“Well, as for me, gentlemen, you know how I feel,” spoke young Captain Hamilton, earnestly. “I want the soldier’s death. When my hour comes, I hope that I shall be shot through the heart, in battle.”
By all the low talk, among men as among officers, the approaching battle must be regarded as a serious problem. Nobody might tell how many Indians were housed down below, on their own ground, with plenty of ammunition and food and cover; and no harder fighters could be found than the Cheyennes and the Kiowas.
The Osages, in their war-paint of red, white, black and yellow, sat under blankets and robes, in a circle, murmuring gravely as if they, too, were doubtful of the white chief’s ability. One of them was not in war-paint. His paint all was black, for mourning. The interpreter explained that this warrior had lost his squaw, to the Cheyennes, and that he could not wash off his mourning until he had taken a Cheyenne scalp.
Ned thought much upon the village. It probably would contain some white captives. Among them might be little Mary. He resolved to keep his eyes open for trace of anybody looking as she might look.
[XVI]
“GARRYOWEN” AND “CHARGE!”
While dragged the cold hours, some of the officers threw the capes of their cavalry greatcoats over their heads, and stretched upon the snow, slept. The general, having finished his inspection, did likewise. But the Osages did not sleep; neither did the men of the ranks, now collected closer in groups at their horses’ heads, to keep warm. The stag-hounds, Maida and Blucher, shivered and whined, and curled in a ball.
Beyond, upon the crest of the ridge, an Osage and two of the officers were keeping keen watch upon the unconscious village below.