“Ah, now, mebbe you’re right, and I think myself the Injuns are treated a bit shabbily, at times,” responded Odell. “There are rascals on both sides. But what would ye do? Save back all this western country jist for the Injun to hunt on? Wan Injun needs about ten square mile o’ territory, and he laves it the same as he found it. The white man takes a half square mile—yes, and much less—and he stays with it and improves it; and twinty white men and their families can live in the space required by wan Injun jist for huntin’ whilst the women do the work.”
“As long as there’s a trail unfenced, when the grass greens in the spring and the willow and cottonwood buds swell, the Injun—and specially the young Injun—will grow uneasy,” quoth Sergeant Henderson. “Spring is war time, summer is visiting time, fall is hunt time. In winter the Injuns are glad to have the Government take care of ’em. We’re pushing two railroads through, whites are getting thicker, Injuns are being bossed by the Government and cheated by traders and crowded by settlers, and they see nothin’ for ’em but to clean the country out—if they can.”
Wild Bill had ridden at canter into the parade ground, and across to headquarters. At the veranda of the general’s house he pulled short, and swung to ground, as if he had been sent for. Then he entered.
When he came out, presently, he was riding away in a great hurry, when the sergeant hailed him, passing.
“What’s the news, Bill?”
“Sharpen your sabres,” spoke Wild Bill, briefly, without drawing rein.
He rode on, and turned into the stage road which led west, up the Smoky Hill River. Evidently he was carrying dispatches to Forts Harker and Hays, the new Seventh Cavalry posts that were guarding the further advance of the Kansas Pacific.
Wild Bill had spoken to the point, as always. He wasted no words. Before the afternoon drill, there had spread through the post like wildfire the word that the Seventh Cavalry must be prepared to take the field, equipped for service, within a fortnight.
This was great news. Old Fort Riley seethed with it. Now in these the days of early March there was a sudden increase of mounted drills long and hard; an effort at target practice with the stubby Spencer repeating carbines—proving that most of the men shot no better than they rode; shoeing of horses and tinkering of wagons at the fort smithy; and grinding of sabers on the post grind-stones.
Passing a grind-stone Ned noticed private Malloy busily engaged in applying the edge of an unusually long sabre. Malloy was the “striker” or officer’s handy-man on duty at the general’s house. He looked up at Ned, and, wiping the perspiration from his brow, grinned. So did the soldier who was turning for him.