John Ermine of the Yellowstone (15 page)

The officer halted and stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“Hum—hum—yes; by Gad, if my horse can’t take that runt into camp, he isn’t good enough for me. I’ll go you.”

A cheer went up from those assembled, and some hidden force carried the thrill down the train, which halted. Uncle Sam’s business could wait.

The distance was paced off on the level plain; the judges were set; the scouts and officers lined up.

The American’s horse’s eyes fairly bulged with excitement; he broke into a dripping perspiration, but seemingly no one noticed this but Ermine. He knew that the load of water would
choke him in twenty yards.

The old war-pony was thin from overwork, but responsive as a dog to his bareback rider, and dangerous-looking to one used to see ponies which show worse in condition than out, by reason of the
ungraceful architectural lines.

The pistol spoke; the pony gained three jumps from the mark. The American made the best of a bad job, but Ermine was able to turn at the finish and back him over the judges’ line.

The officer nearly had apoplexy, as he pulled up. He threw himself off the horse and handed the reins to Ermine.

The action of both challenge and race had been so rapid and so badly calculated on the officer’s part that he lacked time to assimilate the idea that he was a fool. He tried to maintain a
composure which was lacking, as every one could see.

“If you will get all my clothes, saddle, and gun back from your comrades, I will give you your horse,” said the scout.

The spectators who knew about the poker game now sat howling hopelessly on their horses’ backs. Searles and the others now came to their beaten friend’s aid; they shed their plunder
in front of Ermine’s horse, produced the saddle and gun from a nearby escort wagon, laid them carefully down with the rest, and the victor granted peace.

“Here is your horse,” said Ermine, and he laughed.

The occurrence had a serious side; the three officers were quick to appreciate that. Searles stood in front of the scout and made utterance: “I want to say before all these men that the
poker game was not on the square—that we robbed you purposely for a joke, and that we intended to give your property back to you tonight; and I call on all these men to witness my
remarks.”

“Yes, yes,” came the chorus; “it was all a joke. Searles said he would give it back. Don’t hold it out against him, Ermine,” and other reassuring remarks. They
recognized the young scout’s magnanimity as a conqueror.

The laughing ceased; the thing evidently had been carried too far. It would not sound well when told at Tongue River. The unfortunate horse-race had made proper restitution impossible.

By this time John Ermine had his clothing and saddle arranged and was mounted. He spoke:

“Well, if that is so, if it only was a joke, I suppose I ought to say that I sat up half of last night salting your horse. Look at him! He is blowing yet; he is as full of water as a
drowned buffalo. I am glad it did not kill him; let us bury the axe.”

Major Searles and his fellows were unlike many jokers; they slowly readjusted after the shock and laughed with the others.

The march was resumed, but the customary monotony of this slow pacing of interminable landscape was often abruptly broken by individuals ha-haing loudly, as the sequence of events took a new
hold of their risibles; and Mr. John Ermine tightened in an ever increasing hold on their fancies.

Major Searles, riding beside his horse-racing
confrère,
tried to cheer him. “Brace up, compadre; that boy has you buffaloed. We are all right; we are nothing but a bunch of
monkeys. The only thing we forgot was that a fellow who has lived all his life with Injuns is likely to know how to gamble and race horses. He’ll be wanting to juggle the bone for us yet, and
we are bound to go him.”

“You bet,” came the reply; “he has got us staked out, and he can come along and do jig steps on our chest any time he feels like it. That is where we have to moisten our lips
and look pleasant, too.”

An old wagon boss sauntered by on his mule with its mouth
à la crocodile.

“Ha, ha! Reckon you fellers has had all the fun that’s a-comin’ to you. That boy had that last deck marked, bottomed, sanded, and pricked, with more up his sleeve and some in
the back of his neck.”

John Ermine and Wolf-Voice, meanwhile, had gone well out in front of the train, loping this way and that about the course of advance, with eyes for everything.

Presently they were seen to stop, turn, and come back, flying as fast and straight as the antelope runs.

“How now, by Gad! Here’s smoke for us!” said Searles. No one laughed any more.

Swift and noiseless as the birds came the scouts; nearer and nearer, until their flying horses’ hair could be seen; then sounded the hoofbeats until they drew rein. Wolf-Voice’s hair
fairly stood up, and his fierce little eyes danced attendance; he talked all the languages he knew, and worked his free hand in most alarming sign signals to help his expression.

“What’s up, Ermine?” said the Major.

“Well, Major, the ground out there is alive with fresh pony-tracks. I think you had better bunch up.”

The train was strung out, having passed a bad “draw.” Turning, the Major shouted: “Close up in columns of fours! Deploy that escort out!”

The order flew down the train; the whips cracked, and the straining mules trotted into position; the infantry guard ran out from the sides, shoving shells into the breech-blocks. Even while this
was in motion, a torrent of Sioux poured over the bluffs, back of the flat, and came on.

The soldiers dropped on to their knees in the sagebrush. The Major spurred to the particular point for which they were headed, followed by scouts and several mounted men.

“Steady, men! Hold your fire!”

The men were aiming, and each had five cartridges in his teeth. In a sonorous roll came, “Steady—steady—steady!” And the gay stream of savagery bore on.

“Fire!” Like a double drag on a drum which gradually dies, the rifles rattled down the extended line, all concentrated on the head of the flying column. The smoke played along the
gray sage; there was a sharp clatter of breech-blocks, and an interval.

“Ready! Fire!” and this repeated.

The Major jogged to a windblown place and saw that the column had veered to its right but was not checked. Followed by his few mounted men, he rode along behind their line parallel with the head
of the charge, but before the slow and steady fire the Indian line drew out. The train was caught in the circle, but the enemy had not the heart to ride over the deadly skirmish line. The close
columns of wagons now turned off down toward the river, and, keeping their distances, the infantry followed it. Indian ponies lay kicking out on the dry plain, and here and there could be seen
warriors who retired slowly from the racing Indians; they had been plugged.

Bullets kicked up the dust, and one or two soldiers had to be helped along by their comrades.

The heated air shimmered over the land; but for the rattle and thud of gun and pony, the clank, snort, and whip-cracks among the wagons, the great, gray plains lay silent.

No eye save that of a self-considering golden eagle looked on, and he sailed placidly far above. Ponies and mules strained and lathered, men sweated and grunted and banged to kill; nature lay
naked and insensate.

The Indians made a stand under the cut banks of the river, but were flanked out. The train drove slowly into a corral form, when the mules were unhooked. The guard began to rifle-pit among the
wagons, and the Indians drew off to breathe their ponies. They had stopped the train, but the “walk-a-heap” soldiers were behind the wagons, which were full of “chuck,” and
water was at hand. Indians always dreaded the foot-soldiers, who could not run away, and who would not surrender, but worked their long rifles to the dying gasp; they were “heap bad
medicine”; they were like wounded gray bears in a den of rocks—there was no reasonable method for their capture.

Major Searles jumped from his horse, took off his hat, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “So far, so good! So far, so good! But not so very d——far either,”
he mused.

Towing his pony behind him, Wolf-Voice came up, legs bowed and wobbly, horseback fashion when afoot. Calling loudly, he said:

“By Jeskris, Maje Searl, bout two-tree minit you bettar look out; dose Kul-tus-til-akum she mak de grass burn yu up, by Gar. Win’ she waas come deese way.”

“Yes—yes, that’s right. Here you, Ermine, and you, Lieutenant Smith, take what men you want and kill a wounded mule—drag his hide over the grass to windward; it is short
and won’t burn high. And, Lieutenant, give me all the men you can over here; they will try to come through the smoke.” Saying which, the Major made his way to the ammunition wagons and
had the mules hooked to them, intending to run these into the river in case the fire came through.

In fighting Indians, the Major, who was an old hand, knew that one must act quickly, for they are rapid tacticians and their blows come fast.

These preparations had no sooner been made than, true to WolfVoice’s admonitions, the Indians came down, and, just out of rifle-range, started the fire down wind. Almost no air was
stirring; the flames ran slowly through the short buffalo-grass, but weeds and sage made considerable smoke, which came toward the train.

The dripping carcass of the mule was dragged in a ring round the windward side of the train; the smoke eddied over the wagons; the Indians could not be seen; every man’s eyes and ears were
strained and fingers twitched as they lay at an “aim” or “ready,” among the wagon-wheels.

The mules grew restive and sat back on their fastenings; but there, matters had been well attended to, for the side-lines and hobbles were leathered and laced.

To the silent soldiers this was one of the times when a man lives four years in twenty minutes; nothing can be compared to it but the prolonged agony between your “Will you have me?”
and her “yes” or “NO.”

As the fire came nearer, they heard its gentle crackle, crackle; their nerves all crackled in unison. It reached the bloody ring left by the poor mule—“would the d——
Injuns never come?” At the guard line the flames died and crackled no more. The smoke grew thinner, and at last they saw out through it; the Indians held themselves safely out of
rifle-shot.

“Hum,” said Searles, as he stepped down from a wagon-wheel, “they didn’t want any of this chicken pie.” And then he did what he was never known to do under ordinary
circumstances; and when he was through, the men cheered, and every mule-skinner who had heard him envied a man who could talk it off just like that.

“Ah, Maje Searl,” chimed in Wolf-Voice, “don’ you been scare; dose Injuns no say goo’by yet, mabeso.”

And they did not say goodbye. They dismounted and went behind the washes in the shallow river. They peppered and banged the men as they watered the stock, the perilous trip only being made
behind a strong skirmish line with three men hit and a half-dozen mules. The soldiers ate a quiet supper and put out the fires before the sun went down. The Indians, with the declining light,
crawled in on the train and pecked at the monster.

“Pe-e-e-eing” went a bullet on a wagon-tire; “slap” went another on a wagon box; “thud,” as one buried in a grain-bag; “phud,” and the ball made a
mule grunt; but the echoing Springfields spit their 45’s at the flashes.

Searles sent for Ermine and Wolf-Voice, and sitting on the grass behind a barricade of grain-sacks, he began: “We are corralled, and I haven’t escort enough to move. I can hold out
till snow, but can’t graze my stock. Some one has to go back for reënforcements. Will you go? It can be made on a good horse by moving.”

“Well, Major, I’ll try it. I can go if I can get through with a fair start. The moon will come up later, and I must go now while there is a chance,” said Ermine.

“Will you go also, Mr. Wolf-Voice?”

“Well, hit be good chance for geet keel. Yaes, I go, mebeso, feefty doaller,” vouchsafed that worthy, after nicely balancing the chances.

“What do you want for going, John Ermine?” asked the Major.

“I don’t want anything. I came to fight the Sioux. I do not go to war for fifty dollars.” But it was too dark for the half-breed to see the contempt in Ermine’s face, so
he only shrugged his shoulders and contented himself with, “Oh, weel, mabeso dose soldier-man go for not so much. I do not.”

“All right, all right! I’ll give you an order for fifty dollars. Here are the papers.” And the Major handed one to each. “Now, don’t lose them, whatever else you
do.”

“Ma pony, she steef, no good. I was go on de foot.” And Wolf-Voice proceeded to skin off his motley garments. In these desperate situations he believed in the exemplar of his name;
its methods were less heroic but more sure.

Ermine half stripped himself, and his horse wholly; bound up the tail, and in the gloom rubbed the old dried horse’s hoof on his heels. It had, at least, never done any harm, and at times
favored him. Sak-a-war-te and the God of the white men—he did not know whether they were one or two. Trusting his valuables to the care of the Major, he was let out of the corral after a good
rattle of firing, into the darkness, away from the river.