CHAPTER XVII[ToC]
THE WAR-DANCE AND THE CHARGE
With two days' cooked rations in their saddle-bags now, with a line of hearty appreciation from Major Berry and renewed instructions to go ahead, with a dozen more men than he had at the start, and the best wishes of his temporary commander, Geordie Graham had pushed on again northeastward down the right bank of the Fork. Waiting until the party was fairly out of sight over the far-distant "divide," and watching meantime the movements of the still remaining Indians in the timber, Captain Garrett finally put his puny command in march for the Mini Chaduza, bringing the wagon and the now semi-restored charioteer along. Five of Gunnison's pack-mules, sent on with the troop, had so lightened the wagon of its load that the lately abused horses, given a good feed of oats and a swallow of water, were able to trundle it lightly along. With another day it was started under escort for Niobrara, its late owners, cursing their fate, unwilling passengers inside.
It was late afternoon when the two halves of "F" Troop lost sight of each other, the captain going, grumbling, back to the main body with a much disappointed command; the subaltern riding swiftly away down the widening valley, with an exultant platoon at his back, all hands rejoicing that theirs was the first capture of the campaign. Parallel with them, afar across the stream, darting from cover to cover and keeping vigilant watch, rode half a dozen redskins. Most of their brethren, by this time, were far away toward Eagle's Nest, in quest of the main body. These few were charged with the duty of keeping track of the little troop, in order to be able to report exactly the direction in which it was going and that no pursuit was intended. This definitely settled, they, too, galloped away, and the valley, so far as Geordie could judge, was now free of red riders.
The sun was low in the west. The wagon-tracks still led on. The night was near at hand, and the troopers in advance had seen no sign of a camp. Ten miles, at least, had they marched, and, avoiding a deep westward bend of the stream, the trail now led them over a low ridge, from whose crest the scouts signalled, "Nothing in sight."
Yet, a few minutes later, Graham and Connell, dismounting there the better to scour the country with their glasses, were seen by the main body to spring to their feet and then to saddle, Graham facing toward them and with his hat signalling, "Change direction half left," whereat Sergeant Drum, riding steadily along perhaps four hundred yards behind his young commander, simply turned his horse's head in the direction indicated, left the wagon-track, and silently his comrades followed. "They've found it," said Drum, and found it they had.
Though the wheel-marks still held to the northward, and the three troopers far in the lead had seen nothing as yet worthy of special report, the strong lenses of the signal-glass had told their own story.
"Look yonder, Connell, in that clump of cotton-woods beyond the low point," were Graham's words as he sprang to his feet. "See those black things in the timber? They're buzzards!"
Five minutes later the corporal, too, was signalling, he and his men at a halt. They, too, had made discoveries: the track, as it later developed, of two shod horses pursued by shoeless Indian ponies. Southeastward this trail went up a long, shallow ravine, then veered round to the south. It told of fugitives and, for a time, of pursuers. Ten minutes after the first discovery, down in the sandy bottom and close to the stream, the officers caught sight of a brace of prairie wolves, skulking away from the timber, among the branches of which some grewsome birds were flapping and fluttering, while two or three sailed slowly overhead. Presently the riders came in view of a little scooped-out shelter where the sand was all torn by hoofs, and herein lay the poor remains that served as confirmation of the driver's story—all that was left, as was soon determined, of poor Gamble, one of the most feared and fearless men of the Western frontier.
Shot twice, and from behind, he had managed to gallop a few hundred yards up-stream, and then, weak from loss of blood, had toppled out of saddle, crawled to this hollow, and presently died. Half a mile farther down-stream the camp site was found, hoof and moccasin tracks in myriads about it, camp-kettles and débris still scattered around, empty cans, sacks, and boxes flung at the edge of the stream. Here, evidently, the traders had spent two or three days, and here, there, and everywhere were fragments of pasteboard cartridge-cases. A thriving industry, this, until suddenly swooped upon by Gamble, who paid for his discovery with his life. Here, then, was closed one chapter of the hunters' tale. But what had become of their partner? What had broken up their camp and driven them, terror-stricken, from the reservation?