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With Sully into the Sioux Land

by Joseph Mills Hanson · English · Gutenberg #42150 · 436,011 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: With Sully into the Sioux Land

Author: Joseph Mills Hanson

Illustrator: John W. Norton


        
Release date: February 21, 2013 [eBook #42150]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH SULLY INTO THE SIOUX LAND ***

WITH SULLY INTO THE SIOUX LAND


BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE CONQUEST OF THE MISSOURI. Profusely illustrated. Large 8vo _net_,
$2.00.

FRONTIER BALLADS. Cover, end-paper design, and illustrations by Maynard
Dixon. Novelty binding. $1.00 _net_

A. C. MCCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS CHICAGO

[Illustration: Catching up a heavy stick he hurled it at the head of one
of the warriors [CHAPTER III] ]


"AMONG THE SIOUX" SERIES




WITH SULLY INTO THE SIOUX LAND

BY

JOSEPH MILLS HANSON

AUTHOR OF "THE CONQUEST OF THE MISSOURI,"
"FRONTIER BALLADS," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
JOHN W. NORTON

[Illustration: Logo]

CHICAGO
A. C. MCCLURG & CO.

1910


COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1910

Published, November 12, 1910

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England

PRESS OF THE VAIL COMPANY
COSHOCTON, U. S. A.


TO MY FATHER
JOSEPH RANDALL HANSON,
WHO, AS A BOY AND YOUNG MAN ON
THE OLD DAKOTA FRONTIER, LIVED
THROUGH MORE ADVENTURES THAN A
VOLUME COULD DESCRIBE




CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                   PAGE
    I THE SCOURGE OF THE BORDER              9

   II THE FLIGHT THROUGH THE DARKNESS       35

  III BESIEGED IN FORT RIDGELY              54

   IV REFUGEES                              77

    V HOPE DEFERRED                         95

   VI ON GENERAL SULLY'S STAFF             119

  VII UP THE MISSOURI                      130

 VIII PRAIRIE MARCHING                     149

   IX THE REVENGE OF THE COYOTES           167

    X THE FORT ON THE RIVER                183

   XI TRAILING THE HOSTILES                207

  XII THE BATTLE OF TAHKAHOKUTY            224

 XIII BESET IN THE BAD LANDS               253

  XIV TE-O-KUN-KO                          279

   XV IN THE WAKE OF THE GRASSHOPPERS      302

  XVI ADRIFT IN A BARGE                    319

 XVII CAPTURED BY GUERILLAS                345

XVIII THE DEFENCE OF GLASGOW               372

  XIX REUNITED                             394




ILLUSTRATIONS

                                                       PAGE
Catching up a heavy stick he hurled it at the
head of one of the warriors                  _Frontispiece_

She charged at him as he fired                          159

The Indian raised his rifle to shoot Corporal Wright    179

He was just pulling himself up                          247

Bill Cotton protects Al from the guerilla               355




WITH SULLY INTO THE SIOUX LAND




CHAPTER I

THE SCOURGE OF THE BORDER


"Papa is coming, mama! Papa is coming!"

Tommy Briscoe, brimming over with excitement, ran, shouting, across the
yard and darted into the kitchen, leaving a half emptied pail of milk
standing on the ground before the stable, where a small red calf he had
been feeding promptly upset it. In a moment he reappeared in the
doorway, his mother and little sister Annie behind him. Mrs. Briscoe, a
woman still evidently under middle age but whose sweet, serious face
showed plainly the lines which the patient endurance of hardships draw
upon the faces of most frontier women, looked down the faintly marked
road running away to the southward, surprise and perplexity in her
eyes. Along the road and still some distance away, a horseman was
galloping toward them furiously. The road led only to the Briscoe cabin,
which was distant a number of miles from its nearest neighbors. The
rider could hardly be any other than Mr. Briscoe; moreover, even at that
distance his wife could recognize the color and the short, jerking
gallop of the horse he was riding.

"It is certainly Chick," she said, half to herself and half to the
children. "But what can bring Tom home so soon? He did not expect to be
back before four or five o'clock and now it is hardly past noon. He must
have left Fort Ridgely almost as soon as he reached there. I hope
nothing is wrong."

"I hope he got the calico for my dolly's dress," exclaimed Annie,
dancing up and down in anticipation of the gift her father had promised
to bring her when he rode away in the morning.

"And I hope he got my coyote trap," added Tommy. "The coyotes will carry
off all our chickens, first thing we know."

He raised the short bow he was carrying and sent a little iron-tipped
arrow whizzing accurately into a tree-trunk fifty feet away. He had been
going out to the meadow in a few minutes, and he never went anywhere
without his bow and arrows, for he was sufficiently expert with them to
bring down now and then a squirrel or a quail and sometimes even a
prairie chicken.

The two children, unconscious of any cause for uneasiness in their
father's early return, followed Mrs. Briscoe as she stepped from the
door and walked a few paces down the road to meet the approaching rider,
who came on without slacking pace until he drew up beside them. His
horse, a small animal, was dripping with sweat and trembling with
exertion, for it was a hot August day and his rider was a large man. Mr.
Briscoe, for he it was, stepped down from the saddle rather stiffly. His
face was very grave as he kissed his wife and children.

"Did you get my coyote trap, papa?" cried the little boy, almost before
his father's foot had touched the ground.

"Did you bring my calico, papa?" chimed in Annie.

"No, my dears, I hadn't time. You had better run away a minute." He
glanced at his wife significantly.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" exclaimed Tommy. "But let me unsaddle Chick." He caught
the stirrup leather and swung himself nimbly into the saddle.

"Go and finish feeding the calf, Annie," said Mrs. Briscoe.

The little girl, with disappointed face, walked obediently toward the
stable, into which Tommy had already ridden.

"What has happened, Thomas?" exclaimed Mrs. Briscoe, her voice quivering
with anxiety, as soon as the children were beyond hearing.

Her husband laid his strong hand reassuringly on her arm.

"Don't be frightened, Mary," he said, "we shall doubtless get out of it
all right, but we must hurry. The Indians broke out at the Lower Agency
this morning; you know they have been becoming more and more restless
for a good while past. When I reached Fort Ridgely, about eleven,
Captain Marsh had already started for the Agency with about fifty men.
He may have the disturbance crushed by this time. I saw Lieutenant Geer,
who is left in command with forty men. Lieutenant Sheehan marched for
Fort Ripley yesterday with fifty men. Geer would have sent an escort
with me while I came for you but of course he could not spare a man from
the handful he has. I think it would not be really dangerous to stay
here, but to be on the safe side and not expose you and the children to
any risk we had perhaps better pack what we can on the wagon and go to
the fort for a few days till the trouble blows over. Where is Al?"

Mr. Briscoe was slapping the dust from his coat and hat as he talked. He
tried to speak in as reassuring terms and as confident a tone as
possible, but his wife intuitively knew that he was not telling her all
that was in his mind.

"Al just went up to the meadow to turn the wind-rows," she said. "Tommy
was going to help him as soon as he finished feeding the calf. Shall he
go for Al?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Briscoe called to the boy, who dashed away toward the meadow,
which lay only a short distance north, beyond a thicket of bushes and
small trees. Then she turned to her husband, who was walking into the
stable.

"You have had no dinner, Tom," she said.

"No, but I want none."

"Were any white people killed at the Agency?" she asked, as Mr. Briscoe
came out with a halter and started toward the pasture lot where their
other horse was grazing. He seemed to want to avoid questions, but he
answered:

"They say there were."

"Many?"

Her husband paused. He was not accustomed to conceal things from his
wife.

"Why," he replied, hesitatingly, "it is reported that all of them were
killed; but that is probably exaggerated, and very likely it will prove
there were none."

Mrs. Briscoe's face paled a little but she retained her composure. She
asked no more questions, for now she knew all that was necessary for the
present of the gravity of the situation. Moreover, she had supreme
confidence in her husband's judgment. He started again toward the
pasture, saying, as he glanced toward the lumber wagon standing near the
kitchen door:

"You had better begin putting things in the wagon, Mary. You know what
to take; only the most necessary and valuable things, for we shall
doubtless be back in a few days."

Indeed, Mrs. Briscoe knew well by hard experience what to take. Once
before during the brief year they had spent in the wild valley of the
Minnesota River, they had fled to Fort Ridgely, about twenty miles south
of their claim, at the alarm of an Indian uprising, which, however, in
that instance had fortunately proved false. That was in the Spring of
1862; it was now August of the same year. When they moved into the
country during the previous August, bringing the few possessions which
remained to them from the wreck of their fortunes in Missouri, their
nearest neighbor lived fourteen miles away. Now there were three pioneer
families within a radius of ten miles of them, and, in comparison with
the earlier isolation of their new home, they felt that the country was
becoming quite densely peopled. But away to the southwest and west of
them, not more than twenty-five miles distant, swarmed a host of
neighbors whose presence there always oppressed their imaginations like
the sight of a low, black bank of thunder clouds when they looked toward
that quarter of the horizon. For southwest, at Red Wood Falls, was the
Lower Agency, the assembling place of the M'dewakanton and the Wakpekute
Indians, and west was the Upper Agency, on the Yellow Medicine River,
where lived or congregated several thousand Sissetons and Wahpetons.
Still further west and extending away to Big Stone Lake, nearly one
hundred miles distant, were some other agencies and missions, where
greater or less bodies of Indians of the above tribes made their
headquarters. The Sissetons and Wahpetons on the Yellow Medicine were
not greatly to be feared. Many of them had become Christians under the
wise and kindly training of such heroic missionaries as Thomas L. Riggs
and Thomas S. Williamson, who with their families had for years lived
and maintained schools among them. Assisted by the United States
Government, many of these Indians had come into the possession of good
homes and farms and were rapidly becoming prosperous and accustomed to
the ways of civilization.

But the M'dewakantons and Wakpekutes at the Lower Agency were of a
different character. Few of them had ever shown a disposition to settle
down to industry, and generally they spent their time out on the
limitless western prairies of the then newly erected Territory of
Dakota, living the wild, free life of their ancestors and coming to the
Agency only when one of the annual payments was due them for the lands
in Minnesota which they had sold to the Government several years before.
At such times they were usually accompanied to the Agency by many
turbulent spirits from the Sioux tribes living further west, who came to
share in the Government's bounty and the feasting and celebrating which
commonly followed its distribution.

In the month of August, 1862, the distribution of the Government
payment, for various reasons, had been long delayed, and the wild
Indians, waiting in idleness for it to come instead of being, as they
should have been, out on the prairies hunting buffalo, became constantly
more restless, suspicious and arrogant as time went on. The idea gained
strength among them that the Government intended to cheat them of the
payment. Moreover, they had heard many rumors of the great civil war in
which the United States was engaged, and many white people among them
did not hesitate to make them believe that the Nation was about to be
overthrown, which, indeed, did not seem improbable in 1862 in view of
the many reverses which the Union armies were suffering. Such reports,
coupled with the fact that most of the United States troops along the
Minnesota frontier had been sent to the South and that those remaining
were few and scattered, caused the leaders of the hostile element among
the Minnesota Indians to believe that the time had come when the whites
might be driven back beyond the Mississippi, leaving the Indians again
in possession of all their old territories west of that stream. At the
time the Briscoe family had come into the country this feeling did not
yet exist among the Indians, but during the Spring and Summer of 1862
many exciting incidents had occurred at the Agencies and elsewhere, in
which the growing arrogance and self-confidence of the hostiles had been
made plain. Of these incidents Mr. Briscoe had been made aware through
his occasional trips to Fort Ridgely after supplies, and, having had
some previous experience of the ways of Indians in the Southwest, he had
been disquieted and apprehensive for the future. But he had kept his
misgivings to himself as far as possible, not caring to alarm his family
needlessly.

He knew that, early in August, Little Crow, the hereditary chief of the
M'dewakantons, had been deposed from the chieftainship by his fellow
tribesmen because of his attitude on an unpopular treaty made sometime
before, and that the crafty old chief was eager to find some means of
recovering his lost honors. He knew that Inkpaduta, the most cruel and
bloodthirsty leader of all the Sioux Nation, together with a throng of
his outlawed followers who had participated with him in the atrocious
massacre of the white settlers at Spirit Lake, Iowa, in 1857, was
hovering about the Lower Agency and mingling with the four or five
thousand dissatisfied Indians who were gathered there, waiting with
increasing impatience for the arrival of the annuity, and in a mood to
listen eagerly to any suggestions of massacre and pillage which might be
poured into their ears by Inkpaduta and his villainous companions. But
what he did not know until he rode into Fort Ridgely on that terrible
morning of August 18, 1862, was that on the previous day a wandering
party of young M'dewakanton braves had murdered three white men and two
white women near the hamlet of Acton, forty miles north of Fort Ridgely
and about twenty from his own claim; that the young assassins had then
ridden post-haste to the Lower Agency and with their news of bloodshed,
which was like a match in a powder magazine, had set the whole savage
horde assembled there into a frenzy for the blood of the whites; that
Little Crow, seeing in a flash the opportunity for regaining the chief
control of his tribe and, indeed, of the whole Sioux Nation, by leading
them in a triumphant war, had given the word to the Indians--who had
instinctively turned to him in the crisis--for a general uprising and
massacre of all the whites; and that, in accordance with his orders and
the mad impulse of the crowd, they had swarmed over the Agency,
slaughtering every white person whom they could find,--store-keepers,
Government employees, men, women, and children.

All these things Mr. Briscoe knew, though in a confused and imperfect
way, when he met his wife after his swift homeward journey from Fort
Ridgely. But, being a brave man and one who had served his country with
honor and courage during the Mexican War, he faced the situation with
coolness and at the same time began preparing swiftly for the instant
flight of his family to the fort. He realized that this was imperative
if they were to escape destruction.


When her husband, as previously mentioned, started for the pasture, Mrs.
Briscoe re├źntered the house, a log building of three rooms, quite
capacious for the region and the time, and pulling a trunk from the
corner of each of the bedrooms, began hastily filling them with the
family clothing and a few books, standard works, much worn but of good
editions and carefully kept. From a locked cupboard drawer in the
kitchen she brought a small box containing a few pieces of handsome
silver ware, some of recent pattern but most of it old, into which she
looked carefully before depositing it in one of the trunks. Two small
oil paintings in frames she packed carefully, and when these had been
disposed of in the trunks little remained in the slenderly furnished
house except its rude furniture, largely homemade, the bedding and the
pots and pans and crockery dishes in the kitchen. She had just begun
taking these down and arranging them in a large box when a boy of about
fifteen years, straight and tall for his age, with light complexion,
light hair, and keen gray eyes, bounded into the kitchen from outside,
closely followed by Tommy, who was merely a smaller, eight-year-old
edition of himself. The elder lad stopped short, regarding Mrs.
Briscoe's preparations for departure with startled eyes.

"What's the matter, mother?" he exclaimed. "What are you going to do?"

"Your father has just come back from the fort, Al. Haven't you seen
him?"

"No, mother."

"He has gone to the pasture for Monty. We must drive to the fort at
once, this afternoon. The Indians have broken out at the Lower Agency
and the report at Fort Ridgely is that they have killed many white
people."

"Whew-w!" whistled Al. "That's bad, isn't it? What will become of the
hay?"

"Let's stay here and fight 'em!" cried Tommy, his head thrown back and
his eyes flashing. "Why should we run away from a lot of bad Indians?
They won't dare hurt us with papa here."

"Hush, Tommy," said his mother, yet not without a glance of pride at the
fearless little fellow, so like his father. "There are a great many of
them and we are far away from help."

"I don't care," persisted Tommy. "We could block up the doors and
windows, and they can't shoot through these thick logs."

"No, Tommy," interrupted his brother, patting the small boy's shoulder,
"but they could burn the house, and then where should we be?"

"Run for the woods."

"And be shot there, out of hand. No, no! Mother, are the trunks ready to
put in the wagon?"

"Yes, but wait for your father to help you with them. You and Tommy can
take out the mattresses and pillows. The fort will probably be full of
refugees, and we shall need our bedding."

At this moment Mr. Briscoe entered.

"Hello, Al, boy," he said, in his usual tone, as if nothing unusual had
happened.

"Hello, father," returned Al, while Tommy ran to Mr. Briscoe for another
kiss. "You got back early."

"Yes," answered his father, simply. He glanced at his son, and the two
pairs of steady gray eyes looked understandingly into each other for a
second. Then Mr. Briscoe walked to a shelf and took down an army musket
which hung, together with a double-barrelled shotgun, on a rack beneath
it. The musket was loaded, but he took off the old percussion cap and
replaced it with a new one. He loaded the shotgun from a powder horn and
shot flask on the shelf and then carefully examined a large, six-shot,
44-calibre Starr revolver, also already loaded, of a model at that time
recent, in which each chamber was loaded from the front with powder and
ball and fired by a percussion cap. By this time his wife, aided by
Annie, had the kitchen utensils in the box. Having put the weapons in
condition for instant use, Mr. Briscoe said:

"Now, Al, we can load these heavy things in the wagon. We want to take
the saddle and the new plough, too; we can't afford to have them
destroyed while we're gone. Tommy, turn Spot out in the pasture with the
calf. She can get water from the creek, and there is plenty of grass for
her. It is a good thing that calf isn't entirely weaned yet. We will
leave the barn door open for the chickens to go in at night. Monty and
Chick are feeding now. As soon as they have finished we must be ready to
hitch up."

When they had placed the first trunk in the wagon and were alone, Mr.
Briscoe turned to his son.

"Al," he said, speaking rapidly and in a low voice, "be careful not to
alarm your mother and the children, but you must know that we are in the
greatest danger and that our only chance of safety lies in getting to
the fort without the least delay. The Indians at the Lower Agency have
gone mad. They have killed every white they could lay their hands on
and have started to sweep the whole country clean. Some of them may come
here at any moment. My boy--" He laid his hand on Al's shoulder and his
voice became very earnest. He spoke almost as if he felt a premonition
of coming events. "My boy, I know I can trust you; you are almost a man
in judgment and understanding. If we should encounter Indians before we
reach the fort and anything should happen to me, remember that your
first care must be your mother and your little brother and sister.
Protect them with your life but keep cool and do not throw it away. And
afterward,--well, my boy, just do your duty by our dear ones and
yourself as you honestly see it; no one can do more. And remember always
that you are the son of a soldier."

Al's face paled a little beneath the tan while his father was speaking
but he returned the latter's gaze steadily until he had finished. Then
he replied:

"Why, father, nothing is going to happen to you. But of course I shall
remember what you say and always try to do the best I can by mother and
the children."

"I know you will, Al. Now, let us load that trunk and box and the rest
of the things."

They continued their work rapidly while Mrs. Briscoe was busy putting up
some food to take along and placing the rest in the root cellar back of
the house where it might keep from spoiling as long as possible during
their absence. The day was hot and sultry, but the sky was beautifully
blue, with here and there white, fleecy clouds floating lazily across
it. Green, gently rolling prairies stretched away on every hand, broken
here and there by patches of dark, cool woodland where the trees stood
clustered on a slope or marked the winding course of some ravine or
sluggish creek. From the Briscoe cabin could be caught glimpses between
the trees north of it of the hay-cocks on the sun-flooded meadow, where
Al and Tommy had been working. It was a tract of native prairie grass
and a small one, for Mr. Briscoe had mowed it with a scythe. No sound
broke the stillness of the early afternoon except the rustle of the
breeze through the treetops and the piping of a chickadee which had
perched on a sunflower stalk beside the stable. It seemed impossible
that in the midst of such peaceful surroundings the horrors of savage
massacre and warfare could be abroad in the land; and so Al thought as
he looked about him, just as his father and he finished loading the last
of the household goods which they intended to take with them.

They were starting to the barn after the horses when they heard the
breaking of branches and a commotion among the bushes in the strip of
woodland toward the meadow. Mr. Briscoe and his son turned in sudden
apprehension and saw six Indians, one after another, issue from the
woods and ride toward them. They were mounted on ponies and were naked
except for breech-clouts, while their heads were decked with feathers
and streaming war-bonnets, and their faces and bodies hideously bedaubed
with paint. Mr. Briscoe turned and walked deliberately toward the house.

"Don't run," he cautioned Al, in a low tone. "But go in and stick the
revolver in your pocket under your coat, and set the guns just inside
the kitchen door. Tell your mother if she hears a shot to run with the
children from the bedroom door and hide in the rushes along the creek.
I'll meet the Indians here." He stopped by the kitchen door. Then
suddenly he asked, "Where's Tommy?"

"In the house, I think," answered Al. But Tommy was not in the house. He
had bethought himself of the eggs and was in the barn hunting them,
unconscious of the approaching visitors.

Al disappeared in the kitchen, and Mr. Briscoe walked toward the ominous
group of callers, who came on in silence until they reached the door,
each holding with one hand a rifle or musket laid across the neck of his
pony. They looked at the loaded wagon, which betrayed the impending
flight of the family.

"How," said Mr. Briscoe, smiling and extending his hand.

No responsive smiles lit the faces of the Indians. They regarded him in
gloomy silence while their leader, a fellow of lighter hue than the
rest, evidently a half-breed, sprang to the ground and, ignoring Mr.
Briscoe's extended hand, said, gruffly, in broken English,

"We want food."

"You shall have it," replied Mr. Briscoe. "Wait a minute."

He stepped toward the door but the half-breed was before him.

"We take what we want," he said, jerking his head toward his followers.
"Come on."

Mr. Briscoe saw that conciliation was impossible. Once within the house
they would have the family at their mercy. He stepped inside the door
and with one push of his powerful arm thrust the half-breed out on the
step.

"Stay out, and I'll feed you. But not if you come in," he said.

Al, looking through from the next room, saw his father's action and
instantly understood that it meant trouble. With the sudden authority of
a man in the emergency, he exclaimed to his mother, pushing her toward
the south door,

"Run to the creek, you and Annie! Keep out of sight; hide in the reeds.
We'll take care of Tommy."

Then he ran back through the house toward his father. He reached him in
less time than it takes to tell it; but the half-breed, cursing
frightfully as he reeled back from Mr. Briscoe's thrust, had already
shouted to his companions,

"Shoot him!"

One of the mounted Indians threw his musket to his shoulder but Mr.
Briscoe, seizing the shotgun which Al had set beside the door, was
quicker than the savage. His shot rang out and the Indian pitched
headlong to the ground. Before he could cock the other hammer or even
spring aside from the doorway, the half-breed's rifle cracked.

"My God! Mary!" gasped Mr. Briscoe, clutching his hand to his breast. He
wheeled, staggered a step or two into the room and then sunk to the
floor at Al's feet, dead.

It had all happened so quickly that the poor boy's brain was reeling
with the horror of it. But in an instant he saw the half-breed's form
silhouetted in the doorway, an evil grin overspreading his face.
Mechanically Al raised the revolver in his hand and fired. Without a
word, his father's murderer tumbled backward through the doorway and
rolled out on the ground. Al stepped to the door. In one swift glance he
saw three of the four remaining Indians galloping furiously away toward
the meadow; he saw Tommy, half way between the barn and house, running
toward the latter, and he saw the fourth Indian, leaning far over from
his pony's side, swooping down upon the boy. The warrior looked back
toward the house and in that instant's glimpse Al noted that he was a
huge fellow, over six feet tall and that along his left cheek, down his
neck and clear out on his naked shoulder, extended a long, livid scar as
of an old and terrible wound by a sabre or knife. Again Al fired. But
the Indian was some distance away and the bullet apparently missed him
altogether. Before Al could get another aim the savage had caught Tommy,
screaming and struggling, from the ground and, swinging him up on the
pony's back, had ridden swiftly after his companions.

For a moment Al was beside himself with grief and rage. His brother was
being carried away under his very eyes, probably to torture and death,
and he could do nothing. He ran out madly after the fleeing Indians,
shouting senseless threats and waving his arms. But he dared not fire,
for the last rider held Tommy, struggling fiercely in his iron grip, as
a shield between himself and pursuing bullets. In a few seconds all the
Indians had disappeared in the strip of woods and then Al remembered his
mother and sister. He abandoned his futile pursuit and ran to the house,
not even glancing at the dead Indian in the yard nor the one before the
door. Rushing into the kitchen, he threw himself in a paroxysm of grief
beside his father's body, crying out to him and vainly striving to
discover a sign of life in the quiet face, already grown so peaceful
under the soothing touch of death. At length, with dry, silent sobs
shaking his body, he rose slowly to his feet, closed and locked the
door, composed his father's limbs and spread a cloth over his face. Then
he picked up the musket, got the powder horn and box of bullets from the
shelf, and, with one last glance at the still form on the floor, ran
swiftly through the house and out, striking directly down the slope
toward the marshy ground along the creek.




CHAPTER II

THE FLIGHT THROUGH THE DARKNESS


Al had almost reached the nearest reeds when he heard a shot off to his
left and looking in that direction saw Spot, the cow, sink to her knees
and then topple over on her side. An Indian with rifle held aloof,
exulting over this piece of slaughter, was galloping toward her. Al
crouched low and ran into the reeds.

"Mother! Mother!" he called, softly, for the Indian was too far away to
hear.

"Here," answered his mother's voice, not far off, and in a moment he had
crept to her. Annie, crying softly, was beside her, and they were lying
well hidden in a dense thicket of reeds close to the creek.

"Where is your father?" whispered Mrs. Briscoe, the instant he reached
her, gazing at him with wide, terror-stricken eyes.

"Why, he--he--can't come now," Al faltered.

"He is killed," said Mrs. Briscoe, simply, in a lifeless voice.

Her son did not look at her.

"Yes," he said, almost inaudibly.

It seemed to him that the end of all things was closing down upon them.
His mother did not weep; she was past tears. She did not even move, but
her face was almost like chalk.

"And Tommy?" she asked presently.

"The Indians have carried him away," answered Al.

Mrs. Briscoe bowed her head upon her knees.

"Oh, my little boy, my baby boy!" she moaned. "Why should I live any
longer with them gone?"

Al, stunned by the tragedies of the past few minutes, had nearly reached
the lowest depths of despair. He felt numb and helpless, but at his
mother's heartbroken cry a sudden rush of vitality and determination
reanimated him. He recalled his father's words: "Remember that your
first care must be your mother and your little brother and sister." He
leaned forward and put his arm around his mother's shoulders.

"Mother," he said, "don't say that. You must live for Annie's sake and
mine,--and Tommy's. We shall get him back; they will not hurt him, he
is so young and bright. When we reach the fort the soldiers will send
out after him."

By a mighty effort Mrs. Briscoe controlled herself. Her son's words had
aroused her.

"You are right, Al," she said. "I must live for you and Annie and Tommy.
But can we start for the fort now?"

"I am afraid we shall have to stay here till dark," he replied. "The
Indians are still around. I will crawl up where I can get a look."

Leaving the musket beside his mother he crept up through the reeds
until, by raising his head cautiously, he could see the house, about
three hundred feet away at the top of the slope. An Indian was coming
out of the barn leading Chick and Monty, both animals rearing and
plunging wildly, for a horse brought up in civilization fears an Indian
as much as he does a wolf. Al also saw columns of smoke beginning to
arise from the roofs of the house and barn and realized with a terrible
pang that his father's body was about to be incinerated in the ruins of
his home. He felt a mad desire to rush from his concealment upon the
savages and to fight them single-handed. But he restrained himself, for
he realized that he would have no chance even against the four who were
certainly there and who, for all he knew, might now have been joined by
others. He lay there watching until the house and barn were wrapped in
flames. Then two of the Indians rode out in opposite directions and
making wide detours, circled around toward the swampy tract. Then he
crept hastily back to his mother and gave her the revolver, the two
empty chambers of which he had already re-loaded, himself taking the
musket.

"They are going to search for us, mother," he whispered. "We must keep
perfectly still. If they should find us and I should be hit, shoot Annie
and then yourself. Never let them take you alive. But if there are only
four of them we still have a good chance."

No more was said, and for a long time they lay quiet, their ears
sharpened to unnatural keenness, listening to the snapping of reeds in
the marsh to the east and west of them but never very close. The
conviction at last came upon Al that their hunters, few in number, were
afraid rather than anxious to find them, and he began to breathe easier.
After more than an hour had elapsed he heard horses splashing in the
creek above their hiding-place, and presently he crept again to the edge
of the reeds. The house and barn were smouldering heaps of ashes, and
the wagon was gone. No one was around the ruins but presently he saw,
far off on a rise of the prairie to the eastward several horsemen, mere
specks in the distance. He conjectured that it was the party which had
wrought their ruin, bound for the Millers, their nearest neighbors,
seven miles away. He wished ardently that he might warn the Millers but
it was out of the question, so he went back to his mother and sister,
and through the remaining hours of the afternoon and until darkness fell
they lay in their concealment. Then very cautiously, under cover of the
darkness, he piloted them across the creek, over several hills and low
places, and so at last, two or three miles south of the claim, into the
faintly marked road leading away to Fort Ridgely.

It is needless to enter into the details of that long and
nerve-wracking journey. Not a moment of it was free from the dreadful
fear of encountering enemies in the darkness, and, exhausted by
excitement and grief, they dragged their way through the night, stopping
every few yards to listen or peer into the gloom. Annie, utterly worn
out, sometimes fell to the ground asleep, and then Al and Mrs. Briscoe
had to take turns carrying her. Here and there at wide intervals around
the vast circle of the horizon appeared a far distant, dull, yellow glow
which they knew only too well must arise from other wrecked and burning
homes like their own. Now and then the exhaustion of Mrs. Briscoe and
Annie compelled them to sink down for a few moments' rest and it was
almost daybreak when they finally reached a point which Al knew must be
close to the cabin of the Olsens, about eight miles from Fort Ridgely,
though they could see nothing of the house in the darkness. Evidently,
therefore, it had not been burned, else they could have discerned the
smouldering embers. Al saw the first faint streaks of dawn in the East
and, realizing that they dared go no further by daylight, he led the
way to a small clump of timber which he remembered, lying about a
quarter of a mile east of the Olsens' buildings. He found a safe
hiding-place for his mother and sister in a dense thicket of bushes
under the trees, within a few feet of which he could himself lie and
have a clear view of the Olsen house and its immediate vicinity. Here
they remained until probably ten o'clock in the morning, Al all the time
keeping a close watch on the house. Not a person nor an animal was about
the place save a few chickens which he could see scratching in the yard,
and he concluded that the Olsens must have been warned, perhaps by Mr.
Briscoe himself on his homeward ride, and had escaped to the fort the
day before. The Briscoes had not tasted food since the previous noon,
and though neither his mother nor Annie would confess to being hungry,
Al knew that they all needed nourishment in order to be able to continue
their journey after nightfall. He determined to creep up to the deserted
house in the hope of finding some food there, if nothing more than a few
eggs in the log stable. Handing the revolver to his mother and dragging
the musket along beside him, he made his way with painful slowness
across the strip of open prairie between the woods and the house. On his
way he saw nothing to alarm him, though he noted that just west of the
house was a rise in the prairie, evidently concealing a depression
beyond, into which he could not see. But no tree tops were visible over
the rise, and he did not believe that any Indians would attempt to hide
in an open valley. He made a hurried search through the house, which
consisted of a single room, and was rewarded by finding a scant
half-loaf of very stale bread. Nothing else could he find, for the
family had evidently taken all their possessions, including food, in
their flight. He was just about to start to the stable in a search for
eggs when his heart suddenly seemed to stop beating at the sound of
galloping hoofs just back of the house. To his startled ears it sounded
like a hundred horses. His only thought was to get back to his mother
and sister and, seizing the musket, he dashed out of the doorway and
leaped away toward the trees, casting only one glance behind. It showed
him a group of eight or ten mounted Indians just riding up on the other
side of the house. His apprehension was such that he did not notice that
they were dressed in civilized garments until he heard a voice shout in
English and in a reassuring tone;

"Wait, boy, wait! we no hurt you!"

He ventured another glance behind and saw all the party save one
standing still, their rifles held aloft in sign of peace. The remaining
one was still riding toward him but his rifle was also held up. Al
realized that they could easily have shot him in his tracks had they
wished, and their failure to do so encouraged him. He halted while the
lone Indian rode up to him, dismounted and extended his hand, which Al
hesitatingly took. But the grasp was hearty and firm.

"We no hurt you," repeated the Indian. "We Christian Indian from Yellow
Medicine. We hunting for whites to save from the bad M'dewakantons that
make the much kill. We take you to Fort Ridgely. More white people
there?" He pointed to the timber toward which Al had been running.

The boy hesitated a moment. The Indian's appearance and words, and
still more his manner, inspired his confidence, and he found a brighter
hope springing up within him than he had felt since his father's death.
But should he trust his mother and Annie to these Indians when they had
just suffered so terribly at the hands of others of the same race?
Perhaps they were deceiving him in order to draw the rest of his party
into their power and would then kill or torture them all. But, on the
other hand, if the Indians were hostile he was already at their mercy,
so his protection was lost to his mother and sister. Could they make
their way to the fort alone if he should deny their presence now and go
with the Indians himself, either to safety or death? He did not believe
they could. But something kept telling him he must trust the Indian who
stood before him, so friendly and earnest. He was every inch an Indian
but his face lacked the expression of savage ferocity borne on the faces
of the war party which had attacked them the day before. It seemed
softened by better influences, and Al could hardly believe that he was
treacherous. He took his difficult resolution.

"Yes," he answered. "There are more over there."

The Indian smiled. "Good," said he. "We take you all to the fort. You go
get them." Then he added a little proudly, "We save since yesterday,
one, two, six white family."

Al went into the woods and informed his mother that rescuers had come to
them and, without mentioning their character, led her and Annie out.
Mrs. Briscoe was much alarmed when she first saw the party of Indians
assembled to meet them, but the latter greeted her so kindly and
sympathetically that she soon felt easier. Three of the red men
dismounted in order that she and Annie and Al might ride; and so, with
the Indians leading their ponies, the cavalcade started southward at
once in the direction of the fort. Al found that his confidence had not
been misplaced, for in less than two hours they rode into the fort, safe
but very weary and depressed.

Fort Ridgely was nothing more than a collection of buildings,--quarters
for troops, storehouses, stables, and the other structures necessary for
a permanent military establishment, standing on an exposed hill
surrounded by ravines and having no stockade or other defences whatever
around it; for it was designed merely as a cantonment and supply depot
and not as a defensive fortification. When the Briscoes entered it on
that afternoon of August 19, it presented a scene of confusion and
distress hard to imagine. It was thronged with refugees,--men, women,
and children, from all the surrounding country, many of them destitute
of everything save the clothes they wore. Some were wounded or badly
burned in escaping from houses set on fire by their assailants; and
others were arriving now and then who had escaped almost miraculously
from the devastated section about the Lower Agency or from more distant
points in other directions. These people were being fed from the stores
in the Government warehouse; and the post barracks were not large enough
to accommodate them, for, fortunately, more troops had arrived since the
day before.

Mrs. Briscoe soon found a friend in the warm-hearted Mrs. Olsen, who, as
Al had conjectured, had come in on the previous day with her husband
and children after having received warning of the uprising from Mr.
Briscoe. Mrs. Olsen burst into tears on learning of the sad fate of the
man to whom they very likely owed their own lives, and of the carrying
off of poor little Tommy. She instantly brought them food, and after
they had refreshed themselves, she insisted on Mrs. Briscoe and Annie
taking her bed in their covered wagon and resting, at least until more
commodious quarters could be found for them. Having seen his mother and
sister thus as comfortably cared for as present circumstances would
permit, Al started out to look for another place for them which would
not so greatly inconvenience the Olsens, and to learn what could be done
about sending pursuers after the Indians who had carried away Tommy.

Making his way among the groups of people, many of them disconsolate and
weeping, and among the wagons, the animals, and the heaps of household
goods scattered in confusion over the open parade ground in the centre
of the fort, Al suddenly felt a hand slap his shoulder while a familiar
voice said,

"Hello, Al Briscoe! When did you get here?"

He looked around and saw Wallace Smith, a young fellow of about his own
age, whom he had met at the fort several times during the past year when
he had come in after supplies. Wallace's father kept a general
merchandise store just outside the fort, at which the Briscoes had done
most of their trading, and it was toward this store that Al was walking
when he encountered Wallace.

"I just came in with my mother and sister," returned Al, shaking hands,
and then he related briefly the events of the last twenty-four hours.
Wallace was very sympathetic and at once took Al to the store. Here Mr.
Smith told him that he would find a place for Mrs. Briscoe and Annie to
sleep that night, in one of the rooms occupied by his own family above
the store. As for Al, he could sleep in the store itself, in company
with a number of men who were to be accommodated there. But when Al
mentioned his hope of having an immediate pursuit made after Tommy's
captors, Mr. Smith shook his head.

"I'm afraid you will find it can't be done now, my boy," he said. "There
are too few men here. But you can see the commanding officer and ask
him."

The boys, accordingly, left the store and walked toward the headquarters
building.

"Can't the Indians capture this place pretty easily" asked Al, looking
about. "I don't see what there is to keep them back."

Wallace looked serious. "Well, I don't know," he answered. "The officers
seem to think we can stand them off if they come, and I'm afraid they
surely will. Most of the men are busy now putting the buildings in shape
for defence. There are about a hundred soldiers of the Fifth Minnesota
Infantry here, for Lieutenant Sheehan was recalled by a messenger sent
yesterday, and he got back with his men a little while ago. He is in
command now. Have you heard about Captain Marsh?"

Al had not.

"Why, he marched for the Lower Agency yesterday morning with forty-five
men, as soon as he heard of the outbreak there. They were ambushed by
the Indians at the ferry across the Minnesota and, though they seem to
have fought splendidly, all the men were killed except fifteen, who
finally got back here. Captain Marsh himself was drowned in trying to
swim the river. So, you see, there is a third of our force cut off at
one blow. But a messenger was sent after Major Galbraith,--he is the
agent, you know, at the Upper Agency,--at the same time that one went
for Lieutenant Sheehan. Major Galbraith started yesterday for St. Paul
with a company of half-breed recruits for the Union army. They are
called the Renville Rangers. They ought to be back here pretty soon and
will add fifty more men. Then there are a good many refugees, probably
one hundred, who can fight, and we have several cannon, with a regular
army sergeant in charge of them. The Indians, you know, are deadly
afraid of cannon. So we ought to be able to make a pretty good defence,
though I wish there were a stockade."

"Did you say that Major Galbraith's company is made up of half-breeds?"
inquired Al, remembering with a shudder the evil face of the wretch who
had shot his father and whom he himself had killed.

"Yes. But most of them are reliable fellows, otherwise they would not
be willing to leave their country and go South to fight the rebels."

By this time they had reached the headquarters building, and Al saw,
standing in front of it, five or six of the Indians who had brought them
in.

"Who are those Indians, Wallace?" he asked. "They are some of the party
who rescued us."

Wallace looked closely at the red men, who were standing idle with their
ponies, evidently waiting for some one who was inside the building.

"Why, those are Sissetons from the Upper Agency," he said. "Probably
John Otherday, Solomon Twostars or some of the Renvilles are with them.
They have been going around the country all to-day and last night,
warning white people and bringing them in and there are other parties of
Sissetons and Wahpetons doing the same thing; though it's mighty
dangerous business, for the hostiles are almost as bitter against them
as against the whites. Very few of the Upper Indians seem to have joined
the uprising. They are mostly Christians, you know, and their conduct
shows the great work of the missionaries."

The boys entered the headquarters building, and though Lieutenant
Sheehan was surrounded by many men, all urgently anxious to transact
their business with him, Al presently found an opportunity to tell him
of Tommy's capture and to ask that men be sent after him. The officer
listened intently to the story and when it was finished, laid his hand
kindly on Al's shoulder.

"My boy," said he, with much emotion, "God knows, I wish I could send
men after your brother instantly; I know how you feel and especially how
your mother must feel, and I would gladly do it for your poor father's
sake, for he was a gallant officer in the Mexican War. But there are two
dozen people here already who have lost members of their families in the
same way; and for many of them the situation is much worse than yours,
because those they have lost are grown and are likely to be killed or
tortured by the Indians, while your brother is a child, and I don't
believe they will hurt him. But I have had to tell every one the same
thing; I can do nothing now. This place is likely to be attacked by a
thousand or more Indians at any moment and we have not one-tenth enough
men to defend it properly. Not a man can be spared from here now, for it
will be all we can do to save ourselves and all these women and children
from massacre. Probably in a few days we shall have hundreds of troops
from St. Paul and the East, and then we can go after these infernal red
murderers and punish them and rescue their living victims. But,
meantime, you must be prepared to stand with the rest of us in defending
your mother and little sister. And I think you are a lad who will do
your share." He glanced approvingly at Al's straight figure and steady
eyes.

"I shall try to, sir," answered Al.

"I know you will," said the Lieutenant. "You had better go and help the
men who are working on the storehouse."

He pointed to the building mentioned and then turned to several men who
were waiting for him; while Al, very much downcast at his failure but
still feeling a little more hopeful of Tommy's safety because of
Lieutenant Sheehan's words, walked out again with Wallace.




CHAPTER III

BESIEGED IN FORT RIDGELY


The remainder of that afternoon and the following night passed without
serious alarms, but it was heavy with labor for the little garrison. The
roofs of the storehouses and of the barracks for enlisted men were
covered with earth to protect them against fire arrows, and their sides
were loop-holed. Earth and log barricades were erected at various points
overlooking the heads of ravines. Little could be done to protect the
officers' frame quarters or the log stables and outbuildings, which lay,
much exposed, at the western corner of the fort. Early in the evening
Major Galbraith's Renville Rangers came into the fort, forty-five
strong, weary with a twelve-hour forced march from St. Peter, where they
had been overtaken by the courier sent to recall them. A large majority
of these men remained loyal to their duty during the ensuing days but a
few of them, their slumbering ferocity roused by the reports of the
uprising of their savage kindred, skulked away and joined the hostiles,
committing before they left an act of dastardly treachery. Several small
cannon, in charge of the gallant Ordnance Sergeant John Jones, of the
United States regular army, were placed in commanding positions in the
fort, and that night a heavy chain guard was posted all around the
place. But, though several false alarms were given, no Indians appeared,
and the night passed in reasonable quiet. Mrs. Briscoe, still too
overwhelmed with dumb grief to do more than mechanically comply with the
arrangements made for her and Annie by Al and her friends, passed the
night not uncomfortably in the hospitable but over-crowded home of the
Smiths; and Al slept with a dozen men and boys, including Wallace, on
the floor of the store below, his musket and revolver beside him.

The early part of the next day was spent like the one preceding it, in
further strengthening the barricades and buildings, in cleaning weapons,
and, beyond that, simply in endless discussion of the ghastly events of
the past few days and uneasy speculation upon the future. Though many of
the refugees would have gladly given all that remained of their
shattered fortunes to get to St. Paul or some other place of assured
security, the attempt was not to be thought of, for it was known that
the hostiles were skulking all about the post and any party which might
start out for the East would undoubtedly be set upon and destroyed. A
few scattered survivors of the massacre continued to come in now and
then, exhausted, famished, often wounded, and always nearly insane from
the unnumbered perils and rigorous hardships through which they had
passed. An attack on the fort was expected at any time, as Lieutenant
Sheehan's words to Al had indicated, and the only cause for wonder was
that it had not come sooner. Indeed, had the defenders but known it,
Little Crow had been urgent in the councils of the Indians for an
overwhelming assault on Fort Ridgely on the evening of the eighteenth,
immediately after the bloody defeat of Captain Marsh's detachment. But
some of his more cautious followers opposed the plan on the ground that
many of the warriors were still out over the country, murdering settlers
and destroying property, so that the full strength of their forces could
not yet be brought against the fort. This view was eagerly sustained by
the strong element among the hostiles who were opposed to the whole
outbreak on principle, seeing in it nothing but ultimate disaster for
their people, yet who did not dare openly to champion the cause of the
whites for fear of being summarily dealt with by their more violent
associates. This element hoped that a delay in the attack on the fort
might enable the whites to gather a sufficient force there to repulse it
when it should be made, and assuredly the delay had rendered it possible
for the defenders to place the post in a much better state of defence by
the afternoon of August 20 than it had been two days before.

It was about one o'clock on that hot, still afternoon when Al and
Wallace stepped out of the Smiths' store, having just finished their
dinner. They were about to start over to the storehouse of the fort,
where some work was still being done, when Wallace noticed a loose horse
wandering down into one of the ravines not far from the store.

"That's one of our horses," he exclaimed. "He must have slipped his
halter. If he goes far the Indians will catch him. Come on; let's get
him!"

Followed by Al, he dashed into the stable for a halter and then started
on a run for the ravine. The latter was quite wide and thickly fringed
with bushes and small trees, while the bottom of it was carpeted with
luxuriant grass, which the horse was nibbling as they came up. But their
appearance startled him and with a snort he leaped past them and
galloped on some distance further, when he again halted. The boys
followed, Wallace this time approaching more diplomatically and saying
in a soothing tone,

"Come, Frank; come boy! Nice boy!"

"He'll give you a jolt in the ribs if you get too close," warned Al, as
he noticed the animal begin to edge his hind feet around in the
direction of Wallace.

But Frank was not so mischievous as he looked; for in a moment Wallace
had the halter on his head and the boys were just about to turn again up
the ravine toward the fort, when, without the least warning, there
sprang from the bushes not ten yards behind them two Indian warriors,
dressed only in breech-clouts and both armed with bows and arrows.
Uttering not a sound they sprang toward the boys with the evident
intention of taking them alive. Al and Wallace were too dumbfounded to
move until the Indians were almost upon them. Then Wallace dropped the
horse's halter and, catching up a heavy stick lying at his feet, hurled
it at the head of one of the warriors. It caught the savage fairly
across the face and he reeled for an instant from the force of the blow,
while his companion, somewhat daunted, halted also. The boys ran at full
speed up the ravine, not even pausing to note the effect of Wallace's
throw, which he afterward admitted had found its mark by pure accident.
They had gone but a few yards when an arrow whizzed past Al's head and
struck in the ground in front of them. They only ran the faster. A
half-dozen more arrows flew by them and then Wallace uttered a cry of
pain as one struck him fairly in the left arm. But by this time,
fortunately, they were at the head of the ravine and only a few feet
from the nearest buildings. Al stole a glance behind him, to see that
their two pursuers had been joined by more than a dozen others; and then
the boys dashed around the corner of the building, out of range,
shouting at the tops of their voices,

"Indians! Indians!"

All over the fort men sprang to their feet, seized their guns, and such
as were not already behind them rushed to the barricades and protected
buildings. But by no means all of them had reached cover when a
scattering, but numerous volley of musket shots and arrows was poured
into the fort, not only out of the ravine from which the boys had
escaped but from a number of others. Al then saw why the Indians
following them had not fired on them with guns, for that would have
spoiled the contemplated surprise of the fort, which their unexpected
appearance in the ravine in pursuit of Frank had, perhaps, precipitated.

The defenders replied to the Indian fire so promptly and vigorously
that the savages fell back from their first rush and concealed
themselves about the heads of the ravines, whence they began a steady
and well-sustained fire. The women and children, however, had nearly all
reached places of shelter, when Al hurried up to the Smiths' store after
his musket and revolver, almost dragging Wallace who, beside himself
with pain, was frantically trying to pull the deeply imbedded arrow from
his arm. They encountered Mr. Smith and his wife, accompanied by Mrs.
Briscoe and Annie, who were fleeing from the exposed store, through
which the Indian bullets were crashing, to the shelter of the barracks
building.

"Here, Al," cried Mr. Smith, thrusting the latter's musket, revolver,
and ammunition into his hands. "Don't go in there; you'll be killed.
Come on, Wallace. God, lad, are you hurt?"

Wallace made no reply, but all of them ran, crouching low, to the
barracks, which they reached safely after a race of a few rods, though
it seemed like a mile with the bullets and arrows whistling about them.
Here Dr. Alfred Muller, the brave assistant surgeon of the fort, aided
by his heroic wife, took charge of Wallace and soon had the arrow
extracted from his arm and the painful, though not serious, wound
properly dressed. It was the first of nearly a score of similar cases
which the Mullers were called upon to treat in Fort Ridgely. Wallace was
much distressed at his inability to take his place with the defenders,
but Al and Mr. Smith had to leave him in the surgeon's charge and hasten
out to join the rest of the active garrison. On their way they
encountered Sergeant Jones, working desperately with several other men
over the vent of one of the small cannon. Al had already wondered dimly
why he had heard none of the cannon firing, but he understood after Mr.
Smith had asked,

"Why don't you open with the guns, sergeant? It would scare the Indians
worse than anything."

"Can't," replied the sergeant, without looking up from his work. "Some
of Major Galbraith's infernal half-breeds have spiked every one of the
guns and then skipped out. But I'll have them in action in a few
minutes."

He continued boring furiously with the drill he was using to clear the
nail from the gun's vent and in a moment he shouted,

"Hooray! She's clear!" Then he added, addressing the cannoneer of the
detachment, "Give them two-second shell and spherical case, fast as you
can work her. Sweep the head of the ravine and aim low. I'll see if I
can open the next one."

Drill in hand, he rushed away toward another gun some distance off,
totally oblivious to the fire opened on him as soon as he appeared on
the open ground. Mr. Smith and Al followed him and took their places
among a number of others already there, behind a log barricade which
stood not far from the next gun and facing the post stables out beyond
the western corner of the fort. The men around them were chiefly
refugees and some of them were greatly excited, firing rapidly and
without aim, while a few others crouched down and did not attempt to
shoot at all. There were no officers among them and no one seemed to be
in command.

"Don't fire without something to aim at, Al," said Mr. Smith. "Wait
till you see the flash of a gun or a movement in the grass and then
shoot at the spot."

Mr. Smith was armed with a muzzle-loading rifle, which he was firing
very slowly and carefully, and Al followed his example, for neither of
them had much ammunition. Mr. Smith knew that the other men with them
were not much better off, for the small arms ammunition supply of the
fort was perilously low, and he tried with some success to induce them
to fire more deliberately. The panic-stricken skulkers, however, he
could not arouse to their duty. They merely lay still and cursed him
when he told them to get up and sneered at their cowardice.

Out to their left, Sergeant Jones was still trying unsuccessfully to
open the vent of the field-gun. Occasionally the boom of the gun which
he had already repaired roared out above the crackle of musketry, and in
the ravine which its fire was sweeping the Indians gave way and retired.
Presently he succeeded in getting the second gun into action, and the
assailants disappeared from that front also; and by the time he had them
all working the Indians had become discouraged. Their fire gradually
slackened, and as night approached, their main body drew off; though
enough warriors still remained in well concealed places to maintain a
desultory fire, and the weary garrison, resting on their arms, caught
but fitful repose through the hours of darkness, for no one could tell
when the attack might be renewed.

The fort remained in a state of siege all the next day until near
evening, the garrison taking reliefs in guarding the defences. But about
dusk the Indian fire ceased altogether, and total silence settled over
the hillsides, which for thirty hours had echoed the turmoil of battle.
Three soldiers lay dead within the fort and eight others of the garrison
were wounded. The quiet which reigned through the night and the morning
of the twenty-second was more disturbing than the uproar which had
preceded it. While the latter prevailed, the garrison at least knew
where their enemies were and what they were doing, while now no one
could tell what new and formidable plans they might be hatching. No one
believed that they had given up the hope of taking the fort and those in
the garrison most familiar with the Indian methods of warfare regarded
it as certain that they were making ready for a final, great assault.

Early on the afternoon of the twenty-second it came, beginning with a
sudden and tremendous volley fired into the fort from all sides at once.
The Indians, in a seemingly countless horde, then sprang up and made a
rush for the fort, which seemed about to be overwhelmed by sheer weight
of numbers. But the garrison was in position and ready for them. Volley
after volley poured into the approaching mass of savages, while the
shells of the artillery tore through their ranks. Unused to bearing the
losses of an open, stand-up fight, the Indians quickly gave way and fled
back to the ravines, where, however, they remained, stubbornly pouring
in an intense fire, which searched every portion of the fort. Little
Crow was some distance behind the Indian lines, directing the general
attack, while on the field itself, Mankato, Good Thunder, Big Eagle and
other veteran chiefs were leading the savage hosts, which outnumbered
the garrison five to one. They pressed the attack relentlessly. Musket
and rifle balls tore through the officers' wooden quarters and other
exposed structures, and now and then a fire arrow whizzed through the
air and struck its blazing torch into one of the frame buildings. Soon
several of the latter, including the Smiths' store, broke into flames
and the roar of the conflagration added to the terrifying confusion of
the battle, while stifling smoke clouds rolled across the field, both
blinding and choking the defenders.

But though the attack was vigorous all along the line, it was especially
so at the western corner of the fort, where the Indians had discovered
that if they could gain possession of the exposed stables they could
command and render untenable a considerable extent of the interior
defences. Al was at the same barricade which he had occupied two days
before, but it was being defended now chiefly by men of the Renville
Rangers, who were fighting as courageously as the best of veterans. All
at once Al saw Lieutenant Sheehan and Lieutenant Gorman, of the Rangers,
run up to the field gun near them, and heard Sheehan cry to the gunners:

"Fire shell into the left of those stables! Set them afire if you can.
The Indians are trying to get in them."

Then the officers ran on to their barricade.

"Boys," shouted Lieutenant Gorman to the Rangers, "those stables on the
right must be burned. Come on! Don't go near the ones on the left; the
cannon is going to knock them to pieces. Hurry up!"

He sprang across the barricade, and a number of the men without the
least hesitation darted after him over the exposed ground in front,
their guns trailing beside them and their heads bent low. Hardly
thinking what he was doing but eager to be of service, Al followed them,
and in the general uproar he did not hear Lieutenant Sheehan shouting to
him to come back. The distance was not great, and though the bullets
seemed to rain around them, almost before he knew it Al found himself
with Lieutenant Gorman and his dusky companions inside the stable, and
none of them hurt. Under Lieutenant Gorman's quick orders, the Rangers
snatched up handfuls of hay, lighted them, and blew them into flames
along the inner walls of the building. But Al, during the moment they
were thus occupied, peered out through an opening in the western end of
the stable. What he saw alarmed him. There were Indians everywhere, just
below the edge of the hill out of the direct line of fire from the fort,
and a number of them were actually along the outside wall of the stable
itself. Al thrust his revolver through the opening and fired three times
in rapid succession, with what effect he never knew, for he heard
Lieutenant Gorman shout,

"She'll burn now. Come on, get away! Get away!"

The inner walls of the stable were a seething mass of flames as they
fled through the doorway, hearing as they ran the crash and explosion of
a shell in the stables beside the one which they had just left. As he
sprang back behind the barricade again, Al felt a hand grasp him roughly
by the arm, and heard Lieutenant Sheehan's voice saying in his ear:

"You young rascal, what do you mean by running out like that and
risking your life? You're not a soldier; I didn't order you out. What
would your mother and sister do if you were killed?"

This aspect of the matter had not occurred to Al before. He began to
reply, in penitent confusion,

"Why,--I don't know, sir. I--"

"Well, hang it, don't do it again, that's all," broke in the officer.
Then he added, while a half smile came over his face, powder-grimed and
wet with perspiration: "Anyhow, you're a plucky youngster. Your father
would be proud of you."

"I should say he is plucky," interjected Gorman. "He started to clean
out the redskins over there, but hadn't time to finish the job."

The two officers disappeared through the smoke up the line, and Al
resumed his methodical musket practice, the Rangers around him now and
then glancing at him approvingly, though he did not notice it.

The fire along their immediate front relaxed a little as the stables
blazed into ruins and the assailants found that they could not utilize
this coveted point of vantage. But the Indians clung to the ravines
with a stubbornness truly amazing, the utmost efforts of the artillery
failing to dislodge them. Presently one of the Rangers kneeling beside
Al, with a gesture of despair threw down his gun,--a cumbersome,
old-fashioned weapon of the type called "Harper's Ferry muskets," with
which all Major Galbraith's men were armed,--and exclaimed,

"No more bullets!"

It was an ominous announcement and one which was very soon followed by
others of similar nature, not only at their barricade, but all over the
fort. Consumed by the rapid fire which had been necessary to hold back
the fierce Indian attack, the small arms ammunition supply of the fort
was almost exhausted, and a few moments more of such work would see it
all expended. A dreadful contingency faced the defenders. With their
ammunition all gone, their assailants would be able to rush in and
slaughter them almost at will. One by one the men of the garrison ran
out of bullets and the fire perceptibly slackened. The Indians quickly
noticed this and, guessing the cause, redoubled their efforts.

Al, thanks to his careful use of ammunition, still had quite a supply
left, but he saw with horror what the general situation was and realized
that unless something could be done to relieve it, they would all be
massacred in a few minutes. Being under no orders and wishing to be with
his mother and sister at the last moment, if this was really at hand, he
left the barricade and ran to the barracks building, where they were
crowded with the other noncombatants. A distressing scene met his eyes
as he entered. Many of the women were gathered in groups, weeping and
wringing their hands, their children clinging about them, while here and
there others knelt, praying aloud or absorbed in silent supplications. A
long row of wounded lay stretched on pallets at one side. But across the
room he saw another group, the only one in which the spirit of courage
and determination seemed still to prevail. To Al's surprise, his mother
was one of this party, apparently perfectly calm and her face lighted by
an expression of noble resolution and self-forgetfulness. With her were
several other women of like firm spirit, and two or three men, all of
them busily absorbed in some occupation around a stove in which a hot
fire was blazing. Al soon found that they were casting musket balls,
their supply of lead consisting of the flattened bullets of the Indians,
which men were gathering up outside and bringing to them to be
re-moulded. The rapidly increasing supply which they were thus preparing
was being augmented by some of Sergeant Jones's artillerymen, who were
opening spherical case shot and removing from them the balls, which
served perfectly for musket ammunition. Although Lieutenant Sheehan and
Sergeant Jones had thought of these providential expedients but a few
moments before, already small quantities of the new balls were being
taken out and distributed to the men in the defences, whose fire,
consequently, was resuming its former volume.

His hope and enthusiasm all returned to Al as soon as he found that a
vigorous defence could still be maintained, and after an affectionate
embrace and a few words with his mother and Annie, he ran back again to
the barricade. It was not long after his return there, and late in the
afternoon, that the Indians once more made a determined effort to storm
the position. Marshalling their forces below the crest of the hill, they
rushed up from the ravines in throngs, brandishing their weapons and
whooping at the tops of their voices; while the flare of their
many-colored war-bonnets and robes, the tiger-like contortions of their
muscular, naked bodies, and the glint of rifle barrel and knife blade,
flashing back the rays of the sinking sun, made a spectacle as wildly
magnificent as it was awe-inspiring. But again the heroic garrison
proved equal to the emergency. From barricade and loop-holed wall the
infantry poured steady volleys into them, while the artillery, holding
its fire until the charge was well under way, lashed their ranks with
case shot. Though they had started forward with the utmost enthusiasm,
they soon began to hesitate and break. With their undisciplined methods
of fighting, the Indian does not live who could withstand such a fire.
In a moment they had halted, and a few seconds more saw them scurrying
back to the ravines, utterly repulsed, while from the throats of the
sturdy little garrison rose cheer after cheer of victory, and men leaped
upon the barricades and tossed their hats in the air. Every one felt
that the enemy had made his last, supreme effort, and such, indeed,
proved to be the case. The Indian fire gradually died away, and by
nightfall silence again reigned over Fort Ridgely, wrecked, smoking, and
shot-torn, but triumphant.

The stables and outlying buildings, with the exceptions of the
guard-house and the magazine, were smouldering ruins; the officers'
quarters were riddled through and through; the storehouse and barracks
were pock-marked and splintered with bullets; nearly all the oxen and
mules belonging to the quartermaster's department were captured or
killed, and seven more wounded men lay beside those who had been injured
two days before. But the fight was won. Through the night the garrison
lay on their arms, watching the glare of distant conflagrations off to
the southeast, where the defeated Indians were burning farm-houses and
stacks as they marched on to the village of New Ulm, sixteen miles away.
Fort Ridgely remained undisturbed, though New Ulm, where two hundred and
fifty volunteer citizens under the command of Judge Charles E.
Flandreau had gathered to defend the town and the one thousand five
hundred non-combatants in refuge there, was desperately attacked next
day, almost wholly burned, and nearly captured by the infuriated
savages. Though the Indians seemed to be gone from their vicinity, the
occupants of Fort Ridgely were obliged to remain inert for several days
longer, and then, at last, on the morning of the twenty-seventh, their
eyes were gladdened by the sight of a large column of troops approaching
from the eastward, and the little army of Colonel H. H. Sibley, hastily
recruited and as yet poorly disciplined and wretchedly armed, but full
of ardor, marched into the quadrangle of shattered buildings amid the
cheers of the men and the tearful thanksgivings of the women. The
never-to-be-forgotten siege was over.




CHAPTER IV

REFUGEES


The arrival of Colonel Sibley's troops gave to the destitute refugees in
Fort Ridgely their first opportunity of turning from the desperate
struggle for immediate self-preservation in which they had been
ceaselessly involved for nine days, to contemplate fully the extent of
the disaster which had fallen upon them and to consider what their
future course must be. To most of them the Indian outbreak and its
consequent massacre and pillage had brought the total ruin of their
fortunes, for in general they were poor people who had come into the
West and started their homes on free Government land, in the hope of
acquiring comfort and modest fortunes through years of faithful labor.
But to the families which had been so fortunate as to remain intact,
losing no loved members at the hands of the savages, the disaster was
not irremediable. The property they had lost was not, in most cases, of
very great value, save as measured by labor; and as their lands still
remained to them, they could again enter into occupation as soon as
settled conditions were restored, and in a short time recover their
former positions. So, although a few such families lost heart and left
the country, most of them remained and lived to see the time when they
were very glad they had done so.

But with the families which had been shattered by the savages, which had
lost father or mother or sons or daughters struck down in the slaughter,
the case was far different. And many, alas, were in this condition, for
more than one thousand white people had fallen victims to the Indians
along the desolated Minnesota frontier during those few mid-August days.
Where the head of a family had been lost, his widow and children must
either undertake to eke out a precarious existence on the devastated
claim from which they had been driven, surrounded by the hard conditions
of pioneer life, or they must return to the older parts of the country
whence they had originally come, and there seek the aid and protection
of relatives or friends. The first arrangement was often impossible, for
not many a widow with a family of small children could hope to sustain
herself in such a country, beautiful and fertile but at that time wild
and practically unbroken. For these reasons there was a long and doleful
procession of destitute people passing through St. Paul, Winona, and the
other towns along the Mississippi River on their way back to the more
easterly States during the days of late August and early September,
1862. They came from Fort Ridgely, from New Ulm, from Acton and Forest
City and Hutchinson and a score of other little settlements along the
border. Among these unfortunate people were to be found the survivors of
the Briscoe family, bound for St. Louis, Missouri. How they had finally
come to decide upon this course will require some explanation.

When Al first realized, with the advent of Colonel Sibley's troops into
Fort Ridgely, that the Indians had been checked and the tide turned, and
that the white men were really setting about regaining possession of the
country, his first and greatest ambition was to set out at once for the
rescue of Tommy; his second was to visit the lonely and ruined cabin
twenty miles north of the fort and there give the remains of his father
tender burial. But he soon found that difficulties lay in the way of
accomplishing either of these desires. The army could not instantly
spring forth as one man and rush to the rescue of his brother. The
soldiers had to be prepared and provided for a campaign which, moreover,
even when inaugurated, must be carefully and methodically carried out.
Several hundred white captives, among whom it seemed almost certain that
Tommy would be found, were in the possession of the Indians. If a
precipitate attack should be made upon the latter their captives would,
past a doubt, be massacred to a soul. Their release must be accomplished
by diplomacy; the Indians must be made to realize that only by the safe
delivery of their prisoners could they hope to mitigate the stern
punishment which they had richly earned at the hands of the Government,
and which would surely be meted out to them sooner or later. To
accomplish the safe delivery of the captives might mean weeks of
careful work on the part of the friendly Indians in inducing the
hostile element to see the necessity for such action. It might require
numerous councils and it might require fighting, properly prepared for.

All this meant that if Al were to take personal part in the rescue of
Tommy, they must stay at Fort Ridgely for some time to come; and to stay
at Fort Ridgely meant that they must have some money. Here was the most
distressing difficulty in the whole situation. The Briscoes had
absolutely nothing left; they were penniless. Even their few household
goods had been destroyed or carried away by the Indians and these goods,
together with their buildings and the handful of live stock and farm
implements on their claim, had constituted all their worldly
possessions. They had not always been in such a precarious condition; in
fact, two years before the period at which our story opens they would
not have dreamed that they could ever be reduced to such circumstances
as were theirs when we first saw them.

In 1860 the Briscoes had been living in the prosperous little city of
Glasgow, Missouri, at that time an important centre of steamboat
traffic on the Missouri River, drawing to its numerous and
well-appointed stores the trade of a wide region of farms and
plantations, and to its wharves and warehouses the great crops of hemp
and tobacco, corn and grain, vegetables and live-stock with which the
whole rich country teemed. Mr. Briscoe's business, the retailing of
furniture, was extensive and profitable, his home was as comfortable and
attractive as any in the town, and his family lacked for none of the
comforts of life, while many of its luxuries were also theirs. Once or
twice a year, usually in the summer and winter, when there was something
of a lull in the business, they would make a trip to St. Louis, where
Mrs. Briscoe's sister, her only near relative, lived with her husband
and family. His parents had intended to send Al to an academy in St.
Louis in the Fall of 1861, to complete his preparatory education before
applying for an appointment as a cadet at West Point. Then came the
opening of the Civil War and the beginning of a rapid succession of
events in the family, which had forced the abandonment of this and of
all the other plans which they had cherished for the future.

The opening of hostilities, precipitated by the attack on Fort Sumter,
produced a commercial and industrial effect upon the country at large
almost as calamitous as the political one; and this was particularly
true in the Border States, where sentiment was sharply divided. Mr.
Briscoe's business was one which depended to an unusual degree upon
conditions of general prosperity and tranquillity. When the people of
the community found their incomes destroyed or sharply cut down by
general conditions, they could and did get along without new furniture,
though they could not get along without groceries or clothing. His
business suffered on this account, but it suffered still more from other
causes.

Mr. Briscoe had always commanded an unusual degree of popularity in
Glasgow since he had gone there, a youth, in 1844, because he had
enlisted for the Mexican War, among many other volunteers from the town
and from Howard County, in the First Regiment of Missouri Dragoons,
under Colonel Alexander W. Doniphan; an organization immensely popular
in central Missouri at the time. He had served through all the
wonderfully romantic campaigns of that regiment with gallantry and
distinction, coming out of the war a first lieutenant. He had won his
sergeantcy for saving the life of a comrade, another Glasgow youth, in
the fight at Brazitos, New Mexico, December 21, 1846; his second
lieutenantcy for faithfulness and courage during the long march from
Sante Fe to Chihuahua, and his first lieutenantcy for gallantry in the
capture of that city from a Mexican army five times as large as the
American force, on February 28, 1847. Consequently, on his return to
Glasgow he had been regarded as a hero, and the people could not do
enough for him, showing their favor in one most practical way by
bestowing as much of their trade upon him as they possibly could. He, in
turn, entertained the liveliest interest in the exciting events of the
Mexican War and the most profound and loyal regard for his old
commander, Colonel Doniphan. It was in the latter's honor that he
christened his eldest son Alexander Doniphan, and we have seen that he
even applied the fanciful names, Chihuahua and Montezuma,--shortened for
convenience to Chick and Monty,--to his horses, in memory of his days
below the Rio Grande.

But the very fact that he had been one of Doniphan's men was equivalent
to a declaration that in spirit he was a sympathizer with the political
theories and social institutions at that time almost universally
accepted by the people of the Southern States, where slavery prevailed;
for it was among people of such convictions that Doniphan's regiment had
been almost wholly recruited. Because he had been one of them, everybody
so naturally assumed that his views agreed with those of his military
associates that he was seldom even called upon to express himself. When
he was, the fact that he said little, and that of a rather non-committal
character, only led people to believe that he did not care for
discussion and regretted the political unrest of the time, as, indeed,
did many others. This ill-defined position did very well until the
beginning of the period of intense agitation and bitterness immediately
following the election of Abraham Lincoln to the Presidency in the Fall
of 1860. He then found himself forced to face the issue frankly and
declare, not only to himself but to others, whether he intended to throw
in his fortunes with the South in the war which every one foresaw was
rapidly approaching, or to stand firmly by the Union.

It was a bitterly hard choice for him to make and one which he deferred
as long as possible; for, though both he and his wife were of Northern
birth and ancestry, the most cherished associations of their lives had
been with Southern people, and they loved the South like their native
land. But he believed, and Mrs. Briscoe believed with him, that the
Southern idea of destroying the Union was absolutely wrong, and that a
true American citizen's allegiance was due, not to any one State or
section but to the nation. When, after much painful reflection, he found
himself unalterably committed to this conviction, he was a man of too
much courage not to declare it. His associates and fellow citizens in
the town learned of his attitude first with astonishment, then with
resentment, and finally with cold hostility. He had made his choice, he
had voluntarily arrayed himself against the dearest desires of their
hearts and what they conceived to be the most vital interests of their
lives. They turned from him as from a betrayer, a traitor, and he
suddenly found himself worse than a stranger in the community where for
fifteen years past he had been respected and beloved above most other
citizens. It was the sad story, as old as organized society, of the
dearest private associations torn asunder by the rancor of public
controversy. His business suddenly declined to almost nothing. It would
not have been so bad if he had made provision for the future. But it had
always been so easy to make money that he and his family had spent it
just as easily, for it had seemed that the business alone would always
continue to provide them with all they might need. His credit with the
wholesale houses of St. Louis and the East was large and unquestioned,
and when the trouble came his store was full of goods unpaid for. Too
long he struggled to dispose of his stock in a town whose people, all at
once, either could not or would not buy. Finally, when his creditors,
themselves pressed for money by the industrial depression, began to
harass him, he sold at ruinous sacrifices. But he could not stem the
tide. He was forced into bankruptcy, and stock, store building, home and
household goods, all went down in the yawning pit of debt; for such was
his sense of honor that he would withhold nothing in order to pay to
those who had trusted him the money to which they were justly entitled.
And he did pay it, dollar for dollar, to the last cent; but when it was
paid he had nothing left in the world except a little less than three
hundred dollars in cash, a few bits of cherished family silver and
bric-a-brac belonging to his wife, and a scanty stock of family
clothing. His brother-in-law in St. Louis, Mr. Colton, would gladly have
helped him, but he, also, had been brought to the verge of ruin by the
business upheaval, and Mr. Briscoe, well knowing this, declined to add a
particle to his burdens.

To go into business again at such a time, in another town and without
capital, was not to be thought of. Neither was sufficiently remunerative
employment to be found, nor could he yet enter the Union army, as he
ardently desired to do, leaving his family destitute. The free
Government lands seemed to offer a home which they could acquire with
little difficulty, and a living in the meantime as cheap as could be
found anywhere. So they chose Minnesota and went to the claim north of
Fort Ridgely, where Mr. Briscoe hoped that in a few years he might
develop a farm and accumulate a little money. Then, if the war was not
yet over and his services were still needed, he might leave Al in charge
for a time and go to the front.

Such, briefly, was the history of the Briscoe family up to the time when
we first met with them, and such their plans for the future, so rudely
interrupted by the calamities of the Indian outbreak. Without father,
without money, without agricultural implements or horses, and without
even a home to live in, with the whole country still overrun by hostile
savages, it was out of the question, after the relief of Fort Ridgely,
for them either to return to their claim or to remain where they were.
The only place in the world which seemed to offer a haven of refuge for
the time being, at least, was the home of Mrs. Briscoe's sister in St.
Louis. Pitying friends among the other almost equally destitute
refugees, even soldiers of the garrison who were touched by the wretched
plight of the little family and by Al's manly conduct during the siege,
contributed to a small fund sufficient to take them by steamboat to St.
Louis; and on one of the last days of August they started for St. Paul
with a large party, escorted by a detachment of soldiers.

Before they left, Al and his mother asked and obtained an interview with
Colonel Sibley, concerning Tommy. Colonel Sibley was a man of great
prominence in Minnesota, having been elected the first Governor of the
State after its admission to the Union in 1858. At the time of the
Indian outbreak he was living at the mouth of the Minnesota River, where
Governor Ramsey sent for him to take command of the troops called out to
suppress the uprising, because of his great influence over the Indians
and his familiarity with their methods of warfare. He was a gentle,
kindly man, whose heart was torn by the loss and suffering of the people
along the western border of his State. Mrs. Briscoe and Al called at his
headquarters on the morning of the day they left for St. Paul. The
Colonel received them with his accustomed courtesy, asked them to be
seated and, himself taking a chair facing them, listened to Mrs.
Briscoe's sad story with deep and compassionate attention. When she had
finished he sat, seemingly lost in thought, for a short time, his chin
resting on his hand. Then he looked up at Mrs. Briscoe and said:

"Madam, my heart bleeds for you. I wish that it were within my power to
restore your little son to you at once. I wish that you might remain in
Minnesota in order that you could sooner have the happiness of knowing
when he is recaptured. But neither you nor your son here," he glanced at
Al, "need feel that your absence will defer the little boy's rescue one
moment longer than if you remained here. The recovery of all the white
captives is now in the hands of my forces and we shall get them all as
soon as we possibly can. I give you my promise, Mrs. Briscoe; I will
personally see to it that he is sent to you in St. Louis as soon as it
can be done, and if there should be any delay you shall be promptly
notified of the facts. Your husband's remains shall also receive
Christian burial whenever a party can visit your claim, and in case any
of your property is found there which is of value, I will have it stored
here in Fort Ridgely until you return or send for it. Can you tell me,
my boy," he turned to Al, "anything of the appearance of the Indian who
carried away your brother which might help to identify him?"

"I should know him again instantly, sir, if I saw him," Al replied. "He
was a tall fellow, over six feet, I think, and seemed very strong. He
had a deep scar, like a knife or sword cut, running down his left cheek
and along his neck and shoulder."

"O-ho!" ejaculated the colonel. "That surely ought to make it easy if he
is an Indian belonging to any of the tribes in this region. Orderly!"

Instantly a soldier opened the door, came to attention and saluted.

"Tell Major Brown I want to see him."

The orderly disappeared, but in a moment the door opened again admitting
Major Joseph R. Brown, a famous Indian trader who had been Major
Galbraith's predecessor as Indian agent at the Lower Agency, and who
was now in command of one of Colonel Sibley's companies of volunteers.
Probably no white man in Minnesota was personally acquainted with more
of the Indians in that section. Colonel Sibley and Al described to him
the Indian who had carried off Tommy, but Major Brown shook his head.

"I know no Indian in these parts who answers to that description," he
replied. "He must be an outsider; perhaps a Yanktonais who has drifted
in because there was trouble in the air. There are probably a good many
of them around."

This was disappointing intelligence yet enlightening in a way, for
though it indicated that Tommy was not in the clutches of any of the
Minnesota savages, at the same time it limited his captor to one of the
Dakota tribes further west and to that extent simplified the mystery of
his whereabouts and possible fate. Colonel Sibley, however, was still of
the opinion that he would be found with the other white captives when
these should be recovered, as he did not believe that a warrior from a
distant part of the country would care to burden himself permanently
with a prisoner.

With such unsatisfactory conclusions Al and his mother were forced to be
content, and though somewhat encouraged by the hopeful and reassuring
words of Colonel Sibley, who did his best to cheer them, they began the
long journey toward St. Louis with heavy hearts.




CHAPTER V

HOPE DEFERRED


It is not necessary to enter into the details of that trip, which was
devoid of unusual incidents. In due time the unfortunate family reached
their destination, where they were affectionately received by the
Coltons and taken into their home. Since the dark days at the beginning
of the war the Coltons had been obliged to give up their pleasant home
on Morgan Street, in what was then one of the most desirable residence
districts of the city, and had moved into a smaller house on Palm
Street, far up on the North Side and not many blocks from the St. Louis
Fair Grounds. Mr. Colton had succeeded in weathering his reverses and
still had his business, that of real estate, downtown; but it was in a
far from prosperous condition, and his income was hardly sufficient to
support him and his family, consisting of his wife and two small
children. He had had the misfortune, when a young man, to lose his left
arm at the elbow so that he was handicapped in the battle of life; but
he made up in mental capacity what he lacked in physical, so he had
always been able, until the beginning of the war, to make a comfortable
living.

On the second evening after their arrival in St. Louis, when supper was
over, Mr. Colton asked Al to take a walk with him. They strolled west
across the open lots and along the thinly populated streets lying in the
direction of the Fair Grounds. Mr. Colton seemed rather abstracted and
talked but little; and presently Al asked, abruptly,

"Uncle Will, your business isn't paying very well just now, is it?"

"Well, no, it isn't, Al," Mr. Colton replied, apparently a little
startled by the question. "Why?"

"I have been thinking ever since we got here," Al answered, "that our
coming to you as we have, without money or anything else, will add a
great deal to your expenses and other troubles. Of course I look forward
to repaying you in the future, so far as money can repay such kindness;
but that won't help just now, and I wish I could find some work to do
right away, so that I could earn enough to pay part of the living
expenses of Mother and Annie and myself."

Mr. Colton laid his hand affectionately on Al's shoulder.

"My boy," said he, "you are your father's true son. That is just what he
would have been thinking of in similar circumstances. I am glad you have
spoken of it, Al, for it is just that problem which has been troubling
me ever since you and your dear mother and little sister came. You know
how thankful I should be if I could provide you all with everything you
need and have no question of means enter into the matter."

"Yes, I do know, Uncle Will," said Al, earnestly.

Mr. Colton went on, "I should like to make your poor mother and Annie as
comfortable and easy in every way as possible and I should like to have
you continue with school until you are ready to take up your chosen
profession. But I do not see how I can compass these desires at present,
though perhaps I can later. I was just going to suggest that it would
probably be necessary for you to get employment for a while when you
spoke of it. I am more pleased than I can say that you thought of it
first, without any suggestion."

"I don't see how any one could fail to understand the situation, sir,"
answered Al. "Do you suppose I could find a place to-morrow?"

"Quite likely. You can go down town with me in the morning, and during
the day we can call on several acquaintances of mine, some one of whom
may be able to give you as good a position as you can well fill to begin
with."

Accordingly, quite early next morning they started for the business
district. Mr. Colton's office was more than two miles from his home and
they walked to Fifth Street and there took a horse car down town. The
first place at which they called was a large wholesale grocery house
whose proprietor, Mr. White, was a personal friend of Mr. Colton. The
latter held a brief private interview with him, rapidly relating the
circumstances under which the Briscoes had come to St. Louis, and then
Al was called in. Mr. White liked him from the first, and within half
an hour he was hard at work on an upper floor of the big warehouse,
assisting one of the shipping clerks in getting down, checking, and
sending out orders of goods. Mr. White had informed him that as soon as
he was sufficiently familiar with the stock and the method of checking
it out, he would himself be promoted to a position as shipping clerk.

Though as time went on and the days lengthened into weeks, Al was
obliged to confess to himself that the business possessed few
attractions for him, yet he applied himself industriously to mastering
its details, feeling not only a sense of satisfaction in the knowledge
that he was winning his employer's confidence and approval, but a still
deeper pride in the fact that he was becoming able to bear a very
material share of the modest living expenses of himself and his mother
and sister. Although Mr. White imagined that Al's rapid progress in
familiarizing himself with his work was due to a natural aptitude for
the business, the fact was that he was simply determined to get ahead
and earn as much money as possible. A constant mental unrest, due
chiefly to his suspense over Tommy's fate, possessed him, and he tried
to soothe it as far as might be by becoming absorbed in his work. Beyond
his natural anxiety for his brother, however, though he did not exactly
realize it, was the repugnance to obligation, the unquenchable desire to
have his mother and sister independent, which was a characteristic
inherited from his sturdy father. He very soon qualified himself to take
his place as a shipping clerk, thus securing an advance in pay, which
enabled him still further to relieve his uncle's unwonted burdens.

Thus the Autumn went by and Mrs. Briscoe began to look impatiently for
news from General Sibley, for they had been able to gather something in
a fragmentary way from the St. Louis papers of the events which had
taken place in Minnesota since they had left there, and they knew that
Colonel Sibley had been made a brigadier general of volunteers for his
skilful conduct of the Indian campaign. At length one day the
long-looked-for letter came. Mr. Colton brought it out from his office,
and with palpitating hearts the family gathered around Al while he read
it aloud; for Mrs. Briscoe was too much agitated to read it. The letter
was dated at Fort Snelling and was in General Sibley's own handwriting.
It read as follows:


     _Mrs. Thomas Briscoe, St. Louis, Mo._

     MY DEAR MADAM: It is with the deepest regret that I am obliged to
     inform you that thus far our efforts to recover your young son from
     his Indian captors have been unsuccessful. Late in September we
     rescued about two hundred and fifty white prisoners near the Yellow
     Medicine but he was not among them. We have also captured about two
     thousand of the Indian miscreants who were prominent in the late
     outbreak and massacre, and they are now being tried by a court
     martial. Many of them are being convicted and will be executed.
     Among them, however, is no individual satisfying the description of
     the captor of your son Thomas, as given to me by your elder son.

     I have, however, received information which leads me to believe
     that this man is a Yanktonais from the region of the Missouri
     River, who is known to have been consorting with the Minnesota
     Indians during the late outrages and who has since fled into Dakota
     again. Indian prisoners whom I have interviewed claim that he took
     with him a white boy, who, I have little doubt, is your son. The
     several prisoners with whom I have conversed all agree that the
     child appeared to be in good health when they saw him, though I
     have been able to gather nothing further concerning him.

     It is quite possible that his captor may weary of holding your son
     a prisoner during the coming winter and take him into one of the
     fur-trading posts along the Missouri River. But, in case this
     should not happen, I may say to you that it is the present
     intention of the Government to send strong expeditions against the
     hostile Indians about Devil's Lake and along the Missouri, next
     summer. I may be in command of one of the columns; but, whether I
     am or not, I beg to assure you that no efforts will be spared to
     effect the release of your son and his speedy restoration to you.
     Nor is it at all probable that such a thorough campaign as is now
     contemplated will fail of the desired result, for it is the
     Government's purpose to pursue the Indians relentlessly until their
     last prisoner is recovered, until the last savage guilty of
     atrocities against the whites is given up to justice, and until the
     entire Sioux Nation is brought to submission.

     With renewed assurances of my deep sympathy and regret that I have
     no more satisfactory news for you at the present time, I beg to
     remain, my dear madam,

     Very respectfully, your obedient servant,

     H. H. SIBLEY, Brig. Gen., U. S. V.


Mrs. Briscoe broke down completely on hearing this disappointing
intelligence and could not be comforted for a long time. But the
courageous spirit which had already carried her through so much finally
reasserted itself; since there was nothing to do except endure the
suspense, she resolved to endure it patiently and not depress the
spirits of those around her with her own griefs.

On his part Al felt at first that he could not bear to spend more time
in idle waiting while his brother remained a captive. It seemed to him
that he must start out and do something. But reflection showed him that
this desire, though natural, was futile. Hard as the conclusion was, it
seemed plain that the best thing was to trust General Sibley and the
soldiers with the problem, at least for the present and until the
results of the next summer's campaign could be known. Had he been old
enough to enlist, Al would undoubtedly have joined the army in spite of
everything, in order to be at the front and share in the search for his
brother. But as he would not be sixteen until the early Spring of 1863,
that was out of the question.

Nevertheless, the atmosphere of the place and the time in which he was
living were well calculated to develop in him the strong military
inclinations of his nature, and as the months went on he found it more
and more difficult to be satisfied with the work in which he was
engaged. There was hardly an hour of the day in which squads or
companies of troops did not pass along the busy streets of St. Louis,
and often full regiments, with bands playing and colors flying, or
batteries of artillery rumbling over the cobble-stones, marched past on
their way to the Levee to embark on steamers for the seat of war in the
South. St. Louis was the great recruiting depot of the West, and at
Benton Barracks, just beyond the Fair Grounds and only a few blocks from
the Colton home, as many as twenty thousand men were nearly always
quartered, mustering, drilling, outfitting and then marching away to
take their places in the fighting armies at the front. News of battle
was constantly in the air and the war formed the chief topic of
conversation always and everywhere. Now it was the disastrous repulse of
the Army of the Potomac at Fredericksburg, Virginia; then the terrible
conflict at Murfreesboro, Tennessee; and then, a little later, the
capture of Fort Hindman, at Arkansas Post, Arkansas; while authentic
news and uncertain rumors of other battles, skirmishes, and military
movements circulated constantly.

Though St. Louis was a Union city by a very substantial majority there
nevertheless existed there a strong though suppressed Southern
sentiment; but Al was even less inclined to be influenced by it than
his father would have been, or than he would have been himself before
his father's death. The reason was that public opinion in the North and
West at this time held that the outbreak of the Indians in Minnesota had
been instigated and encouraged by agents from the Southern Confederacy,
who hoped, by precipitating an Indian war upon the Northwest, not only
to divert a good many Union troops from the South but even possibly to
effect a Confederate conquest of the Northwestern Territories. Happily
for the fair fame of American civilization, it has in later years been
quite clearly established that the Confederates had nothing to do with
inciting the barbarous outbreak, but at the time it was firmly believed
in the Northwest. Therefore it seems but natural that a person in Al's
position, grieving for a father murdered and a brother carried away
captive by the red fiends, should entertain bitterness toward those whom
he believed to be largely responsible for his bereavement. This feeling
but added to his interest in the military preparations of those who were
going to fight the Southerners, and increased his desire to be a
partaker in their toils and trials and triumphs.

When he found an opportunity to do so, as he did on Sunday afternoons
and his other infrequent holidays, he occasionally went down to the
river front where were to be seen the big transport steamers, starting
out loaded to the guards with troops or coming in with cargoes of sick
and wounded men, and where, also, were generally to be found one or more
of the pugnacious-looking iron-clad gunboats which had been and still
were fighting their way foot by foot down the battery-lined rivers of
the South, carrying the flag of the Union into regions where it had been
outcast for two years past. But more frequently his steps turned toward
Benton Barracks, for there on the great parade ground between the huge
barracks, each seven hundred and fifty feet in length, were always to be
found swarms of troops at drill. Here he would see a squad of four or
eight recruits receiving from a corporal instructions in the rudiments
of tactics, such as the salutes, the facings, or the manual of arms. A
little further on would be a regiment executing ponderous evolutions in
company or battalion front.

Observing all these tactical exercises with lively interest and careful
attention, Al soon began to comprehend the methods and objects of
movements which at first seemed wholly bewildering. He obtained a copy
of the "United States Infantry and Rifle Tactics," the text book then in
use for the instruction of the United States troops, and spent evening
after evening studying them until he was much more familiar with the
contents than the average volunteer soldier several years his senior.
Though he could not utilize his knowledge because of his youth, he
persisted in acquiring it, not only because he liked it but because he
felt that eventually it would be useful to him, especially if he could
ever carry out his cherished ambition of entering West Point.

One day in the Spring of 1863, Mr. White called Al into his private
office.

"The chief commissary of subsistence in this city has asked me if I
could tell him of a few good men to act as civilian clerks in his
department," said he. "They must be men who understand something of
staple groceries such as the army uses and who know how to get out
orders and ship goods. Would you like to have such a position for a
while?"

Al's eyes brightened. Such work would place him in closer touch with the
army, an object which appealed to him strongly. But he bore in mind his
obligations and answered, cautiously,

"I should like it very much, Mr. White, if you approve of it and if I
could make as much as I do now."

"The position will pay you a little more than you are getting now," said
Mr. White, leaning back in his chair as if to give plenty of time to the
discussion, "and it will give you some valuable experience if you aim to
continue in the wholesale grocery business. The commissary department is
handling enormous quantities of goods in St. Louis now and an insight
into the Government's methods of transacting such a volume of business
will be a great benefit to you. Of course, whenever you want to leave
the Government's employ and come back here, your position will be open
for you. You are very young for such a place but you have made such
rapid progress and learned to do your work so well and thoroughly that I
shall have no hesitation in recommending you as one of my best
employees."

"Thank you, sir," said Al, flushing with pleasure. "I hope I deserve
it."

"You understand," Mr. White continued, "I don't want you to leave me;
but I owe it to the Union to give her the best I have when she asks it.
I am past middle age myself and I don't think I am worth enough as a
soldier to volunteer yet; there are plenty of younger and stronger men
still pouring in to fill up the armies. But if the war drags on and the
time comes that I feel she needs my actual, physical services, I shall
go. Meantime, as I say, I shall give her the best I have in other ways,
and you are part of that best. Though you are not old enough to be a
soldier, I know you will appreciate that your work as a civilian
employee may be quite as valuable to the Government as though you were
enlisted in the service."

"Indeed I do, Mr. White," answered Al, "and I shall do my best to serve
the Union faithfully."

In the new work upon which he entered next day Al continued throughout
that momentous Summer and Fall. Though serving in a capacity both humble
and obscure, he had his part in preparing and forwarding the supplies
which enabled General Grant to cut loose from his base, swing his army
around to the rear of Vicksburg, and two months later to capture that
Gibraltar of the Mississippi with all its garrison and munitions of war.
He helped to make ready the subsistence carried by Grant's and Sherman's
armies when they went to the relief of Chattanooga; and from the depots
where he worked a constant stream of stores was always going forward to
the thousands of Union troops scattered in fortified posts and
encampments or marching hither and thither all over the Southwest
fighting innumerable minor battles and skirmishes. But his daily
occupation was very prosaic and needs no more than casual mention.

At length, when Autumn came again, another letter was received from
General Sibley. It was as disappointing as the one of the year before.
He told briefly of the long Summer's campaign in which he had marched
westward from the Minnesota River to the Missouri, defeating the Indians
in three pitched battles and driving them across the Missouri, and of
the later advance of another column up the valley of the Missouri, under
General Alfred Sully, which had also encountered and defeated the
Indians. But neither column had rescued Tommy, though they had heard
rumors of his whereabouts and had gained a little new information
concerning his captor.

The latter, it now seemed clearly established, was an Upper Yanktonais
warrior named Te-o-kun-ko, or, in English, The Swift. From the
statements of hostile Indians who had talked with friendlies or had
surrendered to the troops during the campaign, it appeared that this man
had not been with the main body of the Indians during the Summer; he had
taken his family, in company with a small party of about a dozen other
lodges, over into the country along the Yellowstone and Powder Rivers,
in Idaho. They had probably spent the season in hunting and skirmishing
occasionally with the Crows, the powerful people occupying most of that
region, who were hereditary enemies of the Sioux. It must be understood
that the great Sioux Nation consists of a number of different tribes, of
which the Upper Yanktonais tribe is one, and the Lower Yanktonais
another. It seemed that he still had with him the white boy whom he had
captured in Minnesota. The lad seemed perfectly contented and was
displaying such aptitude and prowess in learning to ride, shoot, hunt,
and perform the other feats of skill, agility, and hardihood which the
Indians regard as most manly, that Te-o-kun-ko took great pride and
delight in him and was evidently trying to wean him away from any
longing for his white relatives, in the hope of eventually making him,
to all practical intents, a full-fledged Sioux warrior.

General Sibley added that in the Spring of 1864 General Sully would
almost certainly lead another expedition up the Missouri to fight the
Indians, though whether he himself would move against them again was
doubtful. He renewed his regrets that he had been unable to recapture
Tommy, and his hopes that another year would surely see him restored to
his family, and here the letter ended.

Mrs. Briscoe and Al were not only bitterly disappointed by the news; it
positively stunned them. The idea that Tommy could have been, all this
time, anything but a suffering and wretchedly unhappy prisoner, was
entirely new to them. That he could have grown not merely contented with
his lot among the savages but even attached to it, a possibility very
clearly suggested by General Sibley's letter, seemed unbelievable, at
least to Mrs. Briscoe. But Al, on reflection, was not so much inclined
to scoff at it as he had been at first. He remembered having heard of
several cases in which white boys, taken captive by Indians when so
young that their affections and habits were not deeply rooted, had
become so attached to the wild, free life of the red men that they
voluntarily renounced civilization and remained all their lives with the
people of their adoption. Then he recalled the prominent characteristics
of Tommy's disposition,--his sturdy independence, his love for being out
of doors, for handling horses and for hunting and
trapping,--inclinations which he had not shown until their removal to
Minnesota but which had developed rapidly there, where Tommy, in the
midst of a solitude which was almost wilderness, had apparently been
happier than ever before in his life. He recalled, also, the little
boy's warm-hearted affection for his parents and for himself and Annie;
a trait of character which certainly seemed the strongest argument
against the theory that Tommy could grow to forget them. But Al was
obliged to admit to himself that the other impulses of his young
brother's nature would all find gratification in the life of the plains;
while, moreover, if he were kindly treated, even his affections might be
kindled for the people with whom he was living. He had been with the
Indians now for more than a year, which is a long time in a young boy's
life.

The more he became convinced of such possibilities, the more was Al
disturbed and alarmed by them. It had been bad enough to think of his
brother as a heart-broken captive, but to think of him as perhaps a
future renegade, an apostate to his race, was far worse, for it added
shame to sorrow. He could not bear to think of his mother having to face
such a calamity. Finally he took his troubled thoughts to his uncle,
who was always kind, sympathetic and helpful.

"I have been thinking a great deal about this matter, too, Al," said Mr.
Colton. "There is no question in my mind that Tommy might take the
course you speak of, if he should remain long enough with the Indians.
From the reports we have he seems to be well and even happy. The most
important reason now for getting him away from them seems to be to
remove him from their moral influence. But, incredible as it may seem, I
really believe there may be a possibility that now; even if the soldiers
should find him, he would be unwilling to come away with them."

Al looked at his uncle and slowly nodded his head in agreement.

"Yes, I believe that might be so," he answered. "And it seems to me,
Uncle Will, for that very reason if no other, I ought to go with the
next expedition; for if Tommy should be found I know that when he saw me
and I told him about mother and all of us, he would want to come back.
But I can't go, that's all."

"Al," said Mr. Colton, "I agree with you that you ought to, and I think
probably you can. Since midsummer my business has begun to revive.
People are commencing to see that the South is getting the worst of this
war and there is a growing feeling of confidence that the Union is going
to be saved. Therefore interest is reviving in business matters of all
kinds, real estate among others. If the Union is going to be preserved,
St. Louis will continue to be a great and growing city; nobody cared to
speculate on what it would be while the success of the Confederacy
seemed probable. But, you see, I am beginning to have business again,
and if our armies continue gaining such victories as they have been
during the last six months, there will be more business by next Spring.
I wish to Heaven I could go into the service and help to hasten the end;
but this," he moved the stump of his left arm impatiently, "forever
debars me from such service. But if I can help you to go where you may
be able to assist in recovering your brother and at the same time to be
perhaps of some service to our country, even though you are not old
enough to enlist, I shall feel that I have done something. I think by
Spring I shall be able to take care of your mother and sister while you
are gone and I shall be only too glad to do it."

Al's cheeks flushed with mingled surprise and pleasure. His sense of
duty, however, was still uppermost.

"But, Uncle Will,--" he began.

"Now, that's all right, Al," interrupted Mr. Colton. "This is simply a
family matter, and you need not worry about it at all. The only question
which remains to be settled is whether it can be arranged for you to
accompany an expedition into the Indian country. If General Sibley were
going, no doubt he would be willing to find a place for you some way.
But it seems that he may not go again, and another commander, like
General Sully, for instance, may not want to have you. However, we shall
have to wait to settle that until we know more about actual plans for
next season's campaign, and that probably will not be possible until
late Winter or early Spring."

Mrs. Briscoe at first found it very hard to reconcile herself to the
plan, for she was divided between anxiety for Tommy and apprehension
lest harm should befall Al if he went in search of his brother. But by
pointing out to her that it was still uncertain whether the commander of
the expedition would permit him to go at all, Al, shrewdly aided by his
uncle, induced her to give the subject calm consideration, being
convinced that if she did so she would in time see that it was best. So
the Winter passed with little further discussion of the subject. Al
continued at his work, Annie was attending school, and Mrs. Briscoe
aided her sister with the duties of the household. Indeed, the refugees
from Minnesota seemed to have become fixtures in the Colton home, and,
though all of them thought occasionally of their returning some time to
the abandoned claim above Fort Ridgely, the time for doing so remained
in the indefinite future. None of them could feel like attempting to
resume the even tenor of their lives until Tommy should have been
brought back from his captivity.




CHAPTER VI

ON GENERAL SULLY'S STAFF


At last, early in March, the long uncertainty respecting the next
season's campaign against the Sioux, and the rumors which had circulated
about it all through the Winter, were terminated by the arrival in St.
Louis of General Alfred Sully, who, so the papers announced, had come to
begin the accumulation of supplies and to make other preparations for
his impending campaign. Brigadier General Sully was the commander of the
District of Iowa, with headquarters at Davenport, in that State; but he
had come to St. Louis directly from Milwaukee. There he had spent
several days in consultation with General Sibley and Major General John
Pope, who was in command of the Department of the Northwest, embracing
the Districts of Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minnesota, the latter under
General Sibley.

General Sully very soon made his presence known at the commissary
office in St. Louis by the requisitions for supplies which began to pour
in from him. A few days later a young army officer, an _aide-de-camp_ on
General Sully's staff, was sent down to the office by the General to
check over the requisitions already made. Al was assigned to assist him.
The aide, whose name was Lieutenant Dale, proved an agreeable youth,
only a few years older than Al, and after their work was finished they
fell into conversation. Al told him briefly of the disasters which had
befallen his family in Minnesota, and then of the battle at Fort
Ridgely.

"Why, you've seen enough fighting to be a veteran already," exclaimed
Lieutenant Dale, when Al had concluded his narrative. "I'll tell you
what you ought to do; you ought to go up into the Sioux country with us
this summer. We're going to have some fun up there. And maybe you could
get on the track of your brother."

"That is just what I want to do," answered Al, "but I'm not old enough
to enlist."

"That makes no difference," answered Dale. "The General could arrange
to take you in some capacity or other if he knows that you have a good
reason for wanting to go and that you won't lose your nerve in a pinch."

"Do you think he would?" asked Al, doubtfully.

"I think it's very probable. Go and ask him. He is very kind-hearted, if
he is a strict disciplinarian and a hard fighter."

"He's a hard fighter, is he?" asked Al, eagerly. "You see, I don't know
much about him."

Lieutenant Dale looked at him pityingly. "A hard fighter?" he replied.
"I should say he is! He fought against the Seminoles in Florida and the
Rogue River Indians in Oregon and the Sioux in Minnesota and Nebraska
and the Cheyennes in Kansas, all before the beginning of the Rebellion.
He won honors at Fair Oaks and Chancellorsville; and then, when the
Indian trouble in the Northwest came, they sent him up into Dakota to
fight the Sioux again, last Summer. That was the first that I was with
him, and we certainly had our share of marching, going up the Missouri
Valley, and our share of fighting at White Stone Hill, where we swung
away from the Missouri and struck the redskins out on the prairie
nearly over to the James River. They had been following up General
Sibley, never suspecting that we would come from the other direction and
fall on their rear. But we'll punish them worse this year, for we shall
have a much larger force; and the General intends to follow them until
they are either forced to make peace or are broken up and scattered all
over the country. And he can scatter them; what he doesn't know about
Indian fighting isn't worth knowing."

"I'm sure it will be a campaign well worth taking part in," replied Al.
"I ought to go, and I hope I can."

"I will speak to the General about you and the reason you have for
wanting to accompany us," Lieutenant Dale said. "Then you come and see
him yourself to-morrow or as soon after as you can."

Al did not delay the visit. That evening he talked with his mother and
uncle about it and, though the former was naturally reluctant to have
him go where she felt he would be in danger, she had also come to
realize that the arrangement afforded the best chance of recovering her
lost son, Tommy. Mr. Colton, after Al had told him of his conversation
with young Lieutenant Dale, concluded that it would be as well for Al to
interview General Sully alone.

"I do not know the General," said he, "and I could influence him but
little; while, if you go by yourself, it will indicate more
self-reliance on your part. I know, of course, that you have plenty of
it, but a stranger naturally would not until he had become acquainted
with you, and it is always well to make a good first impression. I think
you were fortunate in meeting this Lieutenant Dale. He will probably
speak favorably of you to General Sully, and that will help your case."

Accordingly the next afternoon when his work for the day was finished,
Al hurried off to the place where General Sully was making his
headquarters while in the city. He found little evidence of pomp or
ceremony about these headquarters. An orderly was in the outer room, to
whom Al told his name and errand. The soldier replied that the General
was alone, writing letters; and then, stepping to the door of an
adjoining room, he announced Al by name.

"Bring him in," Al heard a deep but pleasant voice answer, and the next
moment he found himself standing, with a somewhat fluttered pulse, in
the presence of General Sully. The latter rose as he entered and
extended his hand.

"I have been expecting you, young man," said he, smiling. "Lieutenant
Dale told me of you last evening, and I had also heard of you before
from General Sibley. I was on the watch for your brother all last Summer
but I couldn't get hold of him. Have a chair," he went on, resuming his
own seat and motioning Al to another one. "Now, what can I do for you?"

As clearly and briefly as possible Al related his reasons for thinking
that he ought to go into the Indian country to assist in the search for
his brother, finishing with the request that he might be taken along in
some capacity and adding that he would try to make himself useful. As he
talked, he was conscious that the General was studying him critically
through the pair of deep-set eyes which, though penetrating, were not
forbidding. When he had concluded, the General did not reply at once.
Instead, he remarked, after a pause,

"General Sibley told me he understood that your father was one of
Doniphan's men. Is that correct?"

Unconsciously Al's shoulders straightened a little.

"Yes, sir," he replied, a touch of pride in his voice, "he was. I am
named for Colonel Doniphan,--Alexander Doniphan Briscoe."

"Indeed?" said the General, with evident surprise and interest.

He was silent a moment, then asked abruptly,

"Do you know anything about tactics,--military routine,--discipline?"

"I have been a clerk in the commissary department here for a year, sir,"
Al replied, "and have become pretty familiar with the Government's
methods of handling stores and more or less so with other matters of
administration. Then I have studied tactics pretty hard, both in the
book and in watching the troops at drill out at Benton Barracks."

"H-m! That's good." The General's voice became decisive. "If you should
go with me you would have to become a part of the expedition and submit
to discipline the same as a soldier, even though you are not enlisted;
and I understand you are too young to enlist. I can have no favored
idlers around. We are going after the Indians and for no other purpose,
and in order to be successful every individual must do his part. Do you
think you could agree to do that?"

"I shall certainly obey orders and try to make myself useful," responded
Al, promptly.

General Sully swung around in his swivel desk chair and gazed
abstractedly out of the window for a moment. Then he swung back again
and looked at Al frankly.

"I may as well tell you," said he, "that it is against my policy to have
any more civilians with me in the field than I can possibly help. Too
many civilians mixed up in military affairs have nearly been the
ruination of the United States during this Rebellion. At the same time,
I like to have young fellows of the right metal; they are often more
useful than old stagers. And I believe you'll do. A son of one of
Doniphan's daredevils, especially a namesake of his, ought to be all
right for courage; and moreover, General Sibley told me of the reports
he heard of your conduct at Fort Ridgely. You see, I know more about you
than you thought." He smiled at Al's embarrassed glance. "I'll find a
place for you somewhere, as a commissary's or quartermaster's clerk,
probably. Come and see me again to-morrow or next day and I'll have it
arranged."

Al thanked him heartily and went away, feeling already a warm admiration
for this firm but courteous soldier. The interview aroused in him more
pleasurable anticipation of the expedition than he had felt heretofore,
and he found himself preparing for it and looking forward to it
enthusiastically.

True to his promise, General Sully had a position arranged for him when
he called next day, and one, moreover, upon whose duties he could enter
at once. He quitted his work as clerk of the St. Louis commissary office
only to continue it in the same place as a clerk for the chief
commissary officer of the Northwestern Indian Expedition. Knowing that
he was to be with them, General Sully's staff officers took an immediate
interest in him, especially Lieutenant Dale, whose friendship proved not
only increasingly pleasant but very helpful as well. Dale was able to
give Al many suggestions as to how best to meet the problems and
situations which constantly arose in his position. There was also a
Captain Feilner, who treated him with much kindness. He was an officer
of German birth who had risen to his position from the ranks of the
regular army and was now General Sully's chief topographical engineer.

For six weeks every one in St. Louis connected with the expedition was
busily occupied in getting supplies together and in shipping several
hundred tons of foodstuffs, clothing, camp equipage, and ammunition on
steamboats which were going up the Missouri on the Spring high water to
Fort Benton, Montana, the outfitting point for the newly discovered gold
district in that Territory. These goods were consigned to Fort Union,
the chief trading post of the American Fur Company, at the mouth of the
Yellowstone River, where a depot was to be established so as to have
supplies ready for the troops when they should reach that point, as it
was planned they should do, after marching overland from the Missouri to
the Yellowstone. Many hundreds of tons more were loaded on the eight
steamers which General Sully had chartered for the exclusive use of his
army, and on them were carried also a great quantity of building
materials for use in the two forts which were to be erected, one on the
upper Missouri and one on the Yellowstone. Few troops were to start with
the fleet from St. Louis, because General Sully's men were either
scattered in the several forts and cantonments along the river in Dakota
where they had spent the Winter, or were to meet the boats at the
village of Sioux City, Iowa; while a large column from General Sibley's
command was marching from Minnesota straight across the high prairies of
Dakota to join the rest of the expedition at Bois Cache Creek, nearly
opposite the mouth of the Moreau River.




CHAPTER VII

UP THE MISSOURI


On the last day of April the long preparations were finally completed.
The eight steamers lay along the Levee with flags floating from their
forward peaks and the black smoke pouring from their funnels. A great
crowd had gathered on the river bank to watch the departure; and while
drays and wagons rattled over the cobblestones and long lines of negro
roustabouts ran back and forth across the gang-planks of the steamers,
carrying on board the last packages of freight, Al stood at the boiler
deck rail of the _Island City_, General Sully's headquarters boat. He
waved his hand and smiled, more cheerfully than he felt at that moment,
to his mother and Annie and Uncle Will, who stood in the wide doorway of
the wharf-boat below, looking up at him. Now that the final moment had
come, Mrs. Briscoe's heart was torn at parting with her boy, who had so
loyally and unselfishly devoted himself to her wellbeing since her
husband's death. But she bore it as bravely as a good mother always
bears such trials, smiling brightly at him through her tears as the
head-lines were slipped from the _Island City's_ bow and her great stern
wheel began slowly to revolve. Al, his own eyes misty, watched his
mother until in the distance she became blurred with the crowd. The
steamer swung gracefully out into the swift current of the Mississippi,
described a wide, sweeping curve to the middle of the channel, and then,
rounding up stream at the head of the majestic line of her consorts,
forged up past the smoky city on the first mile of the long journey into
the Northwestern wilderness.

Until the cheering crowd on the Levee was quite blotted out by distance
and intervening steamers along the bank, Al stood at the rail looking
back. When at last he turned away, with a strange feeling of depression
and loneliness, he found Lieutenant Dale standing behind him.

"Come, boy," said he, slapping Al's shoulder, "brace up! We are going to
have a great time this Summer, and you'll be mighty glad you came. I
know it's hard leaving your folks. I felt just the same way less than
three years ago when I marched off from home to Washington and the first
Bull Run. But it does no good to feel blue over it; you'll come back
again all right, anyway. Get busy; that's the best remedy for blues. Are
those last goods that were brought on board checked up yet? No? Well,
you better go down and check them, hadn't you?"

Al acted on the suggestion, and by the time he was through, the fleet
had entered the mouth of the Missouri and was approaching St. Charles, a
picturesque little old city straggling up over the rugged, wooded hills
on the north bank of the Missouri. The boats did not stop at the town,
but continued running until nearly dark, when they laid up for the night
at Penn's Woodyard, four miles above. Excepting in high water, when the
channel is broad and deep, it is very unusual for boats to run at night
on the Missouri owing to the danger of striking snags or going aground
on sandbars. Next morning, after replenishing their fuel supply at the
woodyard, they started at daylight and ran without mishap or halt,
excepting to take on wood several times, until dusk found them just
below the mouth of the Gasconade River, where they again tied up to wait
for daylight.

In the Spring of 1864 there had been little rain in the Missouri Valley,
and the river was very low for the season, a fact which greatly
disturbed General Sully; he foresaw that the trip would probably be
painfully slow and that he would not be able to reach the Indian country
until so late that the campaign would have to be a hurried one. Early
next morning, at the mouth of the Gasconade, they encountered the first
of the obstacles which they had been dreading. As is usual below the
mouths of tributaries, where the eddy created by the muddy current of
the main river coming in contact with that of the tributary causes the
mud and sand to sink to the bottom, a sandbar here extended across the
Missouri's channel. The _Island City_, in the lead and running near the
south shore along the base of the bluffs, notwithstanding the caution of
her pilot, stuck her bow into it and stopped short. Al, who was in the
main cabin, ran forward as he felt the boat shiver and careen and looked
down over the bow.

"Why, we've stuck fast!" he exclaimed to Captain Feilner, whom he found
standing by the rail. "What will they do now?"

"Send out a boat and sound for a passage," the Captain answered.

Even as he spoke, Alexander Lamont,--or, Alex Lamont, as he was usually
called,--the tall, bronzed captain of the _Island City_, leaned out over
the rail and shouted up to the hurricane deck above,

"Lower away the yawl, there! Step lively, now!"

They heard the shuffle of feet on the sanded tar roof overhead, the
creak of falls and tackles, and in a moment the boat, its long oars
manned by six stalwart deck hands and carrying, besides, a steersman at
the stern and a leadsman with a sounding pole at the bow, pulled around
the side of the steamer and out into the shoal water ahead. Meanwhile,
the long line of steamers behind them also came to a stop.

"How much water must there be for us to get through?" asked Al.

"We are drawing three and a half feet," answered Captain Feilner, "and
we ought to have four feet to go on, but we can do it on three and a
half by sparring or warping. Have you never seen those things done?
Well, you will probably have a chance in a few minutes,--and plenty more
before we are through with this trip. Some of the other steamers do not
draw quite as much as we do but none of them seem to be going to try to
pass us."

The yawl gradually worked its way diagonally across and down the river,
following the crest of the bar, until it had approached quite near to
the north bank, the leadsman constantly thrusting his pole down to the
river bottom. Then the boat suddenly turned around and came rapidly back
to the _Island City_.

"There's three and a half, large, over there," said the pilot who had
acted as leadsman as he came aboard, speaking to Captain Lamont. "We can
go over but you'll likely have to set spars."

He ascended to the pilot-house and jerked the whistle rope. A warning
bellow roared out over the river, re-echoing from the forest-clad bluffs
on either side. One by one the steamboats behind them took up the
refrain, until the noise resembled that of a manufacturing city at the
noon hour.

"What on earth is all that whistling for?" asked Al. "Are they trying to
scare the bar out of the river?"

"No," laughed Captain Feilner. "That is a signal that we are going to
back up. There isn't room to turn in this channel and all the others
must back up, too, so that we won't run into each other."

The fleet backed for a half mile, then the _Island City_ reversed her
wheel and started up again, running this time, however, close in by the
north shore. As she went ahead the strokes of her pistons became more
and more rapid until, as she approached the crossing, she was going at a
great speed for a steamboat.

"He's going to try to belt her through," exclaimed Lieutenant Dale,
coming up at this moment. "We'll get a jolt. I hope nothing breaks."

Hardly had he finished speaking when there came a loud grating sound
from the bow as the boat's flat bottom began to scrape over the sand.
Her timbers quivered and groaned, her speed diminished so quickly that
those who were standing on her decks were nearly thrown down, and then,
after scraping along for a few feet slowly and painfully she came to a
full stop. For a moment the stern wheel continued to churn the water
into white foam; then the pilot, with an impatient gesture, jerked the
wire to the stopping-bell down in the engine room, and the ponderous
wheel came to a halt.

"No use," he cried to Captain Lamont, leaning out of the pilot-house
window. "She's nearly over but you'll have to set the spars!"

There was a great shouting and commotion on the lower deck as the spars,
two long, heavy timbers like telegraph poles, one on each side of the
bow, were swung out and erected in position, their lower extremities
resting on the river bottom, the upper, fitted with tackle blocks,
rising high above the level of the boat's top deck. Through the tackle
blocks ran heavy cables fastened at one end to the boat's gunwale and at
the other to the steam capstan. When the spars had been set, the capstan
began to revolve, winding up the cable and thus hoisting the bow of the
boat until it hung suspended on the spars. At the same time the wheel
was slowly revolved, forcing the boat ahead until the spars had tilted
forward so far as to let the bow down again into the sand. Then they
were dragged forward and set upright once more, and the process was
repeated. Before a great while the crest of the bar was passed, and the
_Island City_ floated on into deeper water and continued her journey.
But though it had not been what river men would consider a hard
crossing, she had lost nearly six hours in sounding and sparring, and it
was noon by the time she had left the Gasconade out of sight behind her.
The vessels following her each forced its way across the bar in the same
manner as she had done, excepting the _Chippewa Falls_ and the _Alone_,
boats of smaller dimensions and lighter draft, which were able to slip
over without sparring. By the time the last one had passed the
Gasconade, it was evening again, and the fleet was strung out for miles
up the river. The _Island City_ anchored out for the night to a bar just
below Kate Howard Chute, so called for a beautiful packet of that name
which had sunk there in 1859. The point was only thirty miles above the
Gasconade, so that twenty-four hours had been consumed in covering that
insignificant distance. The _Island City_ was towing a large barge,
intended for use when they should reach the Indian country, but it was
very much in the way and retarded her progress considerably.

That evening Al asked Captain Lamont how far it was from St. Louis to
the mouth of Cannonball River, Dakota, where it was expected that the
actual campaign against the Indians would begin, and was told that it
was about fourteen hundred miles. He did some figuring and found that if
they continued to progress at the same rate as they had done that day it
would be more than six weeks, or past the middle of June, before they
would reach their destination. It seemed an astonishingly long time to
him but, as the event proved, he had considerably overestimated the
average speed which the fleet could maintain. For days they continued
travelling through the State of Missouri, contending with sandbars and
head winds. The interior of the State was in a deplorable condition as a
result of the war. Guerillas were overrunning it everywhere, and the
boats rarely landed at a town without hearing either that some of the
marauders had just left on the approach of the fleet or that they had
been raiding there a day or two before. General Sully's vessels were so
numerous and well armed that the guerillas did not dare attack them. All
Missouri River boats at that time were more or less fortified around the
pilot-house with timber or boiler-iron bulwarks, to protect the pilots
from the bullets of guerillas on the lower river and from those of
Indians in the upper country, while the piles of cordwood on the main
deck afforded some protection to the men there. Yet the fleet seldom
passed a downward-bound boat which had not been fired into or boarded,
and fortunate was the vessel which had escaped without the loss of one
or more people on board killed or wounded.

There were plenty of men in the expedition who would have been glad to
encourage such attacks had they been made, for, as was always the case
among the class of men who worked as laborers on the steamboats, there
were many hardened and even desperate characters in the crews of Sully's
vessels. Not a few of them were deserters from the Confederate army,
tired of fighting but still rebels at heart; and others were Southern
sympathizers, fleeing from the draft in the Northern States. Most of
these men hoped, when they should draw near to Montana, to find
opportunities for slipping away from the expedition and making their way
to the gold fields which were just being opened in the placer deposits
around Bannack, Last Chance Gulch, Alder Gulch and other places, and
which were attracting a wild rush of adventurers from all over the
country. Such men were naturally hard to handle and it took steamboat
officers of firmness and courage to keep them in control.

Since the beginning of the voyage Al had not had much occasion to
mingle with the crew of the _Island City_. The cargo of the steamboat
consisted chiefly of corn for the use of the cavalry horses in the
Indian country and, once it was on board, required little attention. He
therefore seldom had any reason for going to the lower deck except to
while away the time, which, indeed, was the principal occupation of the
army officers on board. As might naturally be supposed, he was usually
with some of them. But one day he was standing on the main deck near the
boilers when one of the deck hands, a young fellow a few years older
than himself, came by carrying a couple of heavy sticks of cordwood to
the furnaces. Al had once or twice in the past noticed this fellow
staring at him in a disagreeable way and felt instinctively that it must
be because the deck hand was envious of the apparently easy and pleasant
time which he was having. Al's back was turned toward him and neither
saw the other until one of the sticks collided heavily with Al's
shoulder, almost throwing him down. Al turned and though bruised, was on
the point of apologizing for being in the way, when the fellow, an
ugly, red flush overspreading his face, shouted, with a plentiful
sprinkling of oaths between his words,

"Get out of my road, you little Yankee snipe! What are you loafing
around here for, anyhow?"

"I'm sorry I got in your way," replied Al, controlling his temper, "but
I didn't see you."

"Well, you'd better stay upstairs with your blue-bellied Yankee
officers. They oughtn't to let their little pet run around this way."

Hearing loud words, several other deck hands gathered round, grinning at
the excitement, their sympathies evidently with their companion.

"As for my being down here," Al answered, feeling that it would not do
to let such language pass unnoticed, especially before the other men, "I
have as much business here as you have. As for being a Yankee, I suppose
everybody on a United States ship is a Yankee. If they're not, they'd
better go ashore."

"It would take a mighty big lot of such spindle-legged doll babies as
you to put me ashore," shouted the young ruffian, flinging down his
wood and advancing on Al with clenched fists. "Down South we don't use
anything but boats we've kicked the Yankees off of."

Several of the other deck hands crowded closer, exclaiming,

"Aw, let the kid alone, Jimmy. He ain't done nothin' to you."

"Look out, Jimmy; you'll get in trouble, talkin' that way."

"So you're a rebel deserter, are you?" asked Al, his eyes flashing. "I
thought so. If you're so much attached to them, why didn't you stay down
there and take some more Yankee boats?"

The fellow, quite beside himself with rage, did not wait to reply but
sprang at Al like a bull-dog. Al knew little about boxing, but he was
quick. As his assailant rushed at him, he jumped forward and planted one
fist with all his strength on the point of the fellow's chin. The
rowdy's feet flew from under him and he fell to the deck with a heavy
thud, completely dazed for a moment. Then he scrambled to his feet with
a string of imprecations pouring from his lips, and jerking an ugly,
broad-bladed knife from a sheath on his belt, again leaped at Al. Seeing
his intention, his companions rushed forward to stop him, but Al had
snatched up a stoking iron from the floor beside him and swung it back
over his shoulder. His face was pale, but not with fright, and as his
assailant looked into his steady eyes something in them caused him
suddenly to lower his knife and hesitate.

"Come one step nearer and I'll brain you," said Al, his voice very low
and quiet. "You miserable, cowardly bully, attacking a fellow who is
unarmed and who has done nothing to you. Now, if you want to stay on
this boat you've got to quit that kind of talk about Yankees or I'll see
that you are put off. It's very plain you are a rebel and you've no
business getting your living under the protection of the Union as long
as you feel that way. Next time you want to try anything with me I shall
be ready for you, and I warn you, you won't get off so easily again."

He threw down the stoking iron and, turning his back on the crest-fallen
rowdy, deliberately walked away, followed by ejaculations from the
group of onlookers such as,

"Bully boy!" "Served him right." "You're all right, kid!"

Later in the day he mentioned the occurrence to Lieutenant Dale and
Captain Feilner, who promptly wished to have the deck hand put ashore.

"Not on my account, unless he does some more secesh talking," said Al.
"I can take care of myself with him. Besides, it may be a good lesson
for him and teach him to be decent after this."

The fellow, as it turned out, had been pretty thoroughly beaten and he
made no more trouble for Al during the voyage, though he always gave him
an ugly look when they chanced to meet.

Lieutenant Dale decided from the incident that Al ought to learn the art
of boxing, in which he himself was quite expert, having learned it in
college. So thereafter they spent an hour or so every day in sparring.
By the time the voyage was over, Al had become as skilful as his
instructor, and General Sully, Captain Feilner and the other officers
often gathered to watch their bouts and to encourage them to greater
efforts.

At Glasgow, his old home, Al had an opportunity to go ashore for a short
time and he was astonished and grieved to note the changes which three
short years had wrought in the familiar old town. The levee was deserted
save by a few indolent loafers who, without recognizing him, stared at
him suspiciously as he went past; for in that terror-haunted country,
fear and suspicion of everybody and everything had become the habit of
the people. Climbing the hill to the main part of town, he found grass
growing in the once bustling business streets and many buildings locked
and vacant. His father's old store was among them, closed as he had left
it. He saw no familiar faces; most of the men and boys he had known were
off in one of the armies, Confederate or Union, and the women were not
often venturing from their houses in such times. In the residence
section the scene was still worse. House after house stood deserted and
going to decay. With slow steps Al went on to the place which had been
the home of his family in the dear old days when they were happy and
prosperous. The gate was fallen from the hinges, weeds were growing
thickly over the gravel walks, several panes of glass were broken out of
the windows, and a loose shutter creaked dolefully in the wind. He
rested his hand on a weather-beaten fence picket and gazed out into the
garden he remembered so well, where he and Tommy and Annie had played;
and beyond that into the orchard, where the summer apples used to grow
so large and red and juicy. The cords of his throat tightened and a mist
swam before his eyes. Weeds and grass and broken limbs strewed the
ground; silence and desolation were everywhere. He turned away abruptly
and hastened back to the levee, never stopping until he was once more on
the boiler deck of the _Island City_, where General Sully and several
other officers were smoking and playing cards. It seemed to him as if a
ghost were following him, the ghost of dead days, so tenderly remembered
that the thought of them was unendurable, and for the time being he
wanted only to plunge into the present and forget.




CHAPTER VIII

PRAIRIE MARCHING


It would take a volume to recount all the interesting experiences which
befell Al and his companions on the long trip to Fort Sully, Dakota,
where the greater part of General Sully's troops had wintered; but, as
they contributed nothing of moment to the narrative which we are
following, they must be passed by. The fleet reached Kansas City, then a
small but rapidly growing frontier town, nearly three weeks after
leaving St. Louis, a journey which is now accomplished by rail in seven
or eight hours. At Omaha the _Island City_ left the barge which had been
dragging at her stern all the way from St. Louis, as it was such an
impediment that she could no longer handle it in the extremely low stage
of the water. On May 30 the fleet reached Sioux City, where some troops
were taken on board, as were still more at Fort Randall, twelve days
later. About June 20 they arrived at Fort Sully and here the long
steamboat journey came to an end so far as the General and his staff
were concerned, as here they left the boat to march with the column of
troops up the eastern side of the Missouri. Though he expected to see
them frequently again during the Summer, Al regretted leaving the
officers and pilots of the _Island City_, especially Captain Lamont, to
whom he had become quite attached. After his encounter with the deck
hand, Jim, the Captain had shown a liking for him and during many idle
hours had done much toward initiating him into the fascinating mysteries
of steamboating. The fleet itself was going on up the river with the
cargoes, keeping as nearly as possible abreast of the column.

It was a great relief to be on shore again and able to ride a galloping
horse and to move about freely, after the long confinement to the narrow
limits of the boat. For two or three days after the arrival of the
fleet, Fort Sully presented a very animated appearance. Here were
assembled about half of the troops which were to make up the expedition
into the hostile country: the Sixth Iowa Cavalry under Colonel Pollock;
three companies of the Seventh Iowa Cavalry under Lieutenant-Colonel
Pattee; Brackett's Battalion of Minnesota Cavalry under Major Brackett,
which had marched overland from Fort Snelling to Sioux City and thence
to Fort Sully; and two companies of Dakota Cavalry under Captain Miner.

All these soldiers, over one thousand in number, constituting the First
Brigade of General Sully's army, were quartered in the barracks of the
fort or encamped close around the stockade. The buildings of the fort,
which were similar to most of those built on the Northwestern frontier,
were of large, unhewn cottonwood logs; and the stockade, about two
hundred and seventy feet square, was made of cedar pickets rising twelve
feet above the ground, loop-holed for musketry and flanked by two
bastions, one on the northeastern and one on the southwestern corner,
containing cannon to sweep the faces of the stockade. It had been built
by General Sully's troops, many of whom were still there, at the close
of the campaign in 1863. A short distance out from the fort were several
hundred lodges of Indians, recently hostile, but who, wearying of the
struggle, had come in to tender their submission to General Sully. Al,
through interpreters, made eager inquiry among them for news of Tommy,
but could learn nothing. The Indians, who were of several different
tribes of the Sioux Nation: Yanktonais, Brules, Two Kettles,
Minneconjoux, Sans Arcs, Uncpapas, and also Blackfeet, reported that the
hostiles were gathered in one immense camp of some eighteen hundred
lodges, or about six thousand warriors, three days' march west of the
Missouri on the headwaters of Heart River, and that they were eager for
a fight.

After a few days spent at the fort in organizing and refitting the
troops, shoeing the horses and mules, repairing harness, and loading
supplies for immediate use into the train of nearly one hundred wagons
which was to accompany the column, the latter moved out on its northward
march on the twenty-third of June.

Now began days which were full of novel experiences for Al. Though he
had to spend a good deal of time with the wagon train, aiding Lieutenant
Bacon, the acting assistant quartermaster, in issuing and caring for
the supplies, he found many hours each day to ride at the head of the
column with the General and his staff, who usually marched there. The
weather was generally warm, and the vast, seemingly boundless prairie
was parched with drought. The new grass was sparse and dry and hidden
under the dead, brown bunches of last year's blue joint and buffalo
grass, so that the troops and wagon train usually marched in a cloud of
dust which, rising from the feet of the hundreds of trampling animals,
was visible for many miles through the clear air of that high plateau
country. They knew that Indian scouts were all about them, closely
observing their progress, but the red men seldom showed themselves, and
one unfamiliar with their ways might easily have believed that there
were no enemies near. Game, such as buffalo and antelope, could often be
seen in the distance and it was a sore temptation to many of the men to
see them and not give pursuit. Indeed, sometimes a party would sally out
after a buffalo; but unless the party was strong, it was always against
the advice of the old campaigners, especially the officers and men of
the Dakota Cavalry, who had been hunting and fighting Indians all over
the southern part of their vast territory ever since the Summer of 1862.
These men, recruited among the fearless and adventurous pioneers who had
first settled in Dakota a few years before, had been dubbed "the
Coyotes" by their companions in arms because of the speed and skill with
which they could march and manoeuvre against their wily foes; and it was
from them that South Dakota in later years derived its familiar
nickname, "the Coyote State."

General Sully had such confidence in the Coyotes that he treated them in
some degree as his headquarters escort. Their place on the march was
usually near him, and if any piece of work was to be done of an
especially important or daring character, he generally called upon the
Coyotes to perform it. Lieutenant Bacon, whom General Sully had
appointed acting assistant quartermaster, was an officer of the Dakota
Cavalry; and as his assistant Al soon found himself on terms of easy
familiarity with the entire gallant command. This was especially true
after he had one day dashed out with a party of them after a small herd
of buffalo which came in view as they topped a rise, a little more than
a mile in advance. A dozen of the Dakota cavalrymen put spurs to their
horses and galloped after the enticing game, and Al and Captain Feilner
joined them.

Al's horse was a sturdy animal, smaller than Captain Feilner's but
long-winded. When they had ridden two or three miles, gradually gaining
on their game, the herd suddenly divided at a dry slough bed in the
prairie, part keeping on north and part turning east. Most of the
cavalrymen turned to follow the buffalo which had swung east, but two or
three, with Captain Feilner and Al, galloped on after the others. One of
the troopers, a tall, slim young fellow wearing the chevrons of a
corporal, who rode his long-legged black horse like an Indian, gradually
drew ahead of the rest as they came nearer and nearer to the game, until
finally he brought himself abreast of the herd. Handling his horse with
the greatest skill, he worked in alongside of the largest buffalo bull.
Then, drawing his short Sharp's carbine, he leaned over, brought the
muzzle near to the animal's fore shoulder and fired. The buffalo ran on
for thirty or forty feet, then stumbled, fell, rose again and, after
staggering a short distance, fell once more and for the last time. The
corporal, calmly slipping his carbine back into its boot, rode up to the
dead buffalo and began cutting away the choicest portions of it to carry
back to the command.

Meantime Al and Captain Feilner galloped on, some distance behind the
corporal. But the Captain's horse was becoming badly winded and at last
he swung off to one side and took a long distance shot, without result.
Al, though his horse, too, was beginning to show some signs of
weariness, kept on until about fifty yards from the flank and rear of
the herd when, not wishing to exhaust his horse, he decided to take his
chance on a long shot. He accordingly pulled up and, taking hasty aim
with the long Spencer rifle he was carrying, fired at the nearest animal
he could see through the dust. Then he lowered his rifle and looked, but
the buffalo seemed to be running as fast and as steadily as ever. He was
about to turn back, disappointed, to join Captain Feilner, when he
heard the corporal, a little way behind, shouting at him,

"You hit her! You hit her! Keep going; use your revolver!"

Somewhat doubtful, Al urged his horse again to a gallop and kept on
after the herd, Captain Feilner and the corporal following him. But,
true enough, before he had covered a quarter of a mile he saw the animal
he had fired at begin to drop behind the others. In another quarter of a
mile he had overtaken it. It proved to be a good sized cow, which, as he
approached, stopped and turned upon him with lowered head, frothing
mouth and angry eyes. He drew his revolver, the one that had belonged to
his father and that he had used at Fort Ridgely, and cautiously urged
his frightened horse toward the cow. As he came within twenty-five or
thirty feet, she charged at him, but he spurred his horse forward and as
she passed behind him, he fired at her eye. It was a lucky shot, for she
rolled over like a log and lay still. In a moment Captain Feilner and
the corporal rode up, the latter's saddle already loaded with thirty or
forty pounds of choice meat cut from his own quarry. He dismounted and
walked up to Al.

[Illustration: She charged at him as he fired]

"That was a fine shot at the distance," said he. "I didn't think you
would make a hit. And you finished her in good shape. Do you know where
to cut off the best pieces for eating?"

"No, I don't," replied Al. "I never killed one before."

"Let me show you," said the other, drawing out his knife, "so that
you'll know next time."

"What is your name?" asked Al, as they worked, handing up the pieces to
the Captain, who tied them to his own and Al's saddles. "You must be a
veteran at it, the way you knocked over that big fellow."

"Oh, I've killed a few of them," answered the cavalryman, modestly. "It
isn't much of a trick when you know how. My name is Charles Wright,
corporal in Company A, First Dakota Cavalry."

They were soon riding back to the column with the welcome supply of
fresh meat, joining on the way the members of the other party, who had
killed three buffalo of the bunch they had followed. On arriving at the
column they were soundly berated by General Sully for their temerity in
venturing so far; for if a party of Indians of any size had cut in
between them and the main body they might easily have all been killed.
Captain Feilner, who, being an engineer and also, incidentally, a
naturalist, was fond of wandering aside from the line of march to
examine the country, laughed incredulously at the General's misgivings.

"General, I do not believe there are enough Indians within one hundred
miles to endanger the number of us who went out there," said he.

"Well, there are," replied General Sully, positively, "don't make any
mistake about that. And if you're not more careful, Feilner, you'll get
your scalp lifted some day on one of your foolhardy side trips after
buffalo or rocks or petrified beetles. As for you, Briscoe," he
continued, addressing Al, "if you want to die young, just keep on
following those Coyotes wherever they lead." With a grim smile, he
jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the dusty squadron just behind
them, who at the moment were welcoming Corporal Wright and his
meat-laden companions with yells and whoops of delight. "Those fellows
are the most reckless devils in the Northwest and they'll get you into
more tight holes than you can get out of unless you're as bad as they
are."

Al felt that this was the highest compliment possible to the Dakota boys
and so, indeed, General Sully meant it to be. That night at supper in
the bivouac the staff and the Coyotes, at least, fared sumptuously, with
hot and tender buffalo steaks to go with their hardtack, fried potatoes
and coffee.

It was several days after the buffalo hunt, on June 28, to be exact,
that the command broke camp at daylight and marched forward toward the
crossing of the Little Cheyenne River. The troops marched in two
columns, as usual, the supply train being in the centre between them,
while the Dakota Cavalry rode a short distance in advance. Their
commander, Captain Nelson Miner, was that day acting field officer of
the day, having charge of the guard details. As the day wore on it
became hot and sultry and the dust suffocating. Every one was suffering
with thirst and finally, as they approached within a few miles of the
Cheyenne, Captain Feilner decided to ride ahead to that stream in search
of water. Two soldiers from one of the commands in the main column
volunteered to accompany him. Al was working over his books in one of
the wagons of the train when the Captain rode past and called out to
him,

"I am going on to the Little Cheyenne to get a drink. Do you want to go
with me?"

"I should like to," Al called back, "but I'm busy now. Look out for
Indians."

"Oh, yes," replied the Captain, smiling, "There are three of us. I guess
we can force a passage against all the Indians we shall see."

He waved his hand and disappeared through the dust up the column, the
two soldiers trotting hard after him. Al resumed his work and in a
moment forgot all about Captain Feilner. When he had finished he mounted
his horse and rode up to the head of the column where he fell in with
the rest of the staff around General Sully. They had been riding along
in leisurely fashion for some time, their weary horses walking with
drooping heads, the riders lolling in their saddles, when Al's glance,
wandering aimlessly over the desolate landscape ahead, was arrested by
two small dots which suddenly appeared on the top of a prairie ridge far
in front and came racing down the exposed slope in the direction of the
column. Something in their appearance made his heart jump into his
throat. Instinctively he reached out and touched the arm of General
Sully, who was talking to Lieutenant Dale.

"General," he cried, pointing ahead. "Look there! What are those
specks?"

The general, startled, glanced in the direction indicated. His
expression changed to one of dismay.

"By God," he exclaimed, snatching out his field-glasses, "something's
happened over there; there are only two of them. Feilner's got in
trouble; I knew he would."

He touched his horse and started forward at a trot, his staff following.
The riders, coming at a furious pace, soon reached them. They were the
two soldiers who had ridden ahead with the Captain, hatless and without
arms, their horses panting with the frantic pace they had been making.
The leading trooper jerked up in front of the General and, saluting,
cried breathlessly,

"Captain Feilner is killed, General!"

General Sully slapped his field-glasses back into their case and
clenched his fist with an enraged gesture.

"I knew it," he growled, savagely. "The best officer I had. Curse these
infernal redskins!" It must be admitted that at such moments General
Sully did not hesitate to use stronger language than is allowable in
print. "Where was he killed?"

"At the crossing of the Cheyenne, sir. He's lying there now."

"How did it happen?"

"Why, when we reached there, sir, the Captain got off his horse and went
down the bank,--it's steep where we were,--and got a drink, while we
held his horse. Then we dismounted and went down, leaving our horses and
carbines with him. He was sitting under a little tree. While we were
down by the creek we heard a rifle shot and looked up and saw three
Injuns riding up toward our horses. There is good grass in the bottom
and we'd picketed them, but they got scared and pulled the picket-pins
and ran off before the redskins got them. We could see the Captain lying
there but we didn't have our guns so all we could do was to hide out
till the Injuns rode off north across the creek. Then we ran after our
horses and came back."

"Three Indians, you say? And they rode north?" questioned the General,
sharply.

"Yes, sir."

Sully put his horse to the gallop and rode swiftly toward the head of
the approaching column. As he reached Captain Miner, he pulled up.

"Captain," he cried, "three Indians have killed Captain Feilner at the
crossing of the Little Cheyenne, just ahead of us here. They rode north,
across the creek. Take Company A and follow the cowardly assassins and
bring them to me, dead or alive; mind you, dead or alive!"

"Feilner killed!" exclaimed Captain Miner. "The dirty scoundrels!"

He swung his horse so sharply that it reared, and dashed back along the
column of Company A until he reached First Sergeant A. M. English, who
was in command.

"Sergeant," he cried, in ringing tones which every eagerly listening man
in the company could hear, "Captain Feilner has been killed, and we are
ordered to pursue the Indians!"

Then he galloped back to the head of the column and, rising in his
stirrups, shouted,

"Column left, march! Company, trot! Gallop! Follow me, boys!"

With a rising thunder of hoofs and a swirling dust cloud behind them,
through which the glint of carbines, sabres, and accoutrements flashed
in the sunshine, the cavalry swept over the hill in front and away. The
General rode hotly after them to the crest and watched them streaming
through the depression and up the slopes beyond. Then he laughed grimly.

"See the d--n Coyotes," he exclaimed. "They go like a flock of sheep!
They'll kill their horses before they catch the redskins. Ride after
them and tell Miner to take it easy."

Al, who ever since hearing the distressing news had been quivering with
impotent rage over the cruel fate of his good friend, Captain Feilner,
caught the General's last words. He turned with a swift salute, even as
he put spurs to his horse.

"I'll tell him, General!" he cried, and rode away like the wind.

"Here, you!" cried the General, "Come back!"

But Al did not want to hear.

"Oh, let him go," Sully added, in a lower tone, "I reckon he's a Coyote
himself," and he chuckled as he saw Al put his horse over a gully at the
bottom of the hill and tear up the opposite rise close on the heels of
the last ragged end of the racing Dakota Cavalry.




CHAPTER IX

THE REVENGE OF THE COYOTES


As he gained the top of the rise, Al saw a confused and scattered array
of horsemen just ahead of him, all going at a sharp gallop with no
attempt at formation, the men leaning forward in their saddles as if
riding to the finish of a hard race. He understood that it was a foolish
pace for what would probably prove a long pursuit, but nothing could be
done to slacken it until he could overtake Captain Miner, who was at the
very head of the company. Al and every one else had been very much
surprised at the impetuous manner in which Captain Miner had started
out, for though brave as a lion, he was usually very deliberate in
movement and gentle of speech and his voice had a plaintive, appealing
tone which often contrasted oddly with the orders he was giving.
Altogether, his dashing and devoted followers often found much to amuse
them in the ways of their mild commander. That he had been profoundly
moved by the death of Captain Feilner was evident; otherwise he would
never have urged his little roan mare to a gallop, for his habit was to
ride her at an ambling trot, even in the most exciting and dangerous
situations.

Al hurried his own wiry little horse to greater exertions and began
forging to the front. Before long he left all except the leaders behind
and as they went over the hill and down into the valley of the Cheyenne,
he was almost up to Captain Miner. The latter's face was set steadily to
the front, however, as he scanned the country ahead for sight of the
fugitive Indians, and Al could not attract his attention until he had
overtaken him, almost on the bank of the creek. Then he shouted,

"Captain Miner! Captain Miner!"

The Captain turned and drew in his horse.

"Well?" he inquired, lifting his eyebrows slightly, "What is it?" It was
plain he had recovered his composure, for his voice was placid.

"General Sully's compliments, sir, and he suggests that you take it a
little slower, as the horses may be exhausted before you can catch the
Indians," answered Al.

Captain Miner pulled at his beard thoughtfully.

"Oh, pshaw!" he said, a disapproving note in his voice, "I wonder how we
are to catch them if we don't keep going?"

"I don't know, sir," replied Al, as side by side they rode their horses
into the creek, "but that was what the General told me to say to you."

The stream was shallow and narrow but its banks were composed of deep,
swampy mud through which their horses floundered and plunged, knee deep.
Above and below them soldiers of the Coyotes were coming at the stream,
some clearing it in a bound, where the banks were solid enough for a
jump, while others became so deeply mired that they could not get out
again until the rest of the command had passed from sight beyond. Just
as Al's and the Captain's horses waded out of the creek and came up,
snorting, on the opposite bank, they heard some of the men already
across, shouting,

"There are the Indians! Over there!"

At this moment a headquarters orderly galloped into sight and halted
beside the Captain.

"The General is afraid you will ruin your horses," he cried. "He thinks
you had better come back."

Again Captain Miner tugged at his beard, a habit of his when annoyed or
perplexed.

"Is that an order?" he inquired.

"No, sir, I think not," the orderly replied, hesitatingly. "It's a
suggestion."

"Well," directed the Captain, gently, "will you, then, please report to
the General that we are in sight of the Indians and without I have a
positive order to return, I propose to take them."

He turned to the front again and put his little roan into her accustomed
trot, calling out to the men nearest him, as he waved his hand at them,

"Take it a bit slower, boys; don't run your horses. We'll catch the
Indians all right."

Al's ambitious little sorrel, seeing other horses ahead of him, was
tugging at the bit and Al gradually let him have his head, leaving the
Captain a short distance behind while the rest of the company was
strung out for a mile or more in the rear. Al soon found himself among
the leaders, riding neck and neck with Sergeant English and Corporal
Wright, while Troopers Tom Frick, George Pike, George McClellan, and
others whose names he did not know were near to them. The country was
almost level where they were riding and they could now see the three
Indians plainly, though still a long way ahead. The fugitives were
pushing with all the speed they could make for a group of rough hills in
advance, evidently hoping to escape pursuit in the ravines. To reach the
hills, their course must be at a slight angle across that of the
soldiers.

"Let's try to head them off," suggested Sergeant English. "Bear a little
to the right."

The change of direction was made and as they continued to creep up on
the Indians, whose ponies were evidently wearing out, they could see the
latter look around anxiously every minute or two. The savages were
urging their animals with quirt and heel, and though they responded but
feebly, their strength lasted long enough to take them to the base of
the hills before the pursuers had come within carbine range. As they
reached the first steep slope, the Indians suddenly threw themselves
from their ponies' backs and, clinging to their guns, ran up to the top
of the hill on foot and disappeared. As they came nearer to the hill,
the soldiers were startled to see on its crest, just where the fugitives
had disappeared, a very large body of warriors with war-bonnets and
robes waving in the breeze.

"Well, say, what do you think of that?" exclaimed Corporal Wright.
"There must be two or three hundred of them."

The advance party reluctantly slowed down until Captain Miner and some
of the other men had come up to them. The Captain examined for a moment
the ominous looking group ahead. Then he turned a wistful glance on the
thirty or forty men behind him and said, plaintively,

"There seem to be a good many of them, but I think we'd better charge,
boys." He touched his mare and trotted forward, calling in a soothing
tone, "Yes, that's what we'll do. Charge, boys, charge."

Some of the men laughed explosively, partly with nervousness, partly
with amusement at their commander's quaint orders, but not one
hesitated. Spreading out in a long, irregular line, they dashed at the
hill, shouting,

"Death to the murderers!"

But as they approached the crest, again laughter broke out, rolling from
one flank of the line to the other and back again, in boisterous waves.
The supposed Indians were nothing more than a patch of mullen stalks,
transformed by distance and the peculiar condition of the air into a
resemblance to human beings. The men looked at each other sheepishly,
but as they reached the top of the hill, they sobered again. The three
real Indians were just disappearing down a ravine on the other side.
Pell-mell the cavalry rushed after them, Captain Miner and Sergeant
English now in the lead. The horses slid and stumbled down through the
ravine, but the wily savages were still ahead, dodging about among
obstructions to the view which none but Indians could have found.
Presently the ravine widened out into a valley in which no sign of life
was to be seen. The whole body of cavalry was going on into the valley
when suddenly the Indians rose as if from the ground, a little way to
one side of the course the soldiers were taking, and fired at the
Captain and the Sergeant, behind whom Al was closely following.

The fugitives had taken refuge in an old buffalo wallow, forming a
perfect natural rifle-pit; and if they had not mistakenly thought
themselves discovered and risen to fire, their pursuers would probably
have swept by without finding them. But now they were brought to bay and
with cheers and yells of delight a number of troopers sprang from their
saddles and encircling the buffalo wallow, though at some distance from
it, threw themselves flat on the ground with carbines cocked, waiting
for an Indian to show himself. It was like a pack of wolves surrounding
their quarry. Fortunately, neither the Captain nor Sergeant English had
been injured by the first fire and they joined the circle of besiegers,
while the men who were holding the horses formed a wider circle back on
the prairie out of range.

Al's horse, though of course new to him, was an old campaigner which
had gone out from Fort Randall on more than one forced march. His name,
Cottontail, had doubtless been bestowed upon him by some former soldier
rider in humorous reference to his fluffy tail, which was almost white.
He could be trusted to stand through any amount of noise or excitement
if his reins were, thrown over his head so that they hung on the ground
at his feet. Al left him thus, standing alone, and running forward,
dropped down in the ring of dismounted men beside Corporal Wright. For a
few moments the Indians kept out of sight. Then something rose above the
rim of the buffalo wallow and Al, who was watching that spot with
intense eagerness as he lay sprawled in the short prairie grass, raised
his rifle to fire. But the corporal slapped down the barrel.

"Don't shoot at that," said he, "or the boys'll laugh at you. It isn't a
redskin; it's just a breech cloth they're sticking up to draw our fire.
Look closer."

Al looked as directed and saw, on more careful scrutiny, that it was,
indeed, only a piece of cloth. None of the men fired at it, but some of
them hooted derisively, for they knew that the Indians' scheme was to
draw a volley, when they could safely spring up and fire at their
besiegers before the latter could reload. Al lowered his rifle in
disgust.

"How are we going to get them if they never stick their heads up?" he
inquired, impatiently.

"Well, they can stay and starve to death," answered Wright, grinning.
"We're able to hold out longer at that game than they are. But
Captain'll order us to charge pretty soon if they don't do something."

However, the Indians could not stand the suspense. Their ruse having
failed, one of them soon raised his gun and then his head above the edge
of the hole and fired quickly at the first soldier he sighted. His aim
was bad and he had misjudged the alertness of his foes. Almost before he
had shot, a dozen carbines cracked and he dropped back more suddenly
than he had risen. All those in the encircling line heard, or thought
they heard, the dull thud of the bullets as they struck him. A
disjointed cheer ran round among the men.

"There goes one of the murderers!" they shouted. "Now for the next."

The circle began to contract, the men crawling and hitching forward, a
few inches at a time. For some minutes this was kept up on all sides of
the hole, until they had approached within a few rods of it. Still the
Indians gave no sign. Then again the soldiers heard, plainly audible in
the silence, the persuasive voice of Captain Miner, raised slightly
above its ordinary tone;

"Charge, boys, charge!"

As if released by a spring, at those welcome words the Coyotes leaped to
their feet as one man and with a fierce shout rushed forward. The
Indians heard them coming and as the soldiers approached within twenty
feet of their refuge they arose and with a blood-curdling yell fired
their guns straight into the faces of their assailants. Good fortune was
surely with the Dakota boys that day, for the bullets, even at that
deadly range, whistled by harmlessly, and in less time than it takes to
tell it, a score of carbines flashed and the savage assassins, riddled
with bullets, fell back across the body of their already dead companion.
Thus speedily had the cold-blooded murder of Captain Feilner been
avenged.

The soldiers, talking together excitedly, gathered around the edge of
the buffalo wallow; and two or three, including Corporal Wright, sprang
down into it to take trophies, such as beads or feathers, from the dead
warriors. Al was standing on the brink of the hole watching the Corporal
bend over one of the bodies, when, to his amazement, he saw another of
the supposedly dead Indians raise the muzzle of his musket toward the
Corporal's back.

[Illustration: The Indian raised his rifle to shoot Corporal Wright]

"Look out, Corporal!" shouted Al, at the same instant shooting into the
Indian. The Corporal leaped high in air and turned round just in time to
see the musket drop from the hands of the warrior as he fell back and
expired.

"Why, he wasn't dead at all!" exclaimed Al, aghast at the suddenness of
the thing. "He was playing possum and he almost had you, Corporal."

Wright, a little pale, scrambled out of the hole and grasped Al's hand
warmly.

"You've saved my life, sure enough," said he, earnestly. "I hope I can
do as much for you sometime."

"I hope there won't be any need," answered Al, smiling, "but I'm very
glad I saw him in time."

"It's lucky for Charlie that you did," cried Sergeant English, "it looks
so mighty suspicious to be shot in the back."

Wright, laughing, wheeled like lightning on the joker and made a clutch
at him; but the Sergeant sprang out of the way and raced off, with
Wright close on his heels, shouting,

"Here, come back, while I thrash you for that!"

With their sabres catching between their legs, the two brave fellows,
playing like boys, looked comical enough; and the rest of the men, all
of them in high spirits over their success, yelled and applauded loudly
as they dodged about over the prairie until so completely out of breath
that they sunk to the ground, still laughing, and lay there panting.

As soon as they had caught their breath they arose again and returned to
the buffalo wallow. Captain Miner was standing thoughtfully beside it,
looking down at the dead Indians.

"I don't see what we are going to do with these fellows," he said,
doubtfully, glancing around at his men. "The General ordered me to bring
them to him, dead or alive, and of course we've got to do it. But we
must be fifteen miles from the column and they'll be kind of awkward to
take that far."

"Strip off some of their ornaments," suggested somebody, "and take them
to the General."

The Captain, interested, peered in the direction of the speaker.

"Why, that isn't a bad idea," he answered, gratefully. "Yes, I think
that will do, boys."

A score of men jumped into the hole while one man ran and brought a sack
in which he had been carrying oats for his horse. In less time than it
takes to tell it the trophies, stripped from the trappings of the
Indians with sabres and knives, were deposited in the sack, which
Captain Miner fastened to the pommel of his saddle.

The company were soon mounted and riding back toward the Cheyenne, where
the main command had bivouacked for the night, gathering in on the way
the stragglers who had been unable to keep up during the chase. About
midway of their march they were met by Lieutenant Bacon, whom General
Sully had sent out with an ambulance carrying water and commissaries to
the Coyotes, knowing that they would be both hungry and thirsty. Bacon
was jubilant over the success of Company A, for he was its First
Lieutenant, and he gave out the supplies liberally, assisted by Al.

"Young fellow," said he to the latter, with a twinkle in his eye, "what
do you mean by running off to play with these boys here and leaving me
to attend to all the work of feeding the army?"

"Cottontail ran away with me, sir," answered Al, unabashed.

"That'll do," exclaimed the Lieutenant. "It's evident you're not a
descendant of George Washington. But I don't blame you for going; wish I
had gone myself and let the army wait for its supper."

The command marched into camp about sunset. Fires were burning brightly
here and there, and as they approached, the soldiers gathered in crowds
to see and cheer them. Captain Miner led his men directly to the
headquarters tents, before which General Sully and a group of staff and
other officers collected as the dusty men on their tired horses marched
up and halted before them. Without dismounting, Captain Miner rode
straight to the General, saluted, and loosing the sack, dropped it on
the ground at Sully's feet.

"We got them, General," he murmured, absently.

As the sack fell, the trophies rolled from it and lay in plain view.

"Well," said the General, "Captain, this is certainly pretty good
evidence that you got them. I thank you and your men for the vigor and
gallantry and success of your pursuit. Please keep these till to-morrow
morning. I will give you further orders concerning them."




CHAPTER X

THE FORT ON THE RIVER


Another day of easy marching brought the column to Swan Lake Creek,
about fifteen miles due north of the Little Cheyenne, where camp was
made to await the arrival of the Second Brigade, from Minnesota, which,
according to the arrangement between Generals Sibley and Sully, was to
join the expedition there. Scouting parties were sent on north toward
Bois Cache Creek to look for the expected troops; and while awaiting
their return Al had an opportunity to see illustrated in rather an
amusing way one phase of General Sully's bluff, soldierly character.

Some of the regiments which had marched from Fort Sully were quite
recently organized, and the General had not yet made the acquaintance of
all their officers; so at Swan Lake Creek, having a little leisure time,
he asked the commanders of these regiments to bring to headquarters
such of their officers as he had not met. Among them appeared a young
lieutenant of the Sixth Iowa Cavalry, dressed in a spotless new uniform
of the latest regulation cut, set off by a red silk sash and a
resplendent sabre-belt, and very strongly perfumed with musk. General
Sully, like General Grant, was very modest in his dress, and his
uniform, except for the shoulder-straps, differed little from that of a
private, while sometimes in the field he even wore civilian garments,
such as corduroy trousers and white felt hat. He detested gorgeous
uniforms, especially when the wearer had no particular claim to
soldierly eminence or ability. When his eye fell upon this particular
military dandy, he looked the young man over contemptuously and his lip
curled as he sniffed the odor of musk. Al, who was standing by, saw that
something was coming, and listened in amused silence.

"General Sully," said Major Ten Broeck, who had brought the fledgeling
officer for presentation, "allow me to introduce Lieutenant C----, of
Company ----, Sixth Iowa Cavalry."

"Lieutenant C----, eh?" grunted the General. "Well, Lieutenant, how
long have you been in the volunteer service?"

"About six months," replied the other, seeming to feel conscious that
such a lengthy period had made him a model military man in every
particular.

"Six months?" cried the General, striking his fist down on his knee.
"Why, great Heavens, man, I've been in the regular service for twenty
years, and don't smell half as bad as you do!"

With that he waved his hand impatiently to Major Ten Broeck to indicate
that the interview was ended, and the crestfallen young officer withdrew
hastily.

On the morning of June 30 the men, idling about the camp, descried the
columns of the Second Brigade, long, narrow ribbons in the distance,
crawling toward them across the limitless, gently rolling plain.
Rejoicing and excitement broke out on every hand, for it meant that
there would be no delay in the progress of the campaign, as many had
feared there might be, since the Minnesota troops had been obliged to
make a march of nearly three hundred and fifty miles from Fort Ridgely
to the rendezvous. That the junction of the two brigades was effected
so promptly in that vast wilderness was a matter for congratulation, and
General Sully seemed to feel that he could not too highly praise Colonel
Minor T. Thomas, the commanding officer of the Minnesota column, for the
promptness and skill with which he had conducted his march. The
newcomers went into camp beside the First Brigade, and the men of the
two commands were soon mingled, telling one another of their respective
experiences.

That evening, as soon as he had finished his duties for the day and
eaten his supper, Al strolled into the camp of the Second, or, as it was
generally called, the Minnesota Brigade, to see if he could find there
any old acquaintances, particularly any who might have been at Fort
Ridgely. Here and there fires were burning and the men were lounging
about in groups, talking, playing cards, or otherwise amusing
themselves. Long lines of cavalry horses extended between the company
streets, securely tied to picket lines; and near the creek a large train
of wagons was corralled, its outspanned mule teams, crowded within the
great circle of wagons, seeming almost countless. As he walked along
through the haze of dust made golden by the setting sun, Al noticed a
cavalryman sitting cross-legged by one of the fires, engaged in the
unmilitary task of sewing a button on his coat. The soldier's back was
toward him, but that back had an oddly familiar look. Al walked around
until he could see the trooper's profile, then, with an exclamation of
surprise and pleasure, he sprang forward and slapped the amateur tailor
on the shoulder.

"Wallace Smith!" he exclaimed. "Say, but I'm glad to see you, old
fellow."

Wallace looked up, startled, then sprang to his feet and gripped Al's
hand.

"Why, Al Briscoe!" he cried, "what on earth are you doing here? I had no
idea you were within a thousand miles."

"I came up with General Sully from St. Louis to help look for my brother
Tommy," Al answered. "And you?"

"I am a private in the Eighth Minnesota," explained Wallace. "I became
eighteen just before the column left Minnesota, and as soon as I did, I
enlisted." He looked inquiringly at Al's civilian clothes. "Aren't you
in the service?" he asked.

"No; not old enough," Al replied. "But I'm serving just about the same
as a soldier. Practically I am on General Sully's staff."

"Whew-w!" whistled Wallace. "Lucky boy. That must be great. How did it
happen?"

Mutual explanations followed and before long each of the boys knew the
main facts of the other's history since they parted, nearly two years
before.

"There are other old acquaintances of yours with us," said Wallace,
presently. "You remember Sergeant Jones, who commanded the artillery at
Fort Ridgely?"

"Indeed I do," Al replied, recalling with quickened pulses the
Sergeant's gallantry. "Is he here?"

"Yes. He is now Captain Jones, of the Third Minnesota Battery and he is
in command of our artillery; two six-pounder field guns and two
twelve-pounder mountain howitzers, of his battery."

"He certainly deserved promotion for his work at Fort Ridgely,"
exclaimed Al, enthusiastically.

"Yes, he did," agreed Wallace, "and his men say he is a fine officer."

"Is Lieutenant Sheehan along?" asked Al.

"No, the Fifth has been down South for nearly two years, and he with
them. But you remember Major Brown? He is chief of scouts with us, and
has a company of about fifty Indians. Then there are several men among
our different regiments who were at Fort Ridgely as refugees and who
have since enlisted."

"How many men are in your brigade?" Al asked.

"I believe between fifteen and sixteen hundred," Wallace replied, "not,
of course, including the teamsters with the wagon train. Let me see.
There is our entire regiment, the Eighth Infantry; we are all mounted
for this campaign. Minor T. Thomas is our Colonel, but as he is in
command of the brigade, Lieutenant-Colonel Rogers is actually commanding
the regiment. Then there are four companies of the Thirtieth Wisconsin,
under Colonel Dill, and six companies of the Second Minnesota Cavalry
under Colonel McLaren, besides the artillery and a train of
ninety-three wagons and twelve ambulances, each drawn by a six-mule
team. We have quite a herd of beef cattle, too. So you see there are
enough animals with us alone to eat up all the grass in this country for
miles around in short order; and I suppose there are about as many with
your brigade."

"Yes, there are a lot of them," agreed Al. "We can't stay very long in
one place and find forage enough, unless rain comes to make the grass
grow."

The boys, very happy to meet one another again, talked for several hours
and then at last they separated for the night, each promising to see the
other as often as possible. The camp had quieted down, and most of the
men of both brigades, weary with the marching and other work of the past
few days, were wrapped in deep slumber; but all around the camps were
heavy guards, and the sentries, alert and watchful, were pacing their
beats. They looked shadowy and ghost-like under the starlight as Al
passed along, making his way through the company streets of little white
dog-tents, each backed by its long picket-line of horses, standing or
lying almost motionless in the gloom. It was not many minutes after he
had reached his own cot in one of the big Sibley tents of headquarters
before Al, too, was sleeping the profound and dreamless sleep of youth
and health.

General Sully's orders from General Pope were to establish a fort on the
Missouri River somewhere near the point where the Long Lake River
entered the stream. The plan of the Government at this time was to erect
and maintain a chain of military posts, of which the new fort should be
one, extending from Minnesota to central Montana, which should serve not
only to hold the Indians in check but also to protect emigrants going
through the Sioux country from the East, across Dakota, to the new
Montana gold-mining districts. A well marked trail had become
established through this section since 1862, but the hostility of the
Indians was such that none but very strong parties of emigrants could
make use of it. The Government wished to render the route more safe; and
the new fort on the Missouri, as well as the one General Sully was
expected to build on the Yellowstone, was part of the chain, which
began at Fort Abercrombie, Minnesota, on the Red River of the North.

For four days after the junction of the two brigades, the entire command
lay in camp for the purpose of resting both men and animals. The time
passed quietly and not unpleasantly, but with no unusual incidents.
Several summer thunder showers came, greatly improving the grass and
relieving the discomfort which the expedition had previously suffered
from the dust. Though nearly every one was idle most of the time, Al
found plenty to keep him busy. The camp was seven miles from the
Missouri, where the steamboats lay, and the Dakota Cavalry was ordered
to the river as a guard for them. Then the wagon-train, in sections,
went down to reload from the reserve supplies on the boats. Thus Al was
frequently obliged to go back and forth on Cottontail between the
encampment and the river, sometimes finding a chance while at the latter
point to spend a little time with his friends of the Dakota Cavalry or
with those acquaintances among the steamboat men whom he had come to
know during the long trip from St. Louis to Fort Sully.

At length, on the third of July, General Sully put the First Brigade in
motion for the mouth of Long Lake River, distant about one hundred
miles, and, after instructing the Second Brigade to proceed thither also
on the next day, he set out himself on the _Island City_ to examine the
river banks for a suitable site on which to build the new fort. As an
escort for the boat he took a company of troops, and most of the members
of his staff also went with him; but Al remained with the column, as his
duties demanded his presence there. The marches were long but not
exhausting, and by the eighth of July all the forces were assembled on
the Missouri a short distance above the mouth of Long Lake River.
Directly opposite, on the west bank of the Missouri, was the site on
which the General had decided to build Fort Rice, as the new post was to
be called.

The location was an ideal one. It was a level tableland with a permanent
bank along the river nearly one hundred feet high, and behind it rose a
majestic range of sandstone bluffs, which, just below the post swept out
boldly to the brink of the Missouri and followed it down to the mouth of
the Cannonball River, eight miles south. Along the base of the bluffs
extended a long, narrow belt of heavy timber, and another and much
larger forest covered the wide valley above the post. Immediately in
front of the latter the river was narrow, insuring a good crossing at
nearly all seasons, its only disadvantage being that, owing to the high
bank on which the fort stood, the ferry and steamboat landing had to be
made about half a mile down stream.

On the arrival of the army, a ferry, consisting of a long cable
stretched from bank to bank across the Missouri, on which a f

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