General Custer wasted no time. Neither did General Hancock. So within a very few minutes after the two generals were together at camp, plans were complete. When the troops of the Seventh came riding in at a trot their officers were met at once with the orders, from headquarters, to prepare their commands for the trail. The Indians were to be pursued, and this was cavalry work. “Light marching order. One hundred rounds of ammunition to the man, but all other supplies cut down to the last necessary ounce,” were the instructions, as delivered by Adjutant Moylan.
So again was a bustle of preparation—filling of mess-chests, tightening of horse-shoes, rolling of blankets, all in the light of camp fire and moon. Before daybreak the Seventh Cavalry was ready: eight companies, the band, and a squad of the scouts led by Wild Bill and Fall Leaf.
The east was pink when General Custer, standing impatiently waiting for the light, beside Custis Lee (to whom he had changed), spoke shortly to Ned; and from the trumpet of the headquarters bugler[105] pealed the bars of “Boots and Saddles.” Willingly enough the Seventh Cavalry men again formed lines, and mounted; for now they were rid of the “dough boys,” and would travel fast and far, to catch the pesky Indians.
A frost had whitened the ground, and had been marked by horse tracks, so that at the village were many trails. But the Delawares ranged hither-thither until, with a triumphant whoop, the youngest warrior of all announced that he had found the real trail.
The general’s sabre flashed in the beams of the rising sun.
“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!”
“By fours, right! For-r-r’d—march!” was repeated down the column the command. The Seventh Cavalry was off, on its first independent scout.
The fan-shaped line of the scouts, with Wild Bill and Fall Leaf to the fore, held the advance, that they might read the trail. After, came the cavalry, the general and his adjutant at its head, baggage wagons toward the rear, and a rear-guard of one troop behind. General Custer had again donned his buckskin hunting-coat, which was so comfortable for him, and which would indicate hard work ahead. He looked as he had when Ned had first seen him. And hard work ahead was the expectation, for the Indians had gained a good start.
At rapid walk of the horses rode they all. The trailing lodge-poles of the fleeing village made a trail[106] plain to every eye. A feeling of satisfaction spread when, after a time, the scouts before started on at a gallop, with wave of rifle and flutter of blanket, for a little grove ahead. A faint curl of smoke could be sighted; and there was a glimpse of moving forms.
“Sound the trot,” promptly bade the general.
At Ned’s bugle signal, “Trot—march!” was repeated down the eager column. Away they spurred, ready to deploy into action. But after a brief pause, to reconnoiter, the scouts had proceeded boldly. When the column reached the place they found only the still burning fires where the Indians had halted for hasty breakfast, and several ponies, with packs, left tethered to the trees. And here was a strange Indian, strutting about arrayed in a panoply of bright crimson feathers, while the scouts looked on and laughed.
However, this was only the Delaware General Jackson, Fall Leaf’s nephew, who had arrived first at the grove and had made a capture of the ponies.
“Roman Nose!” he proclaimed. “Heap feather. Ugh!”
“One o’ these pony packs belonged to Roman Nose, the Delawares say,” explained Wild Bill, to General Custer. “That youngster’s as proud as if he’d captured the chief himself.”
There was nothing for which to stop here; and paying no more attention to the ponies or the breakfast camp, allowing the Delawares to do what they pleased with the packs, the Seventh Cavalry pressed[107] on. Jackson rode exultant, his braids ornamented with the Roman Nose feathers.
“We’re out-trailing them,” asserted the general, to Lieutenant Moylan. “The only question is, can we overtake them before dark? We’ve got to do it.”
The baggage wagons were dropped behind, with a squadron of two troops to guard them. The three other squadrons traveled the faster, and ever the trail led northward, as for the Smoky Hill Fork, or the Platte beyond.
Noon had passed, but there was no halt for dinner. General Custer evidently was not a man to delay on the trail. Suddenly Ned realized that it was not a question alone of capturing the Indians; it was the bigger question of saving the settlers. From friendlies these Cheyennes and Sioux had threatened to become hostiles, and their trail bent straight not only for the Indian country to the north, but also for the stage routes, and the settlements of the Smoky Hill Fork, and the Republican, and the Saline, and all.
The afternoon waxed and waned, and still never a glimpse of the Indians was given. Presently the scouts in the advance slackened, hovered, and spread to right and left, nosing like hounds. They were at fault. Then was it seen that the trail suddenly had divided, out-flaring into a score of smaller trails, which again split into other trails yet smaller, as if the fleeing band had burst asunder.
This was the Indians’ favorite trick, when closely[108] pursued. A murmur of vexation arose, while the column, halted, must sit and wait upon the decision of the scouts. The general and his adjutant, followed by Ned the bugler orderly, rode forward to inspect. Wild Bill joined them.
“They’re throwing us off, general,” he announced, calmly. “I reckon all we can do is to pick one of the middle trails and follow it and trust to luck. Fall Leaf has a trail that we might as well take.”
“Very well, sir,” agreed General Custer, brusquely. “We must do all that we can, before darkness cuts us short.”
“For-r-r’d—march!” On this trail out of the many rode the column; but must pause frequently, while the scouts searched right and left and before, as ever the sign lessened, like a stream at headwaters. At five o’clock it had been reduced to a mere thread, for the Indians who had made it had dropped off, one by one. Signal-smokes could be seen, welling up in east, west and north, as the scattered parties spoke one another. In the dusk must the Seventh Cavalry halt, to make camp, rest the horses, and wait for daylight. The Indians had not been headed, and hearts were heavy. Woe betide the Smoky Hill stage route, and the ranches of central Kansas.
The next day the trail was lost utterly in a dried water-course. Then by night march toward the north star was struck the Smoky Hill River. Beyond was the stage route. Colonel Robert West (who really[109] ranked as captain, but wa............