Thus, in close order, with flags streaming and band playing, as if to attack the other villages down the stream forth from the battle-field and the lodge ashes marched all boldly the Seventh Cavalry.
Away hastened the Indians, to rescue what they could before the merciless Chief with the Long Yellow Hair should strike there also. They went scurrying down the valley, and the most of them disappeared. But the Yellow Hair was wily. When darkness fell, without having attacked the other villages he turned his men about, and on the back trail marched fast until two in the morning. The men without overcoats or haversacks suffered. Colonel West was sent on to meet the wagon train and reinforce it; the rest of the column camped about huge fires, here in the valley of the Washita ere yet the trail veered off for the Canadian, northward.
The Osages hung their captured scalps to a pole in front of their fire, and discharged several volleys over them. Highest of all was hung Black Kettle’s grayed scalp, the prize of the proud young brave Koom-la-Manche.
This shooting, explained California Joe, who knew everything, was done to drive away the spirits of old Black Kettle and the others, who would be hovering about, trying to take their scalps back again.
California Joe was in great glee, and talked constantly.
“Fightin’?” he demanded, for general answer. “Call that fightin? I call it jest reg’larly wipin’ out the varmints. Yes, an’ sich a one as they won’t hev agin, I tell ye. I rather ’spec’ now them Injuns would be powerful glad to call it quits for a spell.”
Joe seemed to be right, for morning broke clear, cold, but peaceful. At noon the wagon-train was met safe and whole. Hurrah for blankets and tents and supplies.
That night California Joe and Jack Corbin rode off with dispatches announcing to General Sheridan the battle of the Washita. ’Twould be a long perilous ride, across the miles of hostile wintry country.
The wounded were doing well. Even Colonel Barnitz, who was thought to be mortally wounded, had survived all the jolting and according to the reports of Doctor Lippincott was likely to recover. Ned’s head of course ached considerably, and he could not blow his bugle or use the eye on the bandaged side, but he was able to ride, and soon would be as good as new—save for the scar. He and Mary had much to talk about.
When Camp Supply was almost in sight, California Joe and Corbin and another scout came riding with answering dispatches from headquarters. Joe and Jack had gone through in thirty-six hours, travelling mostly by night; here they were again.