One week later, in the big, sunshiny assembly room of the old barrack, an impressive scene took place, and a long remembered though very brief trial was brought to an abrupt close. A court-martial was in session at Sidney; the general who commanded the department had himself arrived to look into the condition of affairs about the Indian reservation, and with Captain Charlton had had a long consultation, at the close of which the bearded, kindly-faced brigadier had gone to the hospital with the troop commander, and bending over old Waller as he lay upon the narrow cot, took his hand and talked with him about Five Forks and Appomattox, and then promised him that his wish should be respected. It was a singular wish—a strange thing for a father to ask. Old Sergeant Waller had insisted that his boy should be brought to trial before the court-martial then in session, and convicted or acquitted of the double charge of theft and desertion that had been lodged against him. In vain Charlton represented to him that it was not necessary, nobody believed the stories now; the veteran was firm and positive in the stand he made.
"Everywhere in this department, sir, my boy's name has been held up to shame as a thief and a deserter. There is only one way to clear him; let him stand trial, prove his innocence, and let us fix the guilt where it belongs." And Waller was right.
Who that was in the court room that hot August morning, when the south wind blew the dust-cloud into the post and burned the very skin from the bronzed faces around the whitewashed wall, will ever forget the closing incidents of that trial? At the long wooden table sat the nine officers who composed the court with their gray-haired president at the head, all dressed in their full uniforms, all grave and silent. At the lower end of the table was the keen, shrewd face of the young judge advocate who conducted the entire proceedings. On one side of him, quiet, self-possessed, and patient, sat little Fred, neat and trim as a new pin in his faultless fatigue dress. A little behind the boy was his captain, Charlton, and along the wall, at the end of the room, Colonel Gaines, with his arm still in a sling, and Captain Cross, with his piercing restless eyes and "fighting face." On the other side of the judge advocate stood the chair in which witness after witness had taken his seat and given his testimony, and now at high noon it was empty, and the crowd of spectators, sitting in respectful silence around the room, craned their necks and gazed at the doorway in hushed, yet eager curiosity to see the man whose name had just been passed to the orderly. It was understood that the case for the prosecution depended mainly upon his evidence.
CHAPTER XV.
COURT-MARTIAL.
FIRST SERGEANT GRAHAM had sworn to the disappearance of the money at the Niobrara and the fact that at daybreak the trumpeter had gone with his horse, arms, and equipments. He also told of his belief that he and the men who slept near him that night had been stupefied by chloroform. Two other troopers told of the loss of their money at the same time; the hospital steward from Fort Robinson testified to Fred's[180] coming to him and getting a little vial of chloroform on a forged request from Sergeant Graham. Corporal Watts had positively identified a ten-dollar bill, which was in the trumpeter's possession when he was searched (at his own request) when first accused of the crime, as one stolen from him at the Niobrara. He had had some experience, he said, and had made a record of the numbers; and this record, in a little notebook, was exhibited to the court.
Not once had the defense interposed or asked a question. It was evidently the policy of Fred's advisers to let the prosecution go as far as it chose. And now came the announcement of the name that was most intimately connected with the case, and Sergeant Dawson in his complete uniform strolled into court, removed the gauntlet from his right hand, and holding it aloft, looked the judge advocate squarely in the face and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Then he sat down and glanced quickly around him, but his eyes did not seem to see Fred Waller, nor did they rest for an instant on Captain Charlton, who, tugging at his mustache, looked steadily at the face of his left guide. Then began the slow, painful, cumbrous method by which the law of the land requires military courts to extract their evidence, every question and answer being reduced to writing. Sergeant Dawson gave, as required, his full rank, troop, regiment, and station, but hesitated as to the latter point. "I was left behind at Red Cloud when the troop came away Sunday a week ago, sir, along with Private Donovan, and we were kept there until I got orders to come here with the hospital steward. I just got in this morning, and I'm told the troop is back at the Platte crossing." But the matter of station was of no particular consequence, and the examination proceeded. Yes, he knew the prisoner, Trumpeter Fred Waller, Troop B, and had known him several years before he had enlisted. Told to tell in his own way what he knew of the circumstances that led to the charges against Waller, the witness cleared his throat and began.