Pony Tracks

by Frederic Remington

I waited, and a “kid” of the reserves, whom I knew, greeted me and explained. “They are in the depot, and we are going to carry it by storm in a minute.”

Again the Hotchkiss went, and “Come on!” rang the order as the men moved forward. It was the captain, and he wanted me to “wait a minute,” so, thinks I, I will wait near him; and pulling my bicycle into a dark doorway, I waited along by the captain, near the head of the procession. As we moved out from the protection of the street the report of a Hotchkiss nearly threw me from my pins, and then we ran silently under a rather hot fire from the windows and doorways. I heard the balls strike—a dull slap—and a man stumbled forward ahead of me and dropped. I sprang over him, and was soon out of fire, and with the little column passed through the big doorway under which I had so often passed with my gripsack and on the qui vive for a hansom-cab driver. There was a tremendous rattle of fire, the bullets struck the stonework viciously; the hollow pat sounded, and men sank reeling and lay prone under my feet. We piled in and returned the fire. It was all smoke now; nothing distinguishable. “Come on!” came a voice which interlarded itself with the reports, and we went on wildly. We were now out of the smoke, and then I saw, by the light of a fire, figures running. A man fired in our faces. He was sitting up; a bayonet went into him, and he rolled over, clutching his breast with his hands. “The house is on fire!” came the cry, and the infantry continued to discharge on the retreating figures. A great flash lighted everything, and as my senses returned, it came over me “that was a bomb.” I passed my hand over my eyes. The building was on fire. I could see men lying around me breathing heavily and groaning. I got up; a voice said, “Get these men out of here!” “Get these men out of here!” I echoed, as I grabbed a big Irish sergeant, and supporting him under the arms, I strove forward. The living soldiers took hold of the dead and wounded comrades, and bore them back through the smoke and into the street. The station was now on fire, and every one was highly excited, for these bombs made strange work, and were very demoralizing. They did no particular good to the enemy beyond that point, since they did not stop our advance, and they also demoralized the enemy quite as much as ourselves. There seemed to be no further opposition to the troops. I went back to head-quarters, got my horse, and received permission to go with a detachment of cavalry. We pulled out up Michigan Avenue. We were to scout and make a junction with stock-yard troops out to the south of the city or in Washington Park. The moon was going down, and there was no sound but the clattering of the troops and the jingle of the sabres. We passed a large squad of police, with their lanterns, moving out south to protect private residences and arrest prowlers. Ahead of us we heard three revolver-shots, and galloping forward, we were hailed by a voice from a window. “They have been trying to break into my house, catch them; they are running up the street.” The road here was very wide, with two rows of trees in the centre and narrow grass-plots.

“Come on!” shouted the captain, and spurring up, we moved forward.

“There they are, captain: can’t you see them?” spoke the old first sergeant, as he drove his horse forward to the captain’s side.

We rode over the grass-plot, and, sure enough, forms were seen to run up the steps of houses and behind shrubbery.

“Dismount!—shoot them down!” came the command, and the men sprang forward with a rush. A revolver flashed, and was followed by a dozen carbine-balls, and from the blackness of a high front stoop rolled a figure grunting and gasping. Shot after shot rang through the darkness, and the troopers routed the vermin from step and shrubbery, until shortly it ceased.

“Captain, here is Foltz—he’s been shot; and McInerny—he’s shot too.”

I sprang up the steps of a great stone mansion and pounded on the door with the butt of my six-shooter. A window was raised and a head peered out. “What do you want?”

“We are United States cavalry, and we have two wounded men. Open your doors; we want you to put them to bed,” and the window went down with a bang. Shortly the bolts were drawn, the door opened, and an old gentleman with white hair and carrying a lamp appeared.