They were discussing matters a week later at old Fort Scott, where two little companies of the Fortieth kept watch and ward over the women and children of their many comrades in the field. Barely mid-June now, yet how all plans and projects for the summer had been changed. Guarded by Chrome's "infantry," as his unhorsed troopers were jocularly described, most of the wounded were being carried by short stages into Pawnee Station, where a field hospital had been established. Truman and Sanders were with these, but Winthrop, assuming command of all the cavalry that was available at the forks, had gone on in pursuit of Red Dog's renegade band. With him were Cranston and Davies; with him, too, were Hay and Hastings. Only one officer of the Eleventh remained at Scott, the captain of "A" Troop, in arrest awaiting trial. It was a time of sore anxiety to wives and children, to some two or three sweethearts who had happened there, and they showed it plainly. It was a time of strange suspense and trouble to Captain Devers, but he hid it well. Few men could better have portrayed the chafing, indignant soldier, robbed of the right to lead his men to battle, than did Devers when his comrades took the field. Hastings as first lieutenant went in command of "A" Troop, but Devers had importuned head-quarters with letters and telegrams imploring to be permitted to accompany the column. He asked for only temporary release from arrest. He courted—he demanded the fullest investigation of his every act. He longed to meet his accusers—his defamers, rather, and overthrow them before a jury of his peers, but, as the court could not proceed now until the campaign was over, why hold him chafing here? It was all capital, it was even touching, but it "did not work." The general himself was far away in the distant Big Horn; his adjutant-general could not act, and the lieutenant-general in Chicago would not. Then, as Devers had been in close arrest much over seven days, he demanded "extended limits," which were readily accorded him. When "A" Troop marched away its captain's only solace had been a long, closeted conference with Sergeant Haney, who, as a consequence, had to gallop many a mile to overtake the troop.
The news of Red Dog's escape and the bolt of the Ogallallas from McPhail's bailiwick created consternation at Scott. With the cavalry and all but one company of White's battalion gone from the agency there was ample opportunity, but it had not been foreseen. Then, three days later, by way of Pawnee, came the details of the fierce fighting on the Ska, of Truman's wound and Sanders's, of Chrome's catastrophe, the only humor in the situation being the contemplation of how Captain Canker must have sworn. Then came hurried letters, pencilled in the field, and Leonard himself took hers to Mrs. Cranston, and then went in search of Mrs. Davies, whom he found at Darling's quarters, though Darling was not there. The ladies were at luncheon, and the adjutant contented himself with sending Mira's missive in. There was a letter for Captain Devers in the well-known hand of Sergeant Haney. This was sent him by the orderly. There were others for others, which were duly delivered and brought at least momentary joy, but Mrs. Cranston's eyes were dancing with delight when Leonard met her half an hour later.
"I'm going to Mrs. Davies," she said. "I want to read her what the captain says of her husband's conduct all through that fight of Monday afternoon. He says he never saw anything calmer or braver in his life."
"Yes, I remember our chaplain's indulging in some prognostication to that end," said Leonard, gravely; "but, Mrs. Cranston, did you want to see Mrs. Davies?"
"Why, yes, assuredly."
"Well, she isn't home,—I think you'll find her at Mrs. Darling's."
But Mrs. Cranston's humor changed. She decided to wait and see her later. She did not care to go to Mrs. Darling's; neither, as it transpired, did she care to return home, at least not yet awhile. There were people capable of believing of Mrs. Cranston that she had no especial interest in Mrs. Davies, personally, and no genuine desire to communicate to her the tidings which Mrs. Davies, perhaps, could hardly appreciate. Mira had not once set foot within Mrs. Cranston's door since their return from the cantonment, and there had been next to no intercourse between them, and yet on this almost joyous afternoon Margaret had eagerly seized upon this pretext of leaving Agatha Loomis alone with Mr. Langston, who had returned that very day from some investigation at Kearney and Cheyenne, and, after half an hour with Mr. Leonard, had hastened to her door. He was still in the parlor when the lady of the house came smilingly in an hour later,—she had been visiting Mrs. Leonard the while,—but there was constraint in the air. The boys were out with their ponies. There was no one to entertain him during her absence but Miss Loomis, and Miss Loomis apparently must have failed, for Langston's face had grown ten years older, and the moment Mrs. Cranston left the room, on household cares intent, he must have taken his leave, for when she returned from an inspection of the larder in order to see if it would justify an invitation to stay and dine, the parlor was empty. Langston had gone back to Braska, Miss Loomis to her room. I regret to have to record it of Mrs. Cranston, but during the following week she made more than one effort to induce her friend and kinswoman to say what had happened to put so summary a stop to Mr. Langston's visits, and that she wrote some peppery things to her husband, the captain, in summing up her conclusions; she also looked some, and I fear said some, to Miss Loomis herself, for one day, going suddenly into Agatha's room, she surprised that young lady in the act of packing her trunk. There ensued a scene which neither cared in after-years to say much about. There were tears and reproaches on one side, if not both, but Agatha's determination could not be changed. She had made up her mind to leave Fort Scott, return to Chicago, and go she did,—but not without Mrs. Cranston.
In less than ten days there came a long letter from the captain. He and his troop were destined, he said, to long months of scouting in the distant Northwest. The general had told him as much. They might again have to go to the Yellowstone, and it would be November before he could hope to see the inside of a garrison. "So," said he, "stow away the goods and chattels, leave them with the quartermaster, pack your trunk, and take the boys and Agatha for another visit to the old folks at home,—who are most eager to welcome you." When the Fourth of July came, the Cranston boys, in the added glory of all their experiences at the cantonment, were once more the envied centre of youthful attention at Chicago.
"We will have no more fighting this summer," said he, "for the Indians have scattered," and "C" Troop did not; but there was abundant opportunity for usefulness and distinction for "the prodigy," as Cranston now generally referred in his home letters to Corporal Brannan, whose devoted mother was almost the first to visit Margaret on her arrival and overwhelm her with proffers of hospitality and with questions about her boy. "C" Troop was detailed as escort to the commanding general in a long tour he made to the Yellowstone Park, and the prodigy's letters to that fond mother became more and more a cause for rejoicing. Already had she learned to thrill with pride over the accounts of his bravery and good conduct in the affairs at the agency and the fighting on the Ska, but that, said she, was only as she knew he would behave. From babyhood her boy had been conspicuous among his fellows for absolute fearlessness and desperate courage, and her memory was charged with a wealth of corroborative detail which that of his fellows seemed to have lost. Those who were confidently appealed to were polite and sympathetic, as became them when responding to a social magnate of such prominence and influence, but they looked far from confident and said satirical things when once away from her presence; but then, no one knows how a boy is going to turn out. A few weeks and the general himself would be home, and then, fresh from the contemplation of the soldierly prowess and graces of her son, what could he do less than have him commissioned a colonel or something and ordered in on the staff, and then what store of fatted calves would not be slaughtered in honor of this her son who was lost and was found, and who had returned to her bringing his sheaves with him? If mother-dreams could but come true all men would live and die immaculate, ennobled, magnificently brave, steadfast, and commanding. And far away among the fastnesses of the Yellowstone, living in close communion with nature, in a glorious round of days, full of high health, courage, and hope, with ambition fired, purpose strengthened, with freedom from care or temptation, small wonder was it if Corporal Brannan's letters warranted all her expectations. But those were the halcyon days of cavalry life, not the typical. Our truest heroes are those who bear with equanimity the heat and burden of the long, monotonous round of garrison life with its petty tyrannies, exactions, exasperations, and bear them without a break or murmur. It is a poor, poor soldier who cannot wax enthusiastic on a full stomach—and a good horse—when serving in the field.
But while "C" Troop was doing escort duty, and its captain's wife and little ones were safe at home, "A" Troop, long handicapped by the frailties of its commander and notorious for bad drill, was now striving to win a new name under the lead of Bachelor Hastings and its grim Benedick second lieutenant, whose fair young bride could hardly be said to be safe at Scott, restored to the sympathetic circle of which Mesdames Stone, Flight, and Darling were the guiding stars. Old Pegleg seldom left his piazza now except to go to bed or dinner, and did not much care what was said or done around him so long as he was left in peace. The post surgeon had bolstered him up again, after a few days in bed, so that he could sign papers, and while he retained the nominal command of the garrison, Leonard was its virtual and actual head, for when July came only one detachment of the Fortieth remained with the band as guard.