CHAPTER XXV.
A SAVAGE OUTBREAK—THE BATTLE OF THE FORTY SCOUTS—THE SURPRISE—PACK-MULES STAMPEDED—DEATH ON THE ARICKEREE—THE MEDICINE MAN—A DISMAL NIGHT—MESSENGERS SENT TO WALLACE—MORNING ATTACK—WHOSE FUNERAL?—RELIEF AT LAST—THE OLD SCOUTS' DEVOTION TO THE BLUE.
On our return to Sheridan we were deeply pained to hear of the sad death of Doctor Moore and Lieutenant Beecher, whose acquaintance we had formed at Fort Hays, and the former of whom we had learned to esteem most highly as a personal friend. A scouting party, not long before, had left the post just named, under the command of General Forsythe, of Sheridan's staff, and composed principally of those citizens who had seen frontier service. Dr. Moore accompanied it as surgeon, and Lieut. Beecher—a nephew of Henry Ward Beecher, and an officer of the regular army—held the position of chief of scouts, which he had filled for some time previously with much credit. The savages of the plains being again upon the war-path, that brave and well-organized little party of fifty were dispatched to pursue a band of Indians, which had appeared before Sheridan and run off a lot of stock.
Some of the scouts were now in the town, and from one of them we obtained an account of the expedition. Fresh from the mouth of that sandy hell in the river's head, which had sucked out the life-blood of so many of his companions, I wish my readers could have heard the story told with the rude eloquence in which he clothed it. As it is, how nearly they will come to doing so, must perforce depend on how nearly I can remember his language.
"You see, captain," he began (it is considered impolite among this class ever to address one without using some title), "we had the nicest little forty lot o' scouts that ever followed the plains fur a living, and trails fur an Injun. Thar wur ingineers, doctors, counter-jumpers, and a few deadbeats, but every one of 'em had lots of fight, and not the least bit of scare. Ther talents run ter fightin', an' ther bodies never run away from it.
"It wur kinder curious, though, to see the chaps that wur not bred ter ther business git along. They wur the profession folks. Some had a little compass, not much bigger 'n a button, that they carried on the sly. Good scouts don't need no such fixin's. These uns 'ud reach inter ther pockets, as if they was going ter take a chaw o' terbaccer, and gettin' a sly wink at ther needle, would cry out ter ther neighbors, 'I say, hoss, we 're goin' a little too much east of north!' or, 'I tell yer what, fel, we 're at least two p'ints off our course.' And all ther time they couldn't have told south from west, without them needles. But ther warn't a coward in the whole pack. Every one had a back as stiff fur a fight as a cat.
"We struck a large Injun trail the fourth day out, and kept it till evenin', but no other sign showed itself over ther wide reach that would have told a livin' bein' had ever bin thar before us. Next mornin', early, ther was a sudden fuss among our horses, and a cry from the guard, and, afore we knew it, eight pack-mules had been stampeded, and driven off. It wur a narrow call fur ther whole herd.
"The fellers had come down a ravine until they got close enough, and, then suddenly rushin' along in the grayness, set the mules inter a crazy run, and gathered 'em up, out of gun-shot. You may lick a pack-mule along all day, and be afraid he 'll drop down dead, and yet give him a fair chance to stampede, and he 'll outrun an elk, and grow fat on it.
"Stock and Injuns was both out of sight in a jiffy, and the order was given to saddle, and recapture. We were just raisin' inter ther stirrups, when some of the boys called out, and we saw the whole valley ahead of us filled with Injuns comin' down. Ther warn't no mules lost just then, and we kinder fell back onto a sort of high-water island in the Arickeree. That, yer know, is the dry fork of the Republican. Bein' low water then, as it is most of the time thar, nothin' but a dry bed of sand was on each side.