown barrels of the carbines well forward. Graham and Connell, peering through their field-glasses, their elbows resting on the turf, were side by side about the centre. Behind them, nearly a hundred paces down the southward slope, stood the horses in an irregular line, a corporal remaining in charge, keenly watching the movements of his superiors, yet keeping constant control of the four horse-holders, who, like himself, remained in saddle. There could be no telling what moment they might be needed.
For an odd and perplexing situation was this in which the young commander was placed. Ordered to follow back the trail of the fugitive hunters to the point where they claimed to have been "jumped" by hostile Indians; ordered to find, if possible, the remains of the victims, men and horses, and of the burned wagon and "outfit"; ordered also to search for signs by which the assailants might be discovered, the command had come suddenly in sight of a wagon and horses that answered the description of those said to have been destroyed, and if that wasn't a white man driving them, both binoculars were at fault.
But what did it mean that the captors should be coming southwestward with their booty? Why had they not burned the wagon? They could never use it at the reservation. Many young men, of course, were out and afield with the ghost-dancers, but the elders, the native police, and the agent would quickly hear of it, and trouble would follow for somebody. George Sword, Sioux chief of police and stanch adherent of General Crook—"Wichahnpi Yahmni" (Three Stars), as they called him whom so long the Sioux had honored, and whom now they were so deeply mourning—George Sword was a man who did his duty well; Geordie, as a boy, had known him, and known how the general trusted him. A wagon like this would be of no more use to the captors than a locomotive; yet here they were, a dozen of them, urging it on, while others of their kind, afar back down-stream, were darting about, little black dots of horsemen scampering over the distant slopes, evidently watching some parties still farther away and invisible to the lurking cavalry.
Could it be that they were trying to repeat an old-time deed of chivalry told to this day of their fathers—restoring lost property to the legitimate owners? Could it be that, knowing the presence of the squadron on the Mini Chaduza, and the probability of the frightened owners having found refuge there, these Indians were now actually driving thither? They were still on their reservation. There was nothing but the fugitives' statement to warrant the belief that the camp had been attacked and burned. There was nothing, in fact, to justify an attack upon the present possessors. They would probably scatter, rush to the reservation, tell their tale to the agent, and the press and the peace societies would presently be flooding the country with columns concerning the murderous onslaught on a friendly people made by a reckless soldiery.
Yet something had to be done, and that right speedily; for now, instead of breasting the long slope, and coming, as at first, straight toward the ridge, the Indians were lashing the leaders in gradual turn to the westward. Now they were skirting the foot of the incline and moving parallel to the ridge, and then it was that Geordie saw the reason. They had made the wide sweep outward in order to circle the head of a ravine which, starting only a few hundred yards out to the left front, went winding deeper and steeper through the "bench" until it finally opened out into the creek bottom a long mile away.
Yes, the whole scheme was evident now. They had captured the camp and the wagon with its contents, and, knowing the difficult country and crossings along the lower Fork, were scurrying with their booty around the great southward bend, hoping to get away to the west, reach the trail of the war-party that had evaded the cavalry, and follow on with their prize. Or else, still keeping within the reservation line, to drive on westward for the valley of the Wounded Knee and their red brethren of the Pine Ridge Agency, the Brulés of old Spotted Tail's (Sinte gleshka's) long famous band.
Yet there, too, this wagon would be a white elephant. Why had they not divided among themselves the simple contents of a hunter's camp outfit, cut loose with the horses, and burned the big vehicle, which they could not use?
Then all in a moment the truth flashed upon Geordie. Years before he had heard of such traffic, heard the fierce denunciation lavished by officers and men upon the miscreants who, for love of gold, would sell to Indians, at fabulous price, the means of murdering their fellow-men. All on a sudden his voice was heard:
"Back to your horses, men! Mount, sergeant, and follow. Come on, Connell! That's why it takes four horses to lug it—that wagon is loaded with lead!"
One minute more and from the lips of one wary Indian, well out on the "bench," went up a shrill whoop of warning. Away up the the grassy incline, from over the ridge and spurring straight for the wagon, now at the head of the ravine, came two lithe young horsemen, riding like the wind, the right hand of the foremost far uplifted in the signal known the plains over—to halt. Behind these two came an orderly trooper full gallop. Behind these three, presently, there popped into view a score of slouch-hatted, blue-bloused, sturdy dragoons, and with many a screech of wrath and disgust, away went the last of the Sioux, scooting for the shelter of the creek bank beyond. Shoot they longed to, yet dare not. The word had not yet gone forth. The medicine-men still said nay. The time was not yet ripe. A few days more must they suffer until Si Tanka and his braves were met, until, in overwhelming force, they could turn on the scattered and helpless settlers. That was easier warfare than fighting soldiers, and counted for just as much in scalps and glory. Away they went to the cotton-wood bottom, and one wellnigh exhausted, thoroughly demoralized white man collapsed on the driver's seat, and four sweating, staggering horses pulled up, panting and blowing, and the score of blue-coated riders came thundering on, to rein up in triumph around a silent but obviously excited brace of lieutenants, one of whom simply pointed into the depths of the wagon body. From under a lot of dingy camp equipage peeped out three or four little boxes the soldiery knew at sight. Sergeant Drum spurred alongside and whisked off what was left of the cover, and a dirty blanket or two, and there was a larger box, half filled with magazine rifles. There were ten boxes of Winchester cartridges, one thousand to the box. There was the secret of the "hunter's camp." They had been selling arms to the Sioux.