The Pawnees returned, in high feather like a lot of boys themselves. They certainly were fighters. Major Frank M. North, a white man, was their commander. He had lived among them, and spoke their language, and they’d follow him to the death. He had enlisted four companies—drilled them as regular cavalry, according to army regulations; they were sworn into the United States Army as scouts, and were deadly enemies to the Sioux and the Cheyennes. The Sioux and Cheyennes feared them so, that it was said a company of North’s Pawnees was worth more than a regiment of regular soldiers. When these Pawnees sighted an enemy, they simply threw off their clothes and waded right in.
The two companies, A and B, made camp on the plains, a little distance off, near the Platte River. Major North and Chief Petalesharo—who was the war-chief and son of old Petalesharo, known as “bravest of the braves”—cantered forward to the track. The major wore buckskin and long hair, like a frontiersman. Petalesharo wore army pants with the seat cut out, and the legs sewed tight, same as leggins.
“Take any hair, major?” was the call.
“Yes; there are three or four fresh scalps in the camp yonder. But most of the beggars got away too fast.”
“Say, Pete! Heap fight, what?”
Petalesharo smiled and grunted, with wave of hand.
“He says the Sioux ponies have long legs,” called Major North. “Where’s the general? He was here, wasn’t he?”
“Yes; he’s up ahead, with the graders.”
The major—young and daring and very popular—rode on with Chief “Pete,” as if to report to General Dodge.
They all came back together, after a time—and the newly laid track was advancing to meet them. Already the boarding-train had moved up a notch. The Pawnees from the camp were scattered along, watching the progress. The way with which the white man’s road grew, before their eyes, seemed to be a constant marvel to them.