At two o'clock Charlton's troop was in saddle, with only three familiar faces missing from the line. In the new excitement the men had ceased to speak of Trumpeter Fred. What puzzled them now was the absence of Dawson and Donovan. A sergeant sent into the garrison, to warn them that the troop was to march at once, came back to say that he had searched every stable and corral; the horses were nowhere about the post or the Agency stores, and men on guard said that they had seen the two troopers riding away down White River soon after one o'clock, and they had not come back. And when Graham reported them absent to Captain Charlton, as the latter in his familiar scouting costume rode out to take command, the whole troop was amazed that their leader seemed to treat it as a matter of no consequence whatever. He returned the sergeant's salute and inquired:
"Every horse fed and watered?"
"Yes, sir."
"Every man got two days' hard bread and bacon?"
"Yes, sir."
"How much ammunition?"
"Eighty rounds carbine per man—twenty revolver, sir."
"Very good, sergeant;" and this brief colloquy ended, the sergeant reined about and rode to the right flank. "Prepare to mount—mount!" ordered the captain. "Form ranks!" and without further delay, "Fours right—march!" and away they went up the lonely valley, along the winding water, breaking into columns of twos and riding "at ease" the moment they had passed the point where the post commander and a little knot of officers had assembled to bid them God-speed. Captain Charlton bent down from his saddle to grasp the colonel's extended hand and whisper a few words in his ear. The colonel nodded appreciatively. "They can't escape," he answered low, and then, watched by friendly eyes in that little group until out of sight, and by fierce and lurking spies until darkness shrouded them from view, the troop rode jauntily on its mission; Charlton and Blunt in murmured consultation in the lead, and forty-eight stalwart troopers confidently and unquestioningly following in their tracks. Who cared that an all-night ride through Indian-haunted wilds was before them? It was an old, old story to every man.
Were there "ghost lights" on the Niobrara that night? The Indian spies could swear by the deeds of their ancestors that the troop soon climbed out of the valley of the White River and rode briskly southward by the Sidney trail, and that every man was in his place in column when they wound down in the "Running Water" flats at twilight. Yet hours afterward, far to the west, miles away at the Laramie crossing, there were twinkling, dancing, "firefly" gleams—like will-o'-the-wisps—through the chinks and loop-holes of that old log hut, and when morning came the ground was stamped with a fresh impress of half a dozen set of hoof tracks—shod horses, not Indian ponies this time.
It must have meant "bad medicine" for the Sioux, for when morning came all the bands that had been so confidently raiding the trails through the settlements found themselves compelled to seek the shelter of their reservations. From Laramie to Sidney the stalwart infantry came marching to the scene, and from east, north, and west the cavalry came trotting, troop after troop, to hem in and head them off. The very band that ventured south of the Platte and killed in cold blood those helpless teamsters, and then sought the destruction of Gaines and his men, fleeing now before Wallace's troops, were met and soundly thrashed by our friends of Company B, with Captain Charlton and Lieutenant Blunt in the lead, and by Monday night the broad valley was clear of savage foes, the cavalry were resting by their bivouac fires, and then, from the lips of Captain Wallace, Charlton heard the story of Fred Waller's exploit, and of the long gallop that brought about the rescue of Colonel Gaines. Our captain could hardly wait for morning to come, but in two days more he was standing by the bedside of his old sergeant at Sidney barracks, and Trumpeter Fred was there too.