Joel Warwick was a dashing young officer, proud of his chosen profession, and anxious for an opportunity to distinguish himself in it. Although he was fresh from West Point—he had been on the plains but little more than a year—he had shown himself to be possessed of a good many qualities that go to make up a first-class soldier. “I have been thinking of you ever since we were introduced,” continued the lieutenant, “and wondering if you really knew the worth of the attentions that have been shown you. You came out here a perfect stranger, and yet you were received at once on terms of intimacy by the colonel, who can’t do too much for you; while we little fellows, who have risked our lives in obedience to his orders, must keep our distance. The gulf between line and field officers in the regular army is a wide one, and no 127subordinate must attempt to cross it. Before my commander will be as free with me as he is with you, I must wear an eagle on my shoulders.”
“And yet he thinks a great deal of you,” said Oscar. “He told me that you would some day make a fine officer.”
“Did he say that?” exclaimed the lieutenant, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Well, I knew that he was satisfied with me. If he wasn’t, he never would have invited me to go on this hunt.”
“What did you do to please him?”
“I rode my horse to death while carrying despatches for him. While we were out on our last scout, it became necessary for him to communicate with the commandant at Fort Wallace; so he started me off with Big Thompson for a guide. I rode a splendid animal, which my father had presented to me when I was first ordered out here, and which I believe to be equal, if not superior, to anything that ever stood on four feet; but, before we had gone half the distance, he was completely done up, and Thompson had to shoot him. That 128was in accordance with orders, you know. If a horse gives out, he is killed, to keep him from falling into the hands of the hostiles who may use him against us. My guide then ran ahead, on foot, and I rode his horse. And would you believe it?—that miserable little pony of his was none the worse for the journey, and neither was Thompson, while I was so completely played out that I wasn’t worth a cent for a whole week. By the way, I thought I saw you leave the post on horseback?”
“So I did; but out there in the sage-brush he threw me, and made off before I could catch him. I hope to find him somewhere about the corral.”
“I hope you will, but I am afraid you won’t. I think you will find that he has struck a straight course for the camp where his old master hangs out. Let’s go and see if we can find him, and then we’ll come back and take a look at that mule and wagon the quartermaster sent up from the village. The man who owns them has been waiting for you over an hour.”
“Have you heard anybody else inquiring 129for me?” asked Oscar, thinking of his brother. “Well, I have done all I can,” he added to himself, upon receiving a reply in the negative. “Tom has made his own bed, and he must occupy it.”
What the lieutenant said about the pony made Oscar a little uneasy. If it was true that the animal had gone off to hunt up his former owner, he might make up his mind that he had seen the last of him; for the Indian would take particular pains to see that he did not fall into the hands of the soldiers again very soon.
If he did not send him off to some secure hiding-place among the ravines, he would turn him loose with a lot of other ponies, and the most experienced horseman at the post could not have picked him out from among them.
If by any chance he was discovered and taken possession of by the soldiers, some “good” Indian would lay claim to him, and the agent—who is always more in sympathy with his Indians than he is with the troops whose presence protects him—would order him to be given up.
130The lieutenant explained all this to Oscar as the two walked toward the corral. When they arrived there they could see nothing of the missing steed.
The guards were questioned, but the invariable reply was that no pony wearing a saddle and bridle had passed through the lines that afternoon.
He was not to be found in his stall either: and, after spending half an hour in fruitless search, Oscar gave him up for lost, and followed the lieutenant across the parade-ground to the colonel’s quarters, in front of which stood the wagon and mule the quartermaster had sent up for the boy’s inspection.
“Be you the college-sharp that’s needin’ a mu-el?” asked a roughly dressed man, who arose from the warehouse steps and sauntered up to them while they were critically examining the wagon and the long-eared animal that was hitched to it.
Oscar looked at the man, and then he turned and looked at the lieutenant, who said in a low tone:
“Every expert is called a ‘sharp’ out here. 131If he is a good poker-player he is called a card-sharp; if he is an eloquent preacher he is called a gospel-sharp—and no disrespect is intended either. It is simply a plainsman way of talking. He has heard somewhere that you are backed up by a university, and that’s the reason he calls you a college-sharp. It’s a pretty fair looking rig, isn’t it? I don’t know that you can do better, for you may rest assured that the quartermaster wouldn’t pick out anything inferior for you. You can easily find sale f............