“That be Wild Bill,” he said, speaking guardedly. “’Tis the name he likes best. He’s chief scout for the general, and peace-keeper all ’round, for he’s boss o’ Riley, I tell ye. Six-foot two he stands in his socks; ye can span his waist with your hands. Quickest shot with the pistol I ever saw; chain lightnin’ can’t beat him. But you wouldn’t think he was such a tarrer, to speak with him. And when he’s mad he doesn’t talk much louder or say much more; yet you bet wan word and wan look from him be plinty to make the worst badman on the trail calm down and say, ‘Certainly, Bill. Excuse me, Mr. Hickok.’ He served in the Kansas troubles before the War, when the free-soil men and the slavery men were makin’ the border a red-hot place. He was a Union scout out here durin’ the War, too, and fought at the battle o’ Pea Ridge down in Arkansas. Wan time, in Sixty-wan, alone in a room he was attacked by ten border-ruffians, hand to hand, and when it was over they were all dead and he was ’most dead with eleven buckshot in him and thirteen other wounds.”
“Is he a soldier now?” queried Ned, awed.
“Nope; not what you might call a reg’lar soldier. He’s a border-man—a frontiersman. Some might call him a disperado, behind his back; and some a gambler; but anyway, he’s got the bravery and the nerve, and his word is good as gold, and that’s the kind o’ men needed out in this country.”
They rode on, while Ned pondered over the character of the terrible Wild Bill Hickok. He had appeared as such a mildly speaking, gentlemanly individual, that Bugler Odell’s description did not seem to fit.
“The Sivinth Cavalry be gettin’ its share o’ good men,” resumed Bugler Odell, confidentially. “Yon captain—he’s a foine wan, and a great joker. Captain Hamilton, I mean. Sure, he’s a lieutenant-colonel, from the War; but he ranks as captain o’ Reg’lars, by appointment to the Sivinth. His grandfather was a big man by the name o’ Alexander Hamilton. Ah, the Sivinth be officered entirely by generals and colonels and majors; and titles be so thick they make your head swim. I’m only plain sergeant, but some o’ the enlisted men be generals, by courtesy, as ye’ll find out.”
“Right you are,” agreed the lance-corporal. “The War left many a man with soldierin’ as his only job.”
Wild Bill was an accurate scout, for as the sun was setting they all sighted directly ahead, high upon a table-land backed by hills, an irregular group of buildings, the windows flashing above the level dun expanse below. Between were trees, marking a stream.
“There’s Riley,” announced Bugler Odell, pointing. “Below is the Smoky Hill Fork o’ the Republican, and the line o’ cottonwoods runnin’ to north’ard be the Republican itself. The post sits in the elbow o’ the two, where they join and make the Kaw or Kansas.”
As they approached Ned gazed curiously. The post made quite a showing, and everybody in the column seemed glad to be getting back. Now the flag-staff of the post, with the colors still floating, showed clearly. The general stirred restlessly in his saddle, as if eager to shorten the distance. The dogs, which had been ranging far and wide, galloped further ahead, and further, anon halting to look hopefully behind them and see that the column were surely coming on.
Suddenly across the rosy-purple glow making lovely the flat landscape, wafted high and sweet the notes of a bugle at the post. All the column listened—or appeared to listen.