BLUNT turned sorrowfully away and began to pace slowly up and down the bank. Near at hand over a little camp-fire his coffee pot was bubbling and hissing enticingly, but even the aroma of his accustomed morning beverage failed to attract him. What was he to do? What could he do? Ordered to remain there to escort the captain safely to Red Cloud, on his return from the court, it was impossible to pursue.[68] Equally unwise would it be to send a small squad. Waller had taken his life in his hands when he rode away through the night, but he could cross the Rawhide and be in comparative safety, so far as the Indian attack was concerned, by sunrise of this day. Now that daylight had come, Blunt well knew that every stretch of prairie from the Platte to the White River would be thoroughly searched by keen and eager eyes, and death would be the very least that any small party of whites could expect. He knew perfectly well that already he and his little troop were being closely scrutinized from the distant ridges. Had he not seen in the tepees of the Cheyennes, but the week[69] before, as many as three pairs of binocular field-glasses? and had not Colonel Randall told him they knew their use and value as well as anyone? If there was only some way of getting word to Captain Charlton at Laramie. There ran the single wire of the military telegraph, but there was neither office nor station nearer than Red Cloud Agency. No man in the troop would thank him for being ordered to go either way with dispatches, though he knew the order would be obeyed. Silently and gloomily, instead of with their usual cheery alacrity, the men had got to work with their curry-combs and brushes and were touching up their horses while waiting for their own breakfast;[70] and presently Blunt's orderly came forward, holding a tin cup of steaming coffee.
"Won't the lieutenant drink a little of this, sir, and try a bite of bacon? There isn't much appetite in the troop this morning, sir, but it ain't so much because the money's gone. I've known the old sergeant and the boy nigh unto ten years now, sir, an' I never thought it would come to this."
Blunt thanked the soldier and sat down at the edge of the rushing stream, sipping his coffee and trying to think what to do. The drink warmed his blood and cheered him up a trifle. Ordering his horse to be saddled, he mounted and, taking his rifle, rode through the Niobrara and out upon the open prairie on the other side. It was not long before he found the hoof-tracks made the night before, and, without knowing why, he slowly followed them out toward the low ridge at the southwest. For ten minutes he went at a quiet walk and with downward-searching eyes as he reached the road, striving to decide which hoof-prints were made by Waller's horse.
Suddenly, back at camp he heard the ringing report of a cavalry carbine borne on the rising breeze, and, whirling about, saw that they were signaling to him. Putting spurs to his steed he galloped full tilt for the ford, and then for the first time saw the cause of the excitement. Far up on the opposite slope, and jogging easily down toward the troop, came an Indian pony and an Indian rider, but not in war-paint and feathers. As Mr. Blunt plunged through the stream he recognized the young half-breed scout known to all of the soldiers as "Little Bat," and Bat, without a word, rode up and handed him a letter. It was from the commanding officer at Fort Robinson, and very much to the point. It read somewhat as follows:
"Captain Charlton telegraphs that he will be detained several days. Meantime you are needed here, as the Indians are again quitting the reservations in large numbers. Move immediately upon receipt of this."
JOGGING ALONG AT AN EASY PACE.
That evening therefore the little troop once more rode down the valley of the White River, the "Smoking Earth" as the Indians called it, and by sunset were camped at Red Cloud. In much distress of mind Mr. Blunt called upon the commanding officer to tell him of the disappearance of the money and his trumpeter, and to ask the colonel's advice as to the proper course for him to pursue. It was agreed that telegrams should be sent at once to the captain at Fort Laramie and to the commanding officer at Sidney barracks on the railway, notifying them of the crime and the desertion. Blunt begged for a moment's delay until he could hear from Sergeant Graham, whom he had sent to make certain investigations, and long before tattoo the sergeant came—and with him the hospital steward.
"Lieutenant, the store-keeper says he sold just such a handkerchief as that to Trumpeter Waller last week, and the steward can tell about the chloroform."