But no one else cared what Canker wanted. All eyes were on Cranston and his troop. Quickening the pace he led the way, keeping in fours until clear of the head of column, then rapidly forming line. "Now, Davies, just keep them so," he ordered, as he rode diagonally over in front of the first platoon, "while I gallop ahead and get a peep over that ridge."
Another minute and, curveting with impatience even after their twenty-mile spurt, the handsome bays were dancing in one long line over the springy turf, Davies and two stalwart sergeants in front of the three platoons. They saw their soldierly leader whip off his hat as he rode up the slope, rein cautiously in and peer eagerly over, saw him gesticulating as he conferred with old Hawk, who lay on his stomach a dozen yards farther to the front and to the right, where the ridge was a little higher. Every man knew that just ahead of him, over that curtain, lay in overwhelming force the mass of their red enemies. Not one of their rank had yet set eyes on the point of attack. Not one man knew how many lodges, much less how many braves, would leap into view the instant they went bounding over the crest; yet not a soul faltered, for, turning with confident, eager mien, their captain signalled come on, and Davies ordered "Trot!"
"It's all right, lads," cheerily rang Cranston's voice, as he rode circling down to place himself at their head. "The ground's open and level. We can go through like a blizzard. Draw pistol! Now, not a sound till I say charge, but take the pace from me."
Up the gentle slope they go, many horses already plunging and tugging at their bits, the glorious excitement of the rider communicating itself, as it must and will where horse and man are in sympathy. Right behind Cranston rides his second sergeant commanding the second platoon, the streaming guidon, lowered still, a little to his left and rear. Already the men are opening out a trifle, for this is to be no charge upon serried masses of disciplined troops, no crash of cavalry upon cavalry, where the line which rides with the greater impetus, the closer touch, the more accurate alignment, hurls the greater shock and weight upon the foe. Here no naked sabre flames in air,—a useless blade in Indian battle,—but all through the plunging rank are keen old campaigners whose eyes blaze from underneath the slouching hat brims, whose muscular brown hands grasp the pistol butt, who ride with close gripping thighs, for well they know that once over the crest, "gallop" and "charge" will follow in quick succession, and there will be but an instant in which to see and think or plan. Indeed, from a cavalry point of view it really is not a charge at all, not even a charge as foragers, but rather a wild dash into and through a straggling, swarming village of Indian lodges, every man for himself when once turned loose, the whole object being to carry terror, panic, and confusion to the half-waking warriors, and so cover the major's main effort, which is to whirl away with him every pony in the valley. This done the red renegades are crippled for good and all, and their outbreak is at an end.
All eyes are on Cranston's gallant troop then as it goes sweeping up the gentle slope. Already Truman's men are galloping front into line so as to follow and support. Already Chrome is spurring eagerly forward to watch the effect. Already Canker, grim, cynical, dissatisfied, but obedient, is launching his leading troop well over to the right front, at swift gallop, too, so as to head off such fugitives—Indians or ponies—as may attempt to scurry away westward; but still the eyes of all men seem to follow Cranston, for his, after all, is the perilous part. Already Thunder Hawk and Bear have run back down the slope to leap into saddle, for the earth begins to quiver and shake under the bounding hoofs, and with another moment all the valley will wake to the ringing battle-cry. "My God!" mutters little Sanders, lunging along after his major, "why ain't I with my own instead of loafing here?"
And now they see Cranston glancing back over his shoulder and carrying hand to holster. Up like a centaur he bounds against the sky line, up after him the long rank of ragged hat brims and blue-shirted, broad-belted, manly forms, up the plunging line of hard-tugging bays, their black tails streaming in the morning wind, and then Cranston's arm flings up aloft; up into plain view streams and flaps the silken guidon,—the stars and stripes in swallow-tailed miniature that the troopers loved to see,—and then the thud gives way to thunder, for as one man "C" troop strikes the gallop with the thronging Indian village not five hundred yards ahead.
Scattered over the low level between the receding bluffs and the rapid stream, loosely covering a stretch of nearly half a mile along the shores, with their ragged crown of pole tops wrapped in smoky hide or canvas, their spreading bases littered with the rude crates, "parfleches" and travois, some fourscore Indian wigwams burst into view as the line darts over the crest. "Oh, murther! Six to wan at least," gasps an old growler in the right platoon, and Davies whirls about in saddle. "Silence there, Donovan!" is all he says.
And now can be seen wild scurry and confusion. Four or five dingy forms dart in and out among the tepees. Three or four Indian boys are lashing in from the almost countless herd of ponies. Startled by the tremor and thunder, the nearest of these sturdy little beasts, with tossing heads and manes, have taken alarm, and are already beginning an aimless scamper that in another moment will spread to the entire flock. Not a moment to lose, indeed! One more backward glance does Cranston fling as his magnificent bay quickens his stride, and the long line instantly responds. One half nod, half smile to Davies, for the Parson rides like moss trooper of old, with grim set face, despite the eager light in his keen, blue-gray eyes.
"Open out now a little, men! Gently, keep your rank!" for the chargers are tugging madly, straining for a race. A terrified squaw, clasping her baby to her breast, bursts from the nearest tepee, pauses one instant as though paralyzed, and then, with unerring instinct, holding her little one on high, runs straight forward, mutely appealing, straight for the galloping line. "Open out! Look out for the kid! Let her through, lads," are the low, hurried cautions. Somewhere on the near skirt of the village a wild war-whoop rings out on the air, a mad cry of warning, then bang, zip, comes the first shot from the tepees, whistling over Cranston's shoulder and skimming a mile away down-stream. No need of further caution now. Now is the time. Cranston's voice rings like the bugler's clarion mingling in the order "Charge!" and the welkin rings, the rocks re-echo to the grand burst of cheers with which "C" Troop goes tearing, thrashing into the heart of the village, swallowed up instantly in a dense cloud of dust. For a moment cheer and yell and rallying and war-cry, mingling with the thunder of hoofs and the sharp crackling of revolver and rifle, drown all other sounds. Then the screams of Indian women and children add to the clamor, and, with slashing knives, the startled braves hew their way out through the tepees. Then the thunder is swelled by the mad rush of the pony herd away from the driving storm. The cheer is renewed by Canker's men, yelling and hat waving at the heels of the herd. The dust-cloud in the village is but a flimsy veil to the dense volume that goes floating skyward and southward, for practised hands have prevailed, and the red man's most precious possessions, all but a scattered few stampeding to and fro among the wigwams, are swept from his maddened sight.
And then comes the rally on the flats beyond. Sweeping and circling in the effort to control their excited horses, the troopers, exultant, come reining up into line long pistol-shot south of the terror-stricken village. Off to the west the great dust-cloud is slowly settling to earth, and through it Truman's men, in perfect order, with carbines advanced, can be seen moving by the flank, but interposing ever between the village and the captured herds. Cranston, easily reining his pawing charger, sits facing the reforming centre of his panting line. The guidon-bearer is there all right and waves aloft the fluttering folds, and the boy trumpeter tries to sound the recall, but makes a mess of it, and throws the forming rank into convulsions of unrebuked chaff and laughter. The captain is proud of his men and unbends for the occasion, but, all the same, he eagerly counts the files, looking for this familiar bearded face or that. Both sergeant platoon commanders are there. The second and third platoons re-form without much delay and with hardly a missing face. It's the first that proves to be the last. They had to charge through the thickest part of the village,—the westward side, where more Indians were awake and alert, roused by the cries of the herd guards. The dust-cloud is still settling. Galloping forms still issue from it and the western skirts of the village, from the clumps of Cottonwoods, from under the banks, whither the mad dash of some horses had carried their riders. But Cranston's face loses its smile, a world of anxiety suddenly replaces it, for shots and yells ring from the midst of the village still, and the chief of the first platoon is not here to rally his men.