Buffalo Bill's Boy Bugler; Or, The Last of the Indian Ring

by Prentiss Ingraham

These women had found solace in raising vegetables and flowers, for water was always plentiful in the pool and of good quality. The younger had gone much among the Indians, but the elder had never left the walled-in space and only on rare occasions had she climbed the rocks to the top, to view the world beyond. She had learned, during her captivity, many of the Indian methods of treating the sick and wounded, and, discarding the fanatical and appeals to the elements, the use of prayer-sticks, etc., she was skilled in the selection of herbs, and raised them in the beautiful little garden which thrived nearly all the year.

For several days at least two of the women always hung over the cot of the wounded lieutenant, while the other slept. With cool water, fans, and aperient drinks, they kept the fever down, and at the end of a week Lieutenant Avery was on the road to recovery.

And then began as strange a life as a soldier probably ever enjoyed, for Lieutenant Avery did enjoy it. Indeed, how could he help it? With his bride ever at his side and his every wish anticipated, who can blame him if his period of convalescence was somewhat prolonged. At times little pangs of conscience pricked the young officer, who felt that the small force at the old fort needed him in these troublous times. But he was soon enticed to wait yet a little while until he was stronger, and his numerous wounds should give him less of pain and weakness.

Later the strength of the young man began to come back and with it a desire for activity. He busied himself in the garden and improved the crude tools of wood which they used in the cultivation of the soil. He enlarged the area cultivated, and, with the ever-present Dot and the other young woman almost constantly with them, they watched the growth of every flower and bud.

At evening the quartette spent many happy hours, the lieutenant and his wife telling the others about the wonders of the great outer world, and in turn enjoying the tales of the red-skinned people and their manners and customs.

The Cheyennes had given the child prisoner the name of Little Moonbeam, but the woman, who said her name was Mrs. Sherley, called the girl Mona, the name of one of her own dead daughters.

The Indians had accepted the name Mona as the white man’s short for Moonbeam and had not objected to Mrs. Sherley’s adoption of it. Thus the girl was called Mona, and the Averys immediately affixed Sherley for a surname, in honor of the motherly soul who had been robbed of all that was dear to her.

At the top of the mountain in some of the clear, moonlit evenings, Mona sang in her marvelous voice to the others, and Mrs. Dot, with tears in eyes, said it was no wonder the simple red folk worshiped the girl. They were songs of the old frontier days, and hymns that had been taught her by Mrs. Sherley; and to these the girl had added some of the mythical verse of the Indians, for which she had improvised quaint and weird airs that lent rare enchantment to them, especially to the savages themselves.

The lieutenant and his wife never appeared at the top of the butte until after the keen eyes of Mona had carefully swept the horizon and every part of the plain for signs of Indians. She did not wish to dispel any part of her power over these people of the plains, and wished that the departure of the couple should be as secret as if their lives depended upon it.

In spite of the happy years the girl had spent here, the coming of this young couple had opened up new vistas which she had begun to try and understand. Their stories of the beautiful world beyond, with its love and its tears, awakened new emotions. The love of this girl called Dot, and near her own age, for her handsome warrior husband was a revelation to this physically marvelous flower of femininity. She began to question herself if in the world beyond the plains there was not such love in store for her.