CHAPTER XX
A CHARGE
David Bond was on his knees in the bed of his wagon, beneath the high board cross. Before him he held an open Bible. But he was not reading. His head was uncovered. His beard was lifted. His eyes closed in prayer. Beside him knelt Squaw Charley, with hands pressed together, as if reverent; with shoulders bent lower than their wont; with shifting, downward look. North of the barracks, on the road that led from the steamer-landing, the two had met in the early hours to say good-by.
Swift on the first hint of coming trouble, the evangelist had made ready for his long journey to the west. Shadrach was shod, his master fitting the plates to the shaggy hoofs. The runners were taken from the green box and replaced by the red wheels. Canned food, salted meat, hardtack, and forage were boxed or sacked at the sutler's. The harness was greased. A new nail was driven home through the base of the sagging cross.
During these preparations, the post joined in an effort to damp the aged preacher's hopes and to check his going. He was needed at Brannon, they said, so that the regiment could be rid of Matthews. His belief that he could talk peace terms to the hostiles was ludicrous. As for the Jamieson women, they were dead, or they would have been returned long since to save the four condemned from hanging. And his own life was to be uselessly endangered. Already, out upon the prairie, Indian scouts were keeping watch. He might be able, though alone and unarmed, to pass them and reach the coulées beyond. But he would only fall into the murderous clutches of the savages swarming there.
David Bond smiled when they argued. His faith was as firm as the bluffs that ramparted the fort, and his old heart was unafraid. With him, against the rest, ranged two men—Robert Fraser and young Jamieson. They believed, as he did, that, knowing the tongue, and having friends among the Sioux, he would be in no peril; that, by now, the captive mother and daughter were on American ground again, and would be given over to his care more readily than to another's; that the arrival of troops before the enemy's camp would be fraught with risk for the defenceless two; and that an attempt to take them by force would be their death-signal.
Colonel Cummings was harrowed by Jamieson's months of anguish and illness, and angered by the indifference and dawdling of the captors in the face of his demand and threat. His heart was set upon punishment, now, not treaty. He felt that he was being played with. And he longed to find the red Sioux and thrash them soundly. A word about the evangelist's trip put him out of patience. He regarded it as futile and rash. Yet he did not forbid it—he dared not. For there was Jamieson's old-young face and whitening head; and a hidden spark of hope that would not die.
He owed it to his conscience and position, however, to discourage David Bond. "There will be sharp fighting this summer," he told him. "A hundred good men like you couldn't stop it. The cause lies too deep, and it is too well founded. In the matter of the women, you will also fail. They did not come as the price of four chiefs. Will they come because you ask for them politely? They won't. And you will be slaughtered."
"Then I shall die in a noble cause," answered the preacher, simply. "The Indians know me. I am their friend. I have spent my life with them, taught them, advised, converted. What is all my labour worth, Colonel, if I cannot go among them in times of distress?"
"Worth this," said the colonel, "that you should know when to use your common sense. I tell you, you will meet with treachery. Friend, or no friend, this year the Indians are hunting scalps."