The flash of good spirits which blazed momentarily at the station soon died out. Everybody seemed disposed to silence. We were all busy, straining our eyes, watching for Indians.
Ten miles passed thus without other conversation than monosyllabic remarks. From the top of a “divide,” we now looked upon the charred and smouldering relics of Cypress Station. We stopped and reconnoitred carefully before descending. There were no Indians to be seen. Having descended the Hollow in which the station had stood, we found the tracks very fresh. The lieutenant, the sergeant, and the conductor, attended by the writer (through curiosity rather than bravery), alighted and examined the ground. The Indians had destroyed everything they could lay hands on outside of the redoubts or “dug-outs.” These they had not dared to enter. The rough “bunks” of undressed timber used by the guards were untouched. In one was found a water-keg, and in the other a woollen blanket, left in the hurry of departure, but which no Indian could have seen and not appropriated to his own use and benefit.
“The Indians are afraid of those ‘dug-outs’ even when unoccupied,” said the lieutenant. “They do not like to go near them—much less enter them. They fear a trap of some kind. An Indian always strives to keep his lines of retreat open; he wants a good chance to run away. Indians have been known to watch about abandoned stations for days before daring to go within rifle-range of the ‘dug-outs.’”
Within four miles of Sandy Station, a spur sweeping semicircularly from a high bluff to the north nearly touches the road on that side, while the great bend of the Big Dryasdust cuts into it on the south. The lowland to the west of the spur is entirely concealed from the view of the traveller. This was a favorite place for Indian ambuscades, and we approached it with great caution. After crossing the bridge the driver said to the conductor:
“Ain’t that Mac’s pony out yonder?”
“Let’s see!” said the conductor, taking the field-glass and adjusting it. “Pull up a minute, Joe! I can’t see with this outfit while the coach is moving. Now, then! By the law, sir, that there’s Mac’s pony! He acts mighty strange, too. He is either lamed or hobbled. No! by gracious! he’s not hobbled. He’s saddled, too! He’s wounded, sir! You may bet your bottom dollar!”
“Drive over to him and see,” said the lieutenant.
The coaches were driven to where the pony was on the prairie, about a mile from the road. The lieutenant jumped out.
“Gentlemen!” said he, “this is more Indian work.”
And so it was. The pony had one bullet-hole through the near foreshoulder. A second ball had struck it on the lower jaw, and turned a portion of it with the teeth over on the tongue, which was held as in a vice. The poor animal seemed to suffer intensely. It was proposed to shoot it to end its suffering, but the proposition was not agreed to.