“That’s the way they all do at first,” said the colonel, smiling at the rueful look on Oscar’s face. “An Indian pony doesn’t like a white man any better than his master does, and, like his master, he must be forced into submission. You are not afraid of him, I suppose?” “Oh, no, sir. Just let me get on his back, with a good bit in his mouth, and I’ll manage him.”
While on the way back to the fort the colonel, with the major’s assistance, arranged all the details of the hunting expeditions that were to come off during the next two days, and named the officers of the garrison who, being off duty, would be at liberty to take part in them.
It was decided that as soon as dress parade and supper were over the party would leave 37the fort on horseback, taking with them a light wagon, in which to carry their tents and provisions, and bring back any game that might chance to fall to their rifles.
By midnight they would reach a small stream which ran through a country much frequented by antelope in the early hours of the morning.
There they would camp and sleep until daylight, when they would take to their saddles again and begin the hunt.
Having reached the gate the colonel gave the Indian some instructions concerning Oscar’s pony, after which he and the major walked on to their quarters, while Oscar bent his steps toward the sutler’s store, where he purchased a saddle and bridle, a rawhide lasso and picket pin, and a pair of elk-skin moccasins and leggings.
He hung the saddle, bridle, and lasso upon a peg behind the stall in which the Indian had left his pony, and the other articles were carried into his bedroom and stored away in his trunk.
After that Oscar had nothing to do but to 38amuse himself in any way he saw fit. His first care was to get ready for the hunt, so that no time would be lost when the hour for the start arrived.
He filled his belt with cartridges for his rifle and revolver, placed these weapons where he could readily lay his hands upon them, took from his trunk one of the thick, coarse suits of clothing he intended to wear while in the hills, and then set out to look about the fort.
He took a good survey of the stables and barracks, peeped into all the warehouses that were open, watched the teamsters, who were busily engaged in hauling the winter’s supply of wood into the fort, and finally, growing tired of passing the time in this way, he went back to the stable to take another look at his pony.
As he walked up and down the floor behind the stall in which the animal was hitched, he incautiously approached a little too near his heels. In an instant the pony’s little ears were thrown back close to his head, and his hind feet flew up into the air with tremendous force, but Oscar was just out of reach.
Fortunately he saw the motion of the 39pony’s ears, and, suspecting mischief, he jumped aside just in time to avoid the blow, which, had it been fairly planted, would have ended his career as a taxidermist then and there.
“That’s your game, is it!” exclaimed Oscar, picking up the hat that had fallen from his head. “Well, if you want a fight we may as well have it out now as any time.”
So saying, Oscar took his bridle down from its place on the peg and walked into the stall.
The pony must have been astonished at his boldness, and perhaps he was cured by it. At any rate he offered but little resistance as Oscar forced the bit into his mouth and strapped the saddle on his back.
He raised no objections either when the boy, having led him out of the stable, prepared to mount him; but he did not wait for him to be fairly seated in the saddle.
No sooner had Oscar placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself clear of the ground than the pony broke into a gallop and carried him swiftly out of the gate.
40Oscar could ride almost as well as he could shoot. He was quite at home in the saddle, and it seemed like old times to find himself moving over the ground with a speed almost equal to that of a bird on the wing, and to hear the wind whistling about his ears.
The pony was perfectly willing to go and the boy was perfectly willing to let him.
Up one hill and down another he went at an astonishing speed, and when at last his rider thought he had gone far enough he attempted to check him by pulling gently on the reins that were buckled to the snaffle bit and talking to him in English.
But the pony, which had all his life been accustomed to the severest treatment,—an Indian has no more mercy on his favorite horse than he has on the captives that fall into his hands,—was not to be controlled by gentle measures or smooth words uttered in an unknown tongue, so Oscar was obliged to resort to the curb.
That was something the pony could understand, for he was used to it. After he had been thrown almost on his haunches three or 41four times he slackened his pace and finally settled down into a walk.
Then Oscar straightened up, pushed his hat on the back of his head, and looked about him. He was alone on the prairie.
Even the top of the tall flag-staff which arose from the parade ground in the fort was hidden from view by the last swell over which the pony had carried him.
But there was no danger of getting lost, for the trail was as clearly defined as any country road he had ever travelled.
He followed it to the summit of the next hill, which, being higher than the surrounding ones, brought the flag-staff and a portion of the hamlet of Julesburg again into view, and there he stopped to take a survey of the country.
The ridge on which he stood stretched away behind him as far as his eye could reach, and in front terminated in a steep bluff, perhaps a hundred feet in height, at the base of which flowed the dark waters of the Platte.
To the north and west the long, regular swells gave place to innumerable ravines, which crossed and recrossed one another, 42and twisted about in the most bewildering fashion.
They were deep and dark, and their precipitous sides were so thickly covered with stunted oaks and pines that the light of the sun rarely penetrated to the bottom of them, even at mid-day.
In the years gone by these same ravines had afforded secure hiding-places for the hostile Sioux, who had so stubbornly resisted the onward march of the white man.
From their cavernous depths they had poured forth in overwhelming numbers to pounce upon some wagon train, and in them they had found refuge when worsted in conflict with the troops, their perfect knowledge of the ground enabling them to effectually baffle pursuit.
Far beyond the ravines, long miles away, and yet rendered so distinct by the clear atmosphere that it seemed to Oscar that but a few hours’ ride would be required to take him to it, was a tract of level prairie, which stretched away through four degrees of longitude to the foot-hills.
43This level prairie was known as the Laramie plains, and even so far back as the day Oscar gazed upon it it was historic ground. Little mounds of stone, and the bleaching and crumbling bones of horses and cattle, marked the spot where more than one desperate battle had been fought between the hardy pioneers and their savage foes, and when Oscar, a few days later, was brought face to face with these mementoes, he wondered at his own temerity in so eagerly accepting a commission that took him to a country in which such scenes had been enacted.
He knew that the Laramie plains were still debatable ground; that the outrages that had been perpetrated there might at almost any day be repeated.
It was true that the country was now thickly settled,—at least the old pioneer thought so,—that comfortable ranches and dug-outs were scattered over the prairie, from fifteen to twenty miles apart, and that numerous droves of sheep and cattle cropped the grass which had once afforded pasturage for countless thousands of buffalo; but these evidences 44of the irresistible progress of civilization did not intimidate the Indian. They rather served to enrage him and to excite his cupidity.
Isolated ranches could be easily plundered, and the flesh of sheep and cattle was fully as palatable as that of the buffalo, which had been driven away.
Of course there was no trouble to be apprehended at that season of the year, it being too near winter for the Sioux to break out into open hostilities.
A plains Indian does not like to move during the snowy season. Indeed it is almost impossible for him to do so, for the reason that his main dependence—his pony (without which, so old hunters say, the Indian is not a foe to be feared)—is utterly unfit for service.
His food being deeply buried under the drifts, he is forced to content himself with the branches of the cottonwood, which the squaws cut for him to browse upon.
He becomes reduced almost to a skeleton, and even staggers, as he walks about to find some sheltered nook into which he can retreat 45for protection from the keen winds which cut through the thickest clothing like a knife.
His master, whom he has perhaps carried safely through a score of successful hunts and forays, pays not the slightest attention to him.
Comfortably settled in his teepee, hugging a little fire over which a white man would freeze to death, the warrior sits with his buffalo-robe around him, passing the time in smoking and sleeping, but arousing himself at intervals to engage in a game of chance with some of his companions, or to send his squaw to the agency to draw the rations a generous government provides for all the “good” Indians.
But when spring comes, and the snow melts away, and the tender grass begins to spring and grow luxuriantly beneath the genial influence of the sun, a great change takes place in the Indian and his pony.
The latter quietly sheds the long, rough coat he has worn all winter, and with it the burrs and mud with which he was covered; his ribs disappear, his skeleton frame begins to swell 46out into a well-rounded form, and all his old-time life and spirit come back to him; while his master, having shaken off his lethargy, polishes up his weapons, lays in a new supply of ammunition, and begins to look about for something to do—something that will add new laurels to those already won.
If he can find the least excuse for so doing he is ready at any moment to take the war-path. Oftentimes he has no excuse at all beyond a desire to gratify his incontrollable propensity for stealing and shooting.
Not infrequently a company of boys, who are ambitious to prove themselves expert thieves, and thus render themselves candidates for the “sun-dance,” through which trying ordeal all must pass before they become full-fledged warriors, break away from their agency and raid upon the sheep and cattle herders before spoken of.
Sometimes whole bands and tribes break out in this way, and spend the summer in dodging the troops and sacking defenseless ranches.
While the brave is on the war-path he is a 47“bad” Indian, and runs the risk of being shot by anybody who meets him; but in spite of this he enjoys himself to the utmost while summer lasts.
It is not until the pleasant weather draws to a close, and all the ranches he can find have been plundered and burned, and all the sheep and cattle in the country have been captured or dispersed, and the fall buffalo-hunt is over, and the cold winds begin to sweep over the plains, that the Indian becomes repentant.
Then he thinks of his warm teepee in that sheltered nook in the ravine, where his family has lived all summer, subsisting upon government rations, and he makes all haste to return to it before the snows of winter come to shut him up in the mountains.