ON THE PLAINS WITH
CUSTER

SECOND EDITION

[AND NOW AT FULL SPEED PASSING NED ALSO HE LEANED, INDIAN-WISE]

ON THE PLAINS
WITH CUSTER

THE WESTERN LIFE AND DEEDS OF THE CHIEF WITH THE YELLOW HAIR, UNDER WHOM SERVED BOY BUGLER NED FLETCHER, WHEN IN THE TROUBLOUS YEARS 1866–1876 THE FIGHTING SEVENTH CAVALRY HELPED TO WIN PIONEER KANSAS, NEBRASKA, AND DAKOTA FOR WHITE CIVILIZATION AND TODAY’S PEACE

BY

EDWIN L. SABIN

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES H. STEPHENS
AND PORTRAITS

“The bravest are the tenderest,—
The loving are the daring.”

—Bayard Taylor

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1913

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

TO THE ARMY WOMEN

MOTHERS, WIVES, AND SWEETHEARTS WHO
WORKED AND SMILED AND WEPT AND PRAYED
WHILE SOLDIERS MARCHED AND FOUGHT

FOREWORD

This is a story of Ned Fletcher, and the Seventh Regular Cavalry, United States Army, when upon the Western plains they followed the yellow-haired General Custer. Yet it is not all a story of fighting; for to be a good soldier does not mean that one must serve only to fight. Indeed, there are worthy battles other than those with lead and steel, horse and foot. Every earnest citizen is a good soldier. General Custer was as great in peace as in war; in his home as in the field, and he loved his home duties as much as he loved his other duties, which is token of a true man.

General Custer is real to-day. Men and women live who marched with him. As to Ned Fletcher, who may say? A little girl named Fletcher was captured by Cheyennes and Sioux, as Ned’s sister was captured; and Chief Cut Nose called her “Little Silver Hair.” General Custer would have rescued her, as official records show. Two little children were found in the Cheyenne village on the Washita. In the battle here a bugler boy was wounded just as Ned was wounded. Aye, and at Fort Wallace a little bugler boy was slain. So that boys served in the old Seventh Cavalry, under General Custer. As a brave boy, Ned might have been there, even though by a different name.

General Custer has left his own story of his plains days in Kansas and Nebraska. It lies before me. Mrs. Custer, his comrade of garrison and camp and march, has written several books about him. They lie before me. There is a biography by one Captain Whittaker, written at the close of the last battle, near forty years ago. With General Sheridan and General Custer upon their campaign against the Cheyennes and the Kiowas was a newspaper reporter, Randolph Keim, who also wrote a book. Chapters have there been, in other books and in magazines, and pamphlets of time agone; and, as I say, men and women are now alive who knew the general. From all these more information should be sought. No one pen can describe so fine a thing as a Man.

So this book must tell of the Custer whom Ned the boy and youth saw; and of affairs in which he took part during that final struggle when the white race would supplant the red race, on the plains of north and south. In the narrative of these years I have tried to show how the white race felt and how the red race felt; for each had their rights and their wrongs, and each did right and did wrong. Out of the result came general good, that the church and the school-house might rise and people might work and play in peace, where formerly stood only the unproductive hide lodges, and the main thought was war and Plunder.

Edwin L. Sabin.

Coronado, California, June 1, 1913.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

By Courtesy of The Century Company

MAJOR-GENERAL GEORGE A. CUSTER

From a Photograph by Brady

CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE

GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER

Famous American soldier and cavalry leader in the Civil War and on Indian campaigns afterward. A loyal citizen, a tender son, a devoted husband. Family name “Autie”; otherwise called Armstrong; by war correspondents styled “the Boy General”; by the soldiers nicknamed “Old Curly,” and “Jack”; entitled by the Indians “the Yellow Hair,” “the Long Hair,” or, in full, “White Chief with the Long Yellow Hair.”

Born at New Rumley, Ohio, December 5, 1839.

Father: Emmanuel H. Custer, of Maryland.

Mother: Maria Ward Kirkpatrick, of Pennsylvania.

Spent his boyhood at New Rumley, on the farm, and with his sister at Monroe, Michigan.

Educated at New Rumley, at the Stebbins Academy (Monroe) and the Monroe “Seminary,” and at the Hopedale, Ohio, Normal School.

Appointed to West Point Military Academy, 1857.

Graduates last in his class, 1861.

Assigned as second lieutenant, G Company, Second United States Cavalry.

Three days after leaving West Point reports for duty with General McDowell’s army, on the morning of the battle of Bull Run.

Soon detailed as aide-de-camp and assistant adjutant-general on the staff of General Philip Kearny.

Second lieutenant, Fifth United States Cavalry, 1862, under General Stoneman.

Serves briefly with the Topographical Engineers, 1862.

Appointed aide-de-camp on the staff of General McClellan, June, 1862, with rank of Captain.

After McClellan’s removal is appointed first lieutenant, Fifth Cavalry.

On waiting orders, at Monroe, winter of 1862–’63, woos and wins his future wife, Elizabeth Bacon.

Reports for duty as first lieutenant with M Company, Fifth Cavalry, Army of the Potomac, April, 1863.

Appointed aide-de-camp to General Pleasanton, commanding First Division, Cavalry Corps of the Army of the Potomac.

June, 1863, at the age of 23 appointed brigadier general of volunteers, in command of the Second Brigade (the “Michigan” Brigade), Third Division, Cavalry Corps, under General Kilpatrick, and distinguishes himself at the battle of Gettysburg. “The boy general with the golden locks.”

Slightly wounded at Culpepper, September, 1863.

Married, February 4, 1864, at Monroe, Michigan, to Elizabeth Bacon, daughter of Judge Daniel S. Bacon, and takes his bride with him to the brigade headquarters camp.

By Sheridan, the new cavalry commander, is given the advance in the various raids.

Transferred to command of the Second Division of Cavalry, and finally September, 1864, to that of the Third Division.

October, 1864, aged 25 is brevetted major-general of volunteers, for gallantry. The youngest in the army.

Continues to lead the Third Division of cavalry, which is conspicuous for its discipline, its dash, and the long hair, cavalier hats and flying red neckties of its men, copied after the well-known Custer garb.

Eleven horses are shot under him, in battle. In six months his division captures 111 pieces of field artillery, 65 battle-flags, and 10,000 prisoners including seven generals. It does not lose a flag or a gun or meet defeat.

April 9, 1865, he receives flag of truce conveying the first word that General Lee is considering surrender. Thus “the boy general” has fought through from Bull Run to Appomattox.

At the close of the war is ordered with a division of cavalry to Texas.

Offered the command of the cavalry of the army of General Juarez, Mexico, in the conflict with Emperor Maximilian; but by Congress is not permitted to accept.

In 1866 brevetted major-general in the regular army, for war services.

October, 1866, appointed lieutenant-colonel to command the Seventh United States Cavalry, and ordered to Fort Riley, Kansas.

Five years of service, 1866–’71, on the plains of Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado and Indian Territory, resulting in the subjugation of the Kiowas, Arapahos, Cheyennes, Comanches and Apaches in that district.

From 1871 to 1873 stationed with his regiment in Kentucky.

Spring of 1873 ordered with his regiment to Fort Rice, Dakota, for operations among the Sioux. Occupies the new post of Fort Lincoln.

Engages in campaigns along the Yellowstone River, and explores and exploits the Black Hills.

June 25, 1876, aged 37, killed with five companies of his cavalry from which only one man, a Crow scout, escapes, in the battle of the Little Big Horn, Montana, with 3000 Sioux.

ON THE PLAINS WITH CUSTER

[I]
A WAIF ON THE PRAIRIE

In every direction wide stretched the lonely brown prairie-land of north central Kansas, 1866. From horizon to horizon not a house of any kind was to be seen, nor even a tree except low lines of willows and occasional cottonwoods marking the courses of streams. Late November’s pale blue sky bent mildly over, the steady plains breeze rustled the dried weeds and the sun-cured carpet of buffalo-grass; and Ned Fletcher, trudging wearily, felt that he was a very small boy in a very large world.

However, he was not afraid of the largeness; and as he hastened as fast as he could, with ear alert for sunning rattlesnakes and eye upon a vast herd of buffalo grazing far to the northeast, he was rather glad of the loneliness. Moving objects, ahorse, might mean Indians, and Indians he did not want. Ah no, no, no.

Ned was bare-headed, his tow hair long and matted as if it needed cutting and combing. But who had there been, in the Indian camps, to cut or comb a white-boy prisoner’s hair? He wore on his body a tattered fragment of stained blanketing, his head thrust through a slit. One foot was supplied with an old moccasin that lacked part of the sole; the other foot had nothing. As he hurriedly walked he limped.

Where he was he did not know. He was still in Kansas, he believed, although one part of this flat prairie-country looked much like another. Since his escape from the Sioux he had been trying to travel straight east; but he had sneaked down crooked stream-beds and had slept some, and now exactly where he might be or how far he might have come, he could not tell.

Somewhere on before were the settlements of the Kansas frontier, out of which was creeping westward the Kansas Pacific Railroad, bound for Denver. North was the Republican Fork emigrant trail to Denver, and south was the Smoky Hill trail. With these, and with the outlying ranches and hamlets which were liable to be encountered, it did seem to Ned that by hook or crook he would be rescued if he only kept going.

Suddenly he stopped short, with lame foot upraised, and peered. He was all ready, like prairie-dog or other timid wild animal, to disappear. This was what alarmed him: the grazing herd of buffalo, resembling a great tract of black gooseberry bushes, had broken and were on the run!

As everybody in the far West knew or ought to know, running buffalo were frightened buffalo; and the question naturally would be: “Which has frightened them—white hunters or Indian hunters?” Upon the answer might depend much, even life.

Ned’s heart thumped inside his bony chest, under the thin blanket, and he glanced about for hiding-place.

The creek-bed was too far; the earth around was flat and sandy and bald; but near at hand was a curious circular hollow, like a dimple in the brown face of the prairie. Crouching and skimming, Ned darted for it, and plunged in.

This was a buffalo-wallow. In the beginning some old buffalo bull, tormented by flies, had pawed and horned and turned up the sod of a soft spot in the prairie, and there had taken a good roll. Other buffalo bulls had followed him, enlarging the hole as they enjoyed their mud-baths. Now, in late November, the wallow was dry, but it was two feet deep and fifteen feet across.

Behind the sloping edge of the wallow Ned lay close, and peeped over. He was a brave boy, but he shivered with excitement. After he had escaped, and had come so far, and was almost within touch of white people, was he to be re-captured? He couldn’t stand it—no, he couldn’t stand it, unless he had to. When they have to, people can stand a great deal.

The buffalo were increasing in size rapidly, as with their peculiar headlong rolling gallop they came thundering on. There were several thousand of them; the beat of their hoofs merged into a dull roar; over their torrent of black backs floated a yellow spume of dust.

Gazing beyond them anxiously Ned searched for the hunters. He thought that he saw them—some horsemen, veiled in the dust as they so furiously pursued. Were they white horsemen, or red? Then he saw, to his relief, that the course of the tossing herd was past his wallow, not over it. He would not be trampled to death, anyway; and perhaps he would not be seen. And then he saw that a single buffalo had separated from the flying herd, and that had paired off with it a single horseman, to ride it down. They were heading almost directly for the wallow.

Ned flattened himself as flat as a horned toad or a lizard, and motionless, watched. He did not dare to stir his head, he dared scarcely to breathe. Indians, as well he knew, had eyes very keen for any movements against the surface of the ground.

The buffalo was running gallantly—head down, tail curved, heavy fore-quarters propelled by light hind-quarters. In its rear pursued the hunter. Ned, peering through a screen of weeds, fastened eyes upon him to read him. He wore a hat; good! He wore a shirt or coat; pretty good! He held a revolver; very good! He rode like a white man; hurrah!

Heart beating afresh, Ned waited a minute longer, to make certain.

How the buffalo ran! How the hunter rode! It was a big bull buffalo. Ned could see his shaggy head, like a lion’s; he fancied that he could see his tongue as it hung foamy and red; almost could he see his glaring eyeballs and hear his panting breath. The horseman—yes, he was white!—was leaning forward, lifting his long-legged bay to the race. His right hand held high a heavy revolver, his left hand gathered the loosely drawn reins; his broad-brimmed hat flared in the breeze that he made; his hair, yellow and free, streamed backward. He gave a wild, exultant halloo, and his horse, lengthening with leap after leap, fairly was eating the space to the straining, lumbering quarry. It took a fast horse to do this; but the buffalo was wounded, for now from his red tongue was dripping something redder still.

Ned had just concluded that the hunter must be a soldier, for his trousers-seams, showing between boot-tops and shirt or coat, bore broad stripes, when he realized also that this chase, like the rest of the chase, was passing his wallow; and that if he did not make himself known he would not be seen. Another minute, and buffalo and rider would be by, and the chances were small that they ever would notice such a small thing as he, behind them. With a spring, out rushed Ned; waving his arms and calling, he ran forward across the prairie.

His thoughts and eyes were on the rider—that white man rider. He was regardless of the buffalo, now—but the buffalo proved not regardless of him. Into the very path of the onward scouring chase went Ned, waving and shouting; and veering at sharp tangent the buffalo instantly charged for him. The buffalo’s little tail flicked up, in half-cocked manner, his shaggy head dropped lower, and he made a savage lunge at what he thought was a new enemy.

Ned paused not for parley. An enraged buffalo bull coming full tilt won’t listen to talk, and the fact that Ned was only a boy made no difference to this big fellow. In a sideways jump Ned dodged and turned and made for his wallow again.

This seemed the thing to do. Now he forgot about the rider and thought about the buffalo. He had small hope of beating him, for a buffalo can run as fast as an ordinary horse and this buffalo was very angry. Ned imagined that the hot breath of the great animal was burning his back—that the hard stubby horns were grazing him there; his legs were weak and his feet heavy; and nervously glancing behind him, as he ran, he stumbled, sprawling head over heels. When he should stop rolling, then what?

He stopped, and scrambling for his feet he looked quickly, poised on hands and knees, before he should rise. His next movements depended upon the buffalo. The buffalo had halted, as if surprised. He was almost towering over, so huge he stood; he was surveying Ned, his matted hump high, his bearded hairy head low again, his tongue dripping crimson froth, his red-streaked eye-balls standing out amidst his matted locks, his throat rumbling, his forehoofs flinging the dirt in defiance. As soon as he could debate a little over what had upset his new enemy, he would charge again.

Ned, crouched on hands and knees, stared at the buffalo; the buffalo, rumbling and pawing and bleeding, stared at Ned.

But the rider—the rider! With rapid thud of hoofs he galloped. “Keep down, lad! Keep down!” he shouted, in clear ringing voice. Ned never forgot how he looked, as with bright yellow hair floating, crimson necktie-ends at his throat streaming, black hat-brim flaring, wide blue eyes in bronzed moustached face blazing, bridle free and revolver levelled, like a whirlwind he passed the great beast—firing as he did so—[and now at full speed passing Ned also he leaned, Indian-wise], grasped Ned under the arms and with strong heave hoisted him right up to the saddle.

For an instant longer the horse, with Ned thus suspended beside him, careened on. Then in response to vigorous command and tug of gauntleted hand holding both revolver and lines, he wheeled and stopped. Giddy, clinging desperately to the buckskin waist, Ned gazed before. The great bull was prone, feebly kicking his last. Ned looked up, into a face looking down. It was a handsome, manly face; lean and deeply tanned, with sunny blue eyes, broad high forehead, straight nose, flowing tawny moustache, firm cleft chin, all under a large soft-brimmed black slouch hat, from beneath which the bright yellow hair fell in long curly waves to the shirt collar. This shirt collar was generous and rolling, of blue flannel with a white star at either point in front. Under the collar lay a long soft tie of crimson silk, its ends loosely knotted and hanging down outside a fringed buckskin coat. Between skirt of coat and tops of riding-boots showed dusty trousers of army blue, with broad yellow stripes down the seams. Altogether, to Ned’s quick and wondering eye he was a most attractive and remarkable individual.

Looking down, while Ned looked up, he smiled heartily, and said:

“Well, we got the buffalo before he got you, didn’t we? Let’s see.”

With a “Whoa, Phil! Steady, now!” to the horse, he carefully lowered Ned and set him back upon the ground; then swinging easily off he dismounted, and leaving the horse to stand, with revolver ready he approached the buffalo. But the buffalo was stone dead.

“All right,” he called back, to Ned, who was anxiously watching. “Hurrah! He’s a big fellow, isn’t he! And there come the dogs! Hi!” and raising a cow-horn from its sling to his lips he blew a stirring, rollicking blast. “Watch them leg it! The pace was too hot for them, this time. Well,” he spoke, more directly, to Ned, “come over here, and tell me about yourself. You’re a white lad, aren’t you? My name’s Custer—Autie Custer; what’s yours?”

“Ned Fletcher,” faltered Ned. “I’m a white boy, but I’ve been captive with the Indians. Now I’m escaping. You—you’re an officer in the army, I guess.”

“What makes you think so?” The query was quick and crisp—with blue eyes twinkling behind it.

Ned hesitated. His gaze strayed to the blackish specks, said to be dogs, rapidly nearing across the prairie; and returned to this straight, lithe, square-shouldered figure, standing there so fascinating in face and form and garb. Ned could not tell exactly why, but he felt that this man was every inch a soldier and a leader. If he wasn’t an officer he ought to be, anyway. So Ned hazarded:

“By those stripes—and you’ve got stars on your shirt collar.”

The blue eyes twinkled merrily.

“Oh, those stars don’t count for anything. That’s a sailor shirt. And maybe I stole the pants. My wife calls me ‘Autie,’ the men call me ‘Jack,’ but once in a while somebody calls me ‘Colonel,’ so I suppose I’m a sort of an officer, after all. But here—if you’re a white boy you’ve got to have something on. Aren’t you cold? You must be cold. Take my coat. Captive to the Indians, you say? Where? How did that happen? Put on that coat, and tell me. I’ll be cutting out this buffalo’s tongue. Did you ever see a buffalo’s tongue cut out? It’s quite a job, isn’t it! Hi! Hello, pups! (For the dogs were arriving.) Down, Maida! Down, Flirt! Blucher! Good dog, Byron! Where’s Rover? Oh, yes; I see. Hurry, Rover, or you’ll be too late. There! That’ll do. Next time you hunt with the old man you’ll save your wind for the final spurt, won’t you!”

The dogs were splendid animals: three gaunt, rough-coated stag hounds, a deer hound, a fox hound or two. They came in panting and eager, whining and gambolling and sniffing right and left. Colonel Custer knelt and whipping out his hunting-knife pried open the dead bull’s mouth and slashed at the thick tongue.

Ned didn’t want to put on the buckskin coat, but he had been ordered to, so he did, and dropped the ragged blanket. The coat almost covered him. While the dogs nosed him and excitement still reigned, he answered the questions.

“The Dog Soldiers killed my father and burned the ranch and took my mother and sister and me away with them. My mother is dead—they made her work too hard (and Ned choked up), and I don’t know where my sister is but I’m going to find her.”

“Where was the ranch?”

“On the Bijou in Colorado.”

“How long ago?”

“About a year. I was traded to the Sioux. But when I had a chance I ran away.”

“From their village?”

“No, sir; on the march.”

“Who were the chiefs?”

“The Sioux chief was Pawnee Killer, and the Cheyenne chief was Cut Nose. I ran away from Pawnee Killer. My sister’s out with old Cut Nose’s Cheyennes, I think.”

“Where do you want to go, my boy?”

“Anywhere, so that I find my sister.”

“All right.” Colonel Custer had finished cutting out the tongue. Now he wiped his knife on the buffalo’s wool, and stood. “We’ll take you back to Riley, first. That’s where I live—Fort Riley. It isn’t far; a day’s ride. We’re out on a little scout. There comes my orderly, now. The lazy fellow! Eh, Phil?” and the handsome bay horse, thus addressed, pricked his ears. “First we leave the orderly, then we leave the dogs, and we kill a buffalo and pick up a boy! That will be something to tell the old lady when we get back.”

About this handsome, energetic army officer was an air so happy-go-lucky and boyish that Ned, another boy, found himself already loving him.

Now the orderly galloped up. He wore fatigue cap and blouse and trousers, of the regulation service blue; and by yellow braid and chevrons and the brass horn hanging from his shoulder he was a bugler.

He arrived dusty and red, his horse much blown; pulling short he saluted, trying not to stare. Colonel Custer drew himself up very tall and straight and military, surveyed him sternly and spoke gruffly—although Ned felt certain that those blue eyes held a twinkle.

“Take this boy on before you, Odell. Where’s the rest of the troop?”

“Yes, sir. Following the buffalo, sir.”

“Where have you been?”

“Trying to catch up with you, sir.”

“Oh! I see.” And as Colonel Custer turned, to his own horse, and tied the buffalo tongue to the saddle, Ned fancied not only the twinkle in the eyes but a smile under the yellow moustache.

“Well, boy, you’re to get aboard with me, the general says,” said Bugler Odell. “Give me a grip on ye and I’ll help ye up. But you ought to have coverin’ for your legs. It’s cold, ridin’. Use that blanket, now, I see lyin’ there.”

“No. I’ve got enough,” asserted Ned, eyeing the blanket fragment disdainfully. The heavy buckskin coat fell below his knees, and he was used to the cold air.

“Yes; wrap that piece of blanketing around you, or you’ll wear a hole through Odell’s saddle-skirts,” bade Colonel Custer, as he vaulted astride his own saddle.

“You hear what the general says,” reminded Bugler Odell, soberly. “Fetch the blanket and come on, now.”

So Ned, understanding that it was the custom, evidently, to obey whatever the man with the yellow hair directed, gingerly lifted the fragment of dirty blanket, and approached the bugler’s stirrup. With one foot upon it, and the trooper hauling him stoutly, he right soon was seated before the low pommel, where he tucked the blanketing around his legs.

“Ready?” queried the bugler. “Here we go, and you’d better hang tight, for the general won’t wait. That hoss o’ his is a tarrer.”

“The general? Is he a general! He said he was colonel,” stammered Ned, perplexed, as following the man with the yellow hair away they went, at jolting trot which speedily broke into a smoother gallop.

“Who? General Custer? Sure, he’s left’nant-colonel o’ regulars, commandin’ the Sivinth Cavalry; but he was brigadier-general and brevet major-general o’ the volunteers in the war, and the youngest one in the whole army, too. Yes, and it’s brevet o’ major-general o’ regulars he’s just been given. So ‘general’ he’s to be called, and don’t you forget it.”

“General Custer! Oh, I know General Custer! He was the ‘boy general’!” exclaimed Ned, excited. “My father knew him, I mean. He was my father’s general. Now I remember. I didn’t think, at first.”

“Well, he’s a good soldier and a fine man,” commented the bugler, succinctly; “and of the Sivinth Cavalry he’s goin’ to make a regiment, or I’m much mistaken.”

The carcass of the dead buffalo bull had been left behind. The prairie before was free of other buffalo, for all the great fleeing herd had vanished. General Custer, riding superbly, his crimson tie ends and his yellow hair streaming together, his dogs panting on either side and at his heels, was rapidly increasing his lead; his young horse was a racer and a thoroughbred, and the trooper’s horse was heavy and ordinary. Clinging tight to the mane with his hands and to the saddle-flaps with his shins, Ned, secure and not a whit afraid (he had ridden bare-legged and bare-back too often, with the Indians) enjoyed the gallop, but wished that they might be nearer to “the general.”

Black specks, moving about over the surface of the prairie, appeared before. The general slackened pace, and as the bugler and Ned approached he ordered, over his shoulder:

“Sound the rally.”

Bugler Odell attempted to salute, to pull his horse down to a trot, and to raise his bugle to his mouth—all in a moment. But the horse shook its head and champed and tugged, and the bugle, swinging between the man rider and the boy rider, wedged fast. Odell muttered several angry, chagrined remarks.

“I’ll blow it,” offered Ned, friendly. “Shall I?”

“You!” grunted Trooper Odell. “It’s the rally, by the bugle, the general wants. If you’ll hold this hoss a second, now——” and red and flustered he hauled hard.

“I’ll blow it. I can,” repeated Ned, eagerly, anxious to show his mettle and to help the embarrassed Odell.

As the obstinate horse pranced the bugle swung free again, jerked fairly around so that Ned needed only to reach and grab it. He promptly applied it to his lips (while clutching tight with his one hand and his two shins), and blew the rally the best that he could. Clear and passably regular pealed the high notes.

“Good enough, b’gorry!” muttered Odell. “But what’ll the general say? Give me that horn.”

The moment that the last note died away the general had wheeled his horse, to gaze.

“Who blew that call?” he shouted.

“I did,” announced Ned, bravely. “Mr. Odell was managing his horse, and he didn’t say I might but I did.”

“The boy took the horn before I could stop him, sir,” explained the flurried Odell. “I’ll blow it now, sir. This pesky hoss——” and Bugler Odell jerked savagely at the bit, pulling his mount to its haunches.

“He blew it mighty well, then,” declared General Custer. “Try it again, boy. Put more force behind it, so those soldiers yonder’ll hear. We’re sounding the rally for them to come; see?”

Tremendously Ned blew—glueing his lips and puffing his cheeks and popping his eyes. Far pealed the notes, across the brown prairie. And now the specks must have heard, for by twos and threes they were coming, ever growing larger, and turning into mounted men.

The general jogged easily, with Bugler Odell and Ned close behind him.

“Where did you learn the bugle?” he demanded.

“From my father,” answered Ned, proudly. “He knew all the army calls.”

“He did, did he? Where’d he learn them?”

“In the war. He was a bugler.”

“What regiment?”

“Sixth Michigan Cavalry.”

“What!” General Custer stopped his horse, as he turned in the saddle and scrutinized Ned, his blue eyes shining. “Was he a Michigander? In my old brigade, then! He was one of my boys! The son or daughter of any of my boys is like one of my own family. Of course you’ll come with me to Fort Riley. What do you want to do?”

Sudden resolve seized Ned.

“I’d like to join the army, too, and hunt Indians until I find my sister.”

“You shall,” declared the general, enthusiastically. “I’ll enlist you as a bugler with the Seventh Cavalry, and we’ll hunt Indians together and find your sister, I’m sure. Shake hands on it.” He skillfully reined his restless bay to the side of the troop horse and extended his hand. With a strong grip his nervous gauntlet closed warmly about Ned’s slim scarred fingers. “Now tell me more about your father.”

So, as they rode slowly, biding the arrival of the soldiery, Ned did: relating to this singularly young general (the youngest, had said Bugler Odell, in the whole army, commanding men, like Ned’s father, almost twice his age) the story of how Mr. Fletcher, after the War, had moved to the frontier of Colorado Territory and had located upon a ranch; how outlaw Cheyennes and Sioux, called “Dog Soldiers,” had raided the ranch, killing him in the field, burning the buildings and carrying off Ned, Ned’s mother, and his sister who was eight.

While the general was asking questions, the other soldiers, responding to the “rally,” began to arrive.

[II]
AT OLD FORT RILEY

Early came a lancer, bearing the swallow-forked guidon, his steed blown and wet. The soldiers gathered about him.

Foremost of the riders was a man not a soldier; at least, he looked more like a handsome, gentlemanly desperado. He sat easy and lithe and broad-shouldered; from under his wide-brimmed black hat, fell down upon the shoulders long, curling light hair. Belted about his waist was a pair of ivory-handled revolvers, one at either thigh. He wore shiny, flexible boots reaching to the knee; tight-fitting white doe-skin riding-breeches; a fine blue-flannel shirt open at the throat, and trimmed down the front with red; around his throat was loosely knotted a blue silk handkerchief; upon his hands were well-fringed gauntlet gloves. His skin was fair, with just a touch of sun-brown; a long blonde moustache drooped along either side of a firm clean chin; his nose was a bold hawk nose, and as piercing as the eyes of a hawk were his eyes of steely blue. Altogether, he seemed a man to be reckoned with.

“Well, Bill,” addressed the general, buoyantly, “I didn’t mean to desert you fellows, but I needed exercise.”

“I see,” nodded Bill, gravely. His keen, steely eyes noted the buffalo tongue; they read every detail of Ned’s face and figure; and swiftly sweeping the horizon they returned to him.

“Killed a big bull and found a small boy,” continued the general. “Ned, this gentleman is Mr. James B. Hickok, better known as Wild Bill. He’s a valuable friend to have.”

Mr. Hickok reined forward his horse, and offered Ned his hand.

“How do you do?” he spoke, politely. His voice was soft, but vibrant, and Ned liked him. “Count me at your service.”

Ned was certain that Mr. Hickok was not making fun of him; and, abashed, he shook hands. Whereupon Mr. Hickok gracefully reined his horse back to the general.

All the soldiers had arrived. “By their blanket-rolls and haversacks, they must be on a scout,” thought Ned, “and not merely on a hunt.” Among the last to arrive was another young officer—a captain, said the double bars of his shoulder-straps.

“All right, Hamilton. Now that you’ve shown us you’re safe, we’ll go on,” called the general, still in joking frame of mind. That he had distanced all his company and had an adventure pleased him immensely.

With quick gesture he waved his hand, and accompanied by Mr. Hickok trotted to the fore. Captain Hamilton escorted at one side of the column, as two by two the soldiery strung out. Behind the general rode the lance-corporal, and Bugler Odell, Ned holding tightly to him. Now and then Bugler Odell let information drift over Ned’s shoulder.

“That be Wild Bill,” he said, speaking guardedly. “’Tis the name he likes best. He’s chief scout for the general, and peace-keeper all ’round, for he’s boss o’ Riley, I tell ye. Six-foot two he stands in his socks; ye can span his waist with your hands. Quickest shot with the pistol I ever saw; chain lightnin’ can’t beat him. But you wouldn’t think he was such a tarrer, to speak with him. And when he’s mad he doesn’t talk much louder or say much more; yet you bet wan word and wan look from him be plinty to make the worst badman on the trail calm down and say, ‘Certainly, Bill. Excuse me, Mr. Hickok.’ He served in the Kansas troubles before the War, when the free-soil men and the slavery men were makin’ the border a red-hot place. He was a Union scout out here durin’ the War, too, and fought at the battle o’ Pea Ridge down in Arkansas. Wan time, in Sixty-wan, alone in a room he was attacked by ten border-ruffians, hand to hand, and when it was over they were all dead and he was ’most dead with eleven buckshot in him and thirteen other wounds.”

“Is he a soldier now?” queried Ned, awed.

“Nope; not what you might call a reg’lar soldier. He’s a border-man—a frontiersman. Some might call him a disperado, behind his back; and some a gambler; but anyway, he’s got the bravery and the nerve, and his word is good as gold, and that’s the kind o’ men needed out in this country.”

They rode on, while Ned pondered over the character of the terrible Wild Bill Hickok. He had appeared as such a mildly speaking, gentlemanly individual, that Bugler Odell’s description did not seem to fit.

“The Sivinth Cavalry be gettin’ its share o’ good men,” resumed Bugler Odell, confidentially. “Yon captain—he’s a foine wan, and a great joker. Captain Hamilton, I mean. Sure, he’s a lieutenant-colonel, from the War; but he ranks as captain o’ Reg’lars, by appointment to the Sivinth. His grandfather was a big man by the name o’ Alexander Hamilton. Ah, the Sivinth be officered entirely by generals and colonels and majors; and titles be so thick they make your head swim. I’m only plain sergeant, but some o’ the enlisted men be generals, by courtesy, as ye’ll find out.”

“Right you are,” agreed the lance-corporal. “The War left many a man with soldierin’ as his only job.”

Wild Bill was an accurate scout, for as the sun was setting they all sighted directly ahead, high upon a table-land backed by hills, an irregular group of buildings, the windows flashing above the level dun expanse below. Between were trees, marking a stream.

“There’s Riley,” announced Bugler Odell, pointing. “Below is the Smoky Hill Fork o’ the Republican, and the line o’ cottonwoods runnin’ to north’ard be the Republican itself. The post sits in the elbow o’ the two, where they join and make the Kaw or Kansas.”

As they approached Ned gazed curiously. The post made quite a showing, and everybody in the column seemed glad to be getting back. Now the flag-staff of the post, with the colors still floating, showed clearly. The general stirred restlessly in his saddle, as if eager to shorten the distance. The dogs, which had been ranging far and wide, galloped further ahead, and further, anon halting to look hopefully behind them and see that the column were surely coming on.

Suddenly across the rosy-purple glow making lovely the flat landscape, wafted high and sweet the notes of a bugle at the post. All the column listened—or appeared to listen.

“’Tis retreat; boom goes the avenin’ gun and down comes the flag,” explained Bugler Odell, as if Ned did not know.

But Ned did know, and he nodded to himself; for this was one of the army calls taught him by his father.

The long notes died amidst a dull “Boom!” by the evening gun; and Ned saw the flag slide down the tall pole.

“Faith, we’ll be locked out,” chuckled Odell, as a joke. “The general won’t like that; he’s wantin’ to be home with his wife.”

“Sound the trot,” bade the general, curtly, without turning head.

Bugler Odell did so; and through the clattering column rang the brisk voice of young Captain Hamilton: “Trot—march!” Away they trotted, all, canteens jingling, carbines jolting, saddles creaking, horses grunting. Close before was the sparse timber of the Republican River, flowing from the north; this river they evidently must cross, as the post was upon the other side.

“Give them Garryowen, Hamilton,” called the general. And he added, aside: “Then they’ll have supper hot.”

Captain Hamilton nodded at Bugler Odell; and now as the column was splashing into the ford Odell blew a lively lilt. It was one of the merriest, most stirring tunes that Ned ever had heard, and he resolved to learn it. It put life into the whole column.

“That’s a new wan to ye, I’ll wager,” remarked Odell, having paused as for breath. “’Tis an Irish song that the general likes, and it’s the march o’ the Sivinth Cavalry.”

The post was above the opposite bank. It stood forth clear in the crisp air, and among the buildings Ned could see figures scurrying to and fro. Some of them were women. Away sped the dogs, floundering through the shallows, and scrambling up the ascent, racing for supper. Next out scrambled the horses, climbing the steep, beaten trail that led from the river-bed to the flat plateau above; and at trot the returning column soon rode into the army post of old Fort Riley.

Bleak it was; composed of bare but substantial barracks and officers’ quarters, two stories high, of whitish stone laid in plaster. These buildings, lined with verandas, faced inward, forming a broken square. Outside the square were several other buildings, of stone and boards—being, as Ned was soon told, the store-houses and stables.

As soon as the column halted, the general nimbly dismounted, and leaving his horse for his orderly and the dismissal of the column for Captain Hamilton, he made straight for two women who were standing expectantly awaiting him, and overwhelmed by the barking dogs.

One he kissed gladly, while to the other he gave his free hand.

“Here we are, Libbie,” Ned heard him say. “Ready for Lizzie’s best. I’ve brought her a buffalo tongue—a big one. And a recruit, too.” With his arm about the woman’s shoulders he beckoned to Ned. “Oh, Ned! Come here.”

Ned went slowly forward. He was ashamed of his rags.

The woman whom the general was treating so affectionately was small and dark-eyed and sweet; the other woman was a pretty girl, plump and roguish and very curly-headed, with a profusion of dancing golden hair. She was smiling across at Captain Hamilton, who now had dismissed the column.

“Ned, one of these ladies is my wife Mrs. Custer, and the other is our guest, Miss Diana,” informed the general, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “You can guess which is which. I picked Ned up on the prairie, at the same time I got the buffalo—and when the buffalo was about to get him,” he explained, to the twain. “He wants to be a soldier, and I think we’ll make a bugler of him. What do you think?”

“Oh, you poor boy!” exclaimed the dark-eyed little woman, holding to Ned both her hands, while Miss Diana smiled brightly upon him. “Is he lost, Autie?”

“Same old story,” answered the general, soberly. “A waif from another Indian raid. I’ll tell you about it. But he’ll stay with us, and we’re going to find his sister for him. She’s all that’s left—somewhere out among the tribes.”

“Oh!” gasped both women.

“He can come right along with us, can’t he?” queried Mrs. Custer. “He must be hungry and he ought to have some clothes.”

“N-no, he’d better stay with Odell,” decided the general. “I’ll have the quartermaster outfit him. He must mess with the other men. He’s to be enlisted as a bugler.”

Old Fort Riley proved a bustling place. It had been located in the fall of 1852, and rebuilt in 1855 to afford protection to the settlers who were passing westward up along the Kansas River Valley. Before it was christened in honor of General Bennet C. Riley it had been called Camp Center, because it was supposed to be the geographical center of the United States. Now it was rapidly filling up with the recruits for the new Seventh United States Cavalry. Many other people also were flocking through by ox-team, mule and horse. The rails of the westward creeping Kansas Pacific branch of the Union Pacific Railroad had approached, to continue on and on, to Denver.

The post was upon a broad table-land high above the rivers, without a tree or a shrub, where the wind always blew. The Republican River, flowing down from the northward, and the Smoky Hill, flowing in from the westward, joined currents; and below the fort rolled eastward the noble Kansas River, in a beautiful valley dotted with settlers’ farms and threaded by the new Kansas Pacific Railroad. Westward from the fort could be seen other farms, along the Smoky Hill, and the town of Junction City.

Despite the bareness and the windiness (which were nothing strange to Ned, who had lived on the Colorado plains) Fort Riley had its charms. The air was fresh, the view was wide, and with the many soldiers and the frequent arrivals by stage and by horse or wagon, things were constantly happening.

In fact, wherever the general chanced to be, something was bound to happen. He made matters lively—especially when he was off duty. He and Mrs. Custer were great chums; and, next to her, he liked horses and dogs—but which the better, it was hard to say. He had a complete pack of dogs: fox hounds (the old one called Rover) from Texas, where he had been stationed after the war; a pair of deer-hounds, one of whom was named Byron; Fannie a fox terrier; stag-hound puppies, Maida and Blucher; and a bow-legged white bull-dog named Turk, who was the deadly rival of Byron. He had three horses, splendid ones, named for army friends; Jack Rucker was a thoroughbred mare from Texas; Phil Sheridan was a blooded colt from Virginia; and Custis Lee, a pacing horse, very fast, was ridden usually by Mrs. Custer.

The post headquarters, where lived the general and family, was the best of the double two-story stone houses about the parade-ground. It frequently echoed with song and laughter and merry cries, and the general’s hunting-horn. The household was composed of the general and Mrs. Custer, Lizzie the faithful black cook, who had been with the general in the South through the War, and a little negro boy who wanted to be a jockey. Then of course there were the dogs. In the other half of the house lived Major Alfred Gibbs and family. Major Gibbs was a portly, carefully-dressed man, who had been a soldier since 1846. He ranked next to General Custer.

In his house the general was the same rollicking, active spirit that he was when ahorse; on duty at the post or afield, and mingling with the soldiers, he acted the strict officer. He might joke with the other officers, but all the men understood that he was the chief, and that he would brook no intrusion upon his military dignity. Thus, although they called him (out of his hearing) the “old man,” and “old Jack” (because of the initials G. A. C., for George Armstrong Custer, on his baggage), they saluted promptly, and obeyed instantly, and tried no jokes on him!

Through the long winter officers, recruits and horses were arriving almost daily at Fort Riley, to bring up the Seventh Cavalry roll. Ned grew to know them all. The yellow-haired, boyish General Custer remained in command; for although he ranked as lieutenant-colonel, his superior officer of the regiment, Colonel Andrew Jackson Smith, a major-general and a veteran, who dated back to 1838, was kept on duty elsewhere. Therefore “old Jack” held the reins at the post—and the soldiers were speedily brought to know it.

Of the younger officers Ned liked especially his Captain, Louis M. Hamilton—who was also a lieutenant-colonel; First Lieutenant Tom Custer, the general’s light-hearted younger brother, a lieutenant-colonel who had enlisted in the war at sixteen and wore two medals for enemy’s flags captured; Captain Myles Keogh, who had served the Pope as well as in the Army of the Potomac; Lieutenant Myles Moylan the adjutant; and the young second lieutenants who were called “shave-tails” and “tad-poles” and “plebes.”

Wild Bill, the frontiersman scout, was at the post frequently, passing up and down, by horse or stage, along the trail west. He was as particular in his dress as was old Major Gibbs; everything that he wore was of the finest material, from the ruffle-pleated soft white shirt and broad-cloth in Junction City to the blue flannel shirt and riding-breeches on the trail. No matter how dressed, he was always the same quiet, courteous personage—but he never was seen without the two ivory-handled revolvers ready at his hips. Report said that he could shoot to the centre without sighting; and could shoot backward over his shoulder or under his arm, with an equal deadliness.

All the winter the soldiers were steadily drilled, and put under constant discipline. “Whipped into shape,” said Bugler Odell. Some men complained, and some deserted; but the better men realized that the strict training was necessary.

Bugles were ringing from early till late. Two buglers were attached to each company. Ned found himself assigned to the company of Captain Hamilton, and he was glad of that. Now he wore the bugler’s uniform, which had narrow double strips of yellow down the trousers, and yellow braid across the chest. It really was a uniform equal to that of any officer; but——

“All stripes and no authority,” with a laugh declared Odell, who was chief bugler. “That’s what they say o’ the trumpeter.”

The winter passed without any Indian fights, but with the Seventh Cavalry getting ready. The railroad trains arrived, and excursionists were more plentiful than ever: some wanted to hunt buffalo and some wanted to see Indians, and some wanted to look for land. Rumors reported that the Cheyennes and the Sioux and the Arapahos to the westward were not keeping their promises; and that this spring they would oppose the further advance of the railroad through their hunting grounds. The settlers of western Kansas were becoming alarmed again. The Seventh Cavalry must protect them, and the Smoky Hill stage and emigrant route to Denver, and the railroad survey.

Soon was it known that as quick as the spring opened the Seventh Cavalry would take the field. By this time Ned, under the teaching of Chief Bugler Odell, was a thorough trumpeter. Reveille, sick call, mess call, stables, boots and saddles, the assembly, drill, fire, trot, charge, tattoo, taps—he knew them all. He had learned “The Girl I Left Behind Me”; and he had learned “Garryowen”——

“Our hearts so stout have got us fame,
For soon ’tis known from whence we came
Where’er we go they dread the name
Of Garryowen in glory.”

That inspiring tune to which had charged the Custer Third Brigade in the War, and which was now adopted by the Seventh Cavalry.

So, having been by Odell pronounced a “credit to the regiment,” Ned felt himself a soldier and ready with the other soldiers.

[III]
THE SEVENTH TAKES THE FIELD

“It’s like this,” said Odell, after mess. “We’re bound to go. Those ’Rapahos and Cheyennes and Kiowas and ’Paches and Sioux out yon are ready to act mean again, and the army’ll have to calm ’em down. By their treaty o’ Sixty-foive didn’t they promise to keep away from the overland trails, and not camp by day or by night within ten miles o’ any of ’em, or visit any white settlement without permission beforehand? And what did they do? Only last summer they went on their murtherin’ raids, time after time, and the treaty not a year old yet. Didn’t they kill and rob right and lift through the settlements o’ the Saline and the Solomon, jist west o’ here, drivin’ the farmers out? And haven’t they been botherin’ the stage road up along the Smoky, and the southwest travel by the Santy Fee Trail, and threatenin’ the railroad advance?”

“They blame it on old Cut Nose and Pawnee Killer’s band of Dog Soldiers,” spoke somebody. “Those Dog Soldiers weren’t there to sign the treaty, and they say they aren’t bound by it.”

“Who are those Dog Soldiers, except the worst rascals out of all the tribes?” grunted Sergeant Henderson, who had fought Indians before the Sixties. “I know ’em.”

“Well, this country belonged to the Indians, first, didn’t it?” pursued a recruit. “We’re crossing it without asking ‘by your leave,’ and we’re settling in the midst of it and taking all we can get. I hear buffalo are scarcer than they used to be, too, since the whites opened up the country. That’s what the Indians depend on for a living—the buffalo.”

“Ah, now, mebbe you’re right, and I think myself the Injuns are treated a bit shabbily, at times,” responded Odell. “There are rascals on both sides. But what would ye do? Save back all this western country jist for the Injun to hunt on? Wan Injun needs about ten square mile o’ territory, and he laves it the same as he found it. The white man takes a half square mile—yes, and much less—and he stays with it and improves it; and twinty white men and their families can live in the space required by wan Injun jist for huntin’ whilst the women do the work.”

“As long as there’s a trail unfenced, when the grass greens in the spring and the willow and cottonwood buds swell, the Injun—and specially the young Injun—will grow uneasy,” quoth Sergeant Henderson. “Spring is war time, summer is visiting time, fall is hunt time. In winter the Injuns are glad to have the Government take care of ’em. We’re pushing two railroads through, whites are getting thicker, Injuns are being bossed by the Government and cheated by traders and crowded by settlers, and they see nothin’ for ’em but to clean the country out—if they can.”

Wild Bill had ridden at canter into the parade ground, and across to headquarters. At the veranda of the general’s house he pulled short, and swung to ground, as if he had been sent for. Then he entered.

When he came out, presently, he was riding away in a great hurry, when the sergeant hailed him, passing.

“What’s the news, Bill?”

“Sharpen your sabres,” spoke Wild Bill, briefly, without drawing rein.

He rode on, and turned into the stage road which led west, up the Smoky Hill River. Evidently he was carrying dispatches to Forts Harker and Hays, the new Seventh Cavalry posts that were guarding the further advance of the Kansas Pacific.

Wild Bill had spoken to the point, as always. He wasted no words. Before the afternoon drill, there had spread through the post like wildfire the word that the Seventh Cavalry must be prepared to take the field, equipped for service, within a fortnight.

This was great news. Old Fort Riley seethed with it. Now in these the days of early March there was a sudden increase of mounted drills long and hard; an effort at target practice with the stubby Spencer repeating carbines—proving that most of the men shot no better than they rode; shoeing of horses and tinkering of wagons at the fort smithy; and grinding of sabers on the post grind-stones.

Passing a grind-stone Ned noticed private Malloy busily engaged in applying the edge of an unusually long sabre. Malloy was the “striker” or officer’s handy-man on duty at the general’s house. He looked up at Ned, and, wiping the perspiration from his brow, grinned. So did the soldier who was turning for him.

“Do you recognize the big toad-sticker?” queried Malloy.

Ned doubtfully shook his head. Malloy obligingly handed it to him.

“Look at it an’ heft it. It’s the general’s. Thought mebbe you’d seen it hanging on his wall. ’Tis one captured in the War; an’ the noise of the grinding sort o’ reminded him he wanted it whetted up. ‘Malloy,’ said he, ‘polish that big scalping knife o’ mine along with the rest of ’em.’”

“Can you swing it?” bantered the other soldier.

Ned lifted the sabre and examined it. It was as long as he was tall; was far longer and heavier than regulation. On the bright blade were letters engraved:

Do not draw me without cause;
Do not sheathe me without honor.

What a sword! No, Ned could not swing it. He handed it back.

“That’s a real Damascus steel, they say,” informed Malloy’s helper.

“Is the general going to take it on the march?” asked Ned, expectantly.

“No, I reckon not,” answered Malloy; “but he would if he wanted to, I’ll wager—just as he wears his hair long an’ his tie red. He’s a great man for having his own way, is old Jack.”

“Headstrong, you might call him,” added the other man. “Like chasin’ a buffalo, alone and ’way off from his command, an’ not knowin’ but that Injuns are right over the next ridge.”

The yellow hair and quick voice of the general were everywhere, as with prompt eyes and mind he oversaw the post preparations. For now was it known that this was to be an important march, wherever it led; with infantry and artillery as well as cavalry, and with Major-General Winfield Scott Hancock himself accompanying. The purpose, it seemed, was to have a talk with the Indians, and to show them that the United States was ready with soldiers to protect the white people on the plains.

General Hancock was the commander of the Military Department of the Missouri. His headquarters were Fort Leavenworth, on the Missouri River at the eastern border of Kansas. From Fort Leavenworth were coming the artillery and most of the infantry. In all there would be about 1400 men, thought Odell.

The expedition gave to Fort Riley a war-like appearance. First the scouts began to collect. Wild Bill was there anyway; and came in, among others, a young scout named Cody—Bill Cody. He had been at Riley, off and on, before. With his flowing dark hair, his wide black eyes, his silky moustache and goatee and his buckskins and weapons, he looked indeed entitled to considerable respect.

“Do you know that man?” had asked Odell, of Ned.

“No.”

“He’s a good wan. He’s Pony Express Bill. That’s what they used to call him. Was the youngest pony express rider on the line. Faith, he rode when he wasn’t any older than you, my lad, carryin’ the mail across the plains. Now he ranks up with Wild Bill and the rist o’ the scouts. And they do say he’s the best buffalo hunter, white or red, west o’ Leavenworth.”

There also was a squat little Mexican, swart and pock-marked and very homely, whom everybody styled Romeo because his name was Romero. And at the last sauntered in a big-nosed bluish-eyed man, with much brick-red hair and whiskers mingling, whose title was California Joe.