“Colonel West’s company, sir, confused in the mist. They mistook our Sibley tents for Indian tipis, and were about to charge us.”
“Plucky enough!” commented the general. “But West won’t hear the last of this, for some time.”
When, toward evening, Colonel West returned, with his weary company, he reported that there was no hope. The Indians had struck the stage line, and raiding right and left had crossed it. Probably all the bands and tribes to the north would be aroused. This was war.
Now the wagons had rolled in. To the bugles the Seventh Cavalry grimly buckled on its sabres, and bridled and saddled.
“Prepare to mount! Mount!”
They mounted.
“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!”
Across the valley of the Smoky Hill they soberly jogged, their wagons lumbering in their rear, for the stage route, and the frightened stations. Presently they might turn east, upon the well-worn wagon-trail, to follow it to Fort Hays.
The first two stage stations were silent and abandoned. Along the route was not a sign of life. The advance of the fleeing Cheyennes and Sioux seemed to have swept the country clean. About the deserted appearance of the valley was something ominously quiet. But the third station was occupied.
A little cheer arose from it as the column rode in; and a group of stablemen and drivers stood out, to welcome. They were heavily armed, and log stables and station house, under their sod roofs, were tightly closed as if for a siege. At this point four stations had gathered in mutual protection.