"If he still holds his position on the top of that sandhill, we are all right," said George to himself, "but if he has taken the alarm, we are all wrong. In that case the Indians have done one of two things: they have either made ready to ambush us, or else they have fled, taking their prisoners with them. Well, we shall soon know, for here goes for the fight that none of us may ever come out of alive."

As these thoughts passed through George's mind he seized Bob's waist-belt and gave it two jerks, which meant "Follow me." Then he crept back along the line, and as he passed each trooper he took him by the arm and pulled him around, so that his head pointed toward the camp-fire. This meant a movement by the right flank. After this he and Bob placed themselves in the centre of the line, the men giving way right and left to make room for them, and at a given signal Bob stuck his elbow into the ribs of the trooper to the left of him, while George in a similar manner admonished the one on the right of himself; and the advance began, the guide being centre. We mean by this that the men on Bob's left kept themselves in their proper place in line by touching the shoulder of the man next on their right, while those on George's right hand kept within easy reach of the men next on their left, each member of the line moving no whit slower or faster than the guides in the centre, Bob and George. If they stopped and listened and tried to peer through the bushes in front of them to obtain a view of the camp, the whole line stopped and listened and peered. When the guides advanced the troopers did the same, their movements being conducted without a whisper, and with such extreme caution that scarcely a leaf was heard to rustle. It took them almost an hour to descend the bluff, which was probably not more than a hundred feet in height, but the sight that greeted them when the final halt was made more than repaid them for all their toil. They had crept up within less than a dozen yards of the fire, and the camp and all its inmates were in plain view of them.

Their first care was to find the boys, and the next to ascertain the number and position of their adversaries. The boys were there, lying side by side on a bed of leaves, with their arms thrown around each other, and wrapped in slumber as peaceful, apparently, as ever came to their eyes while they were safe under their father's roof. Every one of the troopers shut his lips tightly at the sight of them, and half a dozen cocked carbines were pointed over their unconscious heads, ready to send to kingdom-come the first thing in the shape of a Kiowa that dared approach them. They were not protected in any way from the night air save by the branches of the trees which waved gently above them, while every one of the four Indians who were lying around them was wrapped up head and ears in a quilt or blanket which he had stolen during the raid.

One sweeping glance was enough to enable Bob and George to take in all these little details, and it is scarcely necessary to say that they were highly elated over the promise of success which the situation seemed to hold out to them. Bob would have been a little better satisfied if he could have seen any way of taking the Indians alive, and so making a "finished job of it," as he afterward told his friend George; but, knowing that this was entirely beyond his power, he was about to give the signal to advance when a most unexpected interruption occurred. They heard the snapping of twigs behind them, accompanied by a slight rustling among the leaves, such as might be made by some heavy body working its way cautiously through the thick undergrowth. The astonished troopers hugged the ground closely, holding their breath in suspense; and in a second more, without a single footstep being audible, the bushes parted and the form of an Indian warrior could be dimly seen through the darkness.

"Beyond a doubt it is the sentry coming in to call his relief," thought Bob. "Now, how am I going to act? Shall I let him go into the camp, or not?"

Without pausing an instant, the Indian, all unconscious of danger, approached the line, and might have passed through it between Bob and Carey without discovering anything to excite his suspicions, had not the former, acting upon the impulse of the moment, made up his mind that he would not go back to his comrades without at least one prisoner to reward him for his long and tiresome scout. Throwing out his arm, he caught the warrior around the legs and lifting him from the ground threw him upon his back. He fell across Carey and Loring, both of whom turned like lightning and seized him, one trying to secure his arms, so that he could not draw a weapon, and the other taking him by the throat. Everything was done quickly, but not quickly enough to shut off the wild yell with which the captive Indian awoke the echoes of the gully. Seeing that all further attempts at concealment were useless, Bob and George jumped to their feet.

"Forward with a cheer!" yelled the former. "Cover the boys, everybody."

This last order was hardly necessary, for each individual member of the squad had secretly resolved to do that very thing, leaving his companions to act as they pleased.

The Indians were wide awake and moving before their unlucky comrade's yell had fairly left his lips. So quickly did they spring to their feet that the troopers might have thought, if they had been allowed time to think at all, that the savages had been merely keeping up an appearance of sleep, so as to be ready to jump from their blankets at the very first note of alarm. So well schooled were they, and so ready to act, and to act quickly and intelligently in any emergency, that they did not hesitate an instant. They did not even look to see from which way the danger that threatened them was coming, but made a simultaneous rush for their captives, intending, no doubt, to carry them away if they could, or to kill them if they found themselves surrounded so that they could not escape. But no Indian's hand touched those boys again that night. Three of them fell dead before they had fairly left their tracks, and the other, taking warning by their fate, dived into the bushes in much the same way that a boy takes a "header" from a log, and got safely off, in spite of the bullets which whistled about his ears and scattered the leaves all over him. The troopers knew that he had got off unhurt, because there was no blood on the trail which George took up the next morning and followed to the place where the Indians had left their horses—a little glade about a quarter of a mile from the camp in which grass was abundant and water easy of access.

George at once made his way to the side of the captives, who were sitting up on their bed of leaves, rubbing their eyes and looking about in a bewildered sort of way, and throwing his arm around them spoke soothing and encouraging words in their ears; while Bob, after ordering one of his men to mend the fire, seized a brand from it and ran back to see what had become of Carey and Loring. The fight was over, and Carey was growling lustily over a wound in his arm which the slippery savage had inflicted upon him, having managed in some mysterious way to gain momentary possession of his knife; but Loring was unharmed and the Indian was insensible. He had been knocked out of time by a vicious whack from the butt of a carbine held in the hands of the enraged Carey. The blow was not, however, as effective as the trooper intended it should be, for it had expended a good deal of its power upon the bushes which happened to be in the way, and instead of sending the Indian out of the world altogether, it had only stunned him. He was powerless now. His hands were securely confined by Loring's carbine-sling, and the latter, having passed the Indian's blanket under his arms and brought the ends together behind his back, was ready to drag his captive into camp.

"I am no slouch—there isn't a boy in the troop, young or old, who can take my measure on the ground—but if this fellow gave us a fair specimen of an Indian's way of rough-and-tumble fighting, I don't want to get hold of any more Indians.—He was a hard one, wasn't he?" said Loring, appealing to his wounded comrade, who grunted out an emphatic assent. "He didn't seem to be so very strong, but he was just a trifle quicker than chain-lightning, and as slippery and wiry as—as—Why, an eel isn't nowhere alongside of him."

"I wish I had whacked him over the head before he gave me this prod," said Carey, shaking his fist at the unconscious object of his wrath. "It's my sword-arm too, and I'll just bet that the doctor won't let me go on another scout for a month."

With Bob's aid the Indian was dragged into camp, and thrown down there as if he had been a sack of corn. The fire was burning brightly (an Indian builds a small fire and gets close to it, while a white man builds a big one and backs away from it), the bodies of the slain warriors had been dragged into the bushes out of sight, and their weapons, saddles and bridles, which the troopers intended to carry back to the fort with them as trophies of their prowess, had been collected and deposited in a safe place.

George had been devoting himself to the boys, who did not seem to be at all afraid, and were by no means so excited as he was. Their astonishing courage called forth the unbounded admiration of the troopers, and the pert answers they gave to the questions that were asked them made them smile.

"Say, Bob, if you want to see what Texas boys are made of, come here," said George. "The older one answers to the name of Sheldon, and the little fellow is Tommy. Sheldon says that if his brother had been a little older and stronger the Indians never would have taken them to their village, for they would have killed them and made their escape."

"Humph!" grunted Carey, whose wound seemed to put him in very bad humor.

"What makes you say that?" demanded Bob, turning upon him somewhat sharply. "Don't you know that such things have been done before now?"

"By boys?" asked Carey.

"Yes, by boys," replied Bob.

"No, I don't know it," said the wounded trooper.

"It's a matter of history, any way," said George. "Two brothers, John and Henry Johnson, aged respectively thirteen and eleven years of age, were captured by two Delaware Indians on Short Creek, West Virginia, in October, 1788. That very night they killed their captors by shooting one and tomahawking the other."

"Did they get away?" asked Sheldon eagerly.

"Yes, sir, they got away. Now, I want to ask you a few questions—and, Bob, I want you to pay attention to his replies.—Where have you been to get so much mud on your boots?"

"Why, back there in the plains we came to a little bayou, and the banks of it was all muddy; and the Injins they pulled us off the ponies and made us walk into all that there mud, and then they laughed at us because we didn't like it," answered the boy; and his ludicrous display of rage over the indignity that had been put upon himself and his brother made the troopers smile again.

"Go on," said George. "What did you do next?"

"Well, they took us out of the mud after a while, the Injins did, and then one of 'em he took us on a pony and rode off by himself until he found this party; and we've been with them ever since."

"What did I tell you?" exclaimed George, hitting Bob a back-handed slap on the chest. "What do you think of my guessing now?"

"I think you are pretty good at it," answered Bob. "And seeing you are, I wish you would try your hand in a new line. Suppose you take a couple of men with you, and all our canteens and coffee-pots, and guess your way down the bluff to the stream, and bring us back a supply of water? We'll have a good fire going by the time you return, and then we'll boil a cup of coffee."

"I'll do it," said George readily.

"And while you are guessing, guess at the probable movements of that Indian who got away," continued Bob. "Will he be likely to trouble us to-night?"

"He will not," was the confident reply. "Our party is too large. He will make the best of his way home, you may depend upon it."

While George and the two troopers whom Bob detailed to accompany him were gone after the water, those who remained in camp were not idle. One bound up Carey's wounded arm, another brought in a bountiful supply of fire-wood, others stood guard, and one assisted the corporal in collecting a quantity of leaves and light branches, and went out with him to signal to the four men who had been left behind with the horses. They readily found the hill which had served as a lookout-station for the warrior who was now a captive in their hands; and they knew it when they found it, for there was the pile of bushes through which he had looked while watching the trail, and the print of his body in the sand. A fire was speedily lighted on the summit, and kept burning brightly to guide the absent troopers to the captured camp. That little beacon shining through the darkness must have been a welcome sight to their eyes, for it told of the complete success of their companions and of the rest and water that were to be found where they were.

When George returned to the camp after nearly half an hour's absence he found the fire blazing cheerily, and the two rescued boys, who seemed almost exhausted by their long journey, sleeping soundly beside it, covered by a quilt which some kind-hearted trooper had thrown over their shoulders. The troopers were laughing heartily but silently at Carey and Loring, who seemed to bear their merriment with very bad grace.

"What's the matter now?" inquired George as he distributed the canteens among them and placed the coffee-pots beside the fire.

"Come here and see for yourself," replied Loring, taking George by the arm and leading him to the place where the captive Indian lay, all the troopers following at his heels.

"Me good Injun," grunted the prisoner, who seemed to have recovered his senses.

"So I perceive," replied George. "Good Indians steal stock and carry off white boys, don't they?—But I don't see anything about him to laugh at."

"Why, he's nothing but a kid," exclaimed Phillips, "and yet Carey and Loring are both willing to confess that it was all they could do to handle him. They told us a wonderful story about the terrible fight they had before they could tie him, and so we took a look at him, expecting to find him a giant; but instead of that—Well, you can see that he's only a papoose."

George looked down at the boyish face and slender figure of the young warrior, then at the two grizzly old veterans who had fought so hard to capture him, and felt more than half inclined to laugh himself. Either one of them could have strangled him with a finger and a thumb if he could have got hold of him; but getting a good hold was the trouble. An Indian makes up in suppleness and activity what he lacks in strength, and it takes a good man to handle one. Of course the troopers were sorry for their wounded comrade, but they had "got a joke" on him, and it was a long time before he heard the last of it.

The men who had been left to take care of the horses arrived in about an hour, and then George had another disagreeable task to perform, which was to pilot the animals down to the water and find a feeding-ground for them. Being entirely unacquainted with the gully and surrounding country, it took him a long time to do this; but he accomplished it at last, in spite of the darkness, and about one o'clock in the morning he was at liberty to go to his blanket.

The troopers slept later than usual the next morning, for they were all tired out; but Bob's loud call of "Catch up!" brought them to their feet before the sun had risen high enough to send any of his rays into the camp. As there was a good deal to be done and but little time to do it in, four details were made, and certain duties assigned to each. The first, which consisted solely of Loring, was ordered to dish up a cup of coffee in a little less than no time; George and Phillips were instructed to follow up the trail of the missing Indian and see where it led to; Bob and a companion bent their steps toward the sandhill to ascertain the whereabouts of the main body of the expedition; and the others brought in the horses and gave them the grain that was left in the saddle-pockets.

Before ascending the hill Bob and his companion gathered each an armful of dry grass and weeds. These were deposited upon the highest part of the hill and lighted by a match which Bob struck on his coat-sleeve. As soon as the blaze was fairly started, but before the whole pile was ignited, Bob smothered it by throwing on more grass and weeds; and when this was done a column of smoke that could be seen at the distance of fifty miles began to rise in the air.

"Now let me see," said Bob, pulling out the paper which Captain Clinton had copied from his note-book when he started him on the trail. "I want to say, 'Where are you, captain?' and how shall I say it?"

He ran his eye down the page and finally found these instructions:

"A detached party desiring to ascertain the position of the main body will signal as follows: A long smoke of a minute's duration; three short smokes, followed by half a minute's interval; two short smokes, with half a minute's interval; one short smoke, followed immediately by a long one. If the signal is observed, the reply will be the same. If no reply is received in five minutes, repeat from some other and, if possible, higher point, and so continue until an answering signal is seen."

As the reader may not quite understand this, we will tell just how Bob made the signal. He allowed the column of smoke to ascend just one minute by his watch, then took a blanket from his shoulder and with a quick movement threw it over the smoldering pile, holding two of the corners tight to the ground, while his companion held the opposite corners. This, of course, confined the smoke so that no more arose. At the end of half a minute he raised the blanket three times in quick succession, and three balloon-shaped clouds floated off over the sandhills. Waiting half a minute, he lifted the blanket twice, and two more little clouds arose. At the end of another half a minute he permitted a single cloud to escape, and then threw the blanket off altogether; whereupon a long, slender column, like the one that arose when the fire was first started, shot up into the air. Then Bob seated himself on the ground and waited rather anxiously for a reply; but he was not obliged to wait long. Before the five minutes had elapsed an answering smoke was seen; and though it was a long distance off, the atmosphere was so clear, and the white clouds showed so plainly against the blue sky, that the signal could be plainly read. It was the same as the one Bob had just sent up, and so he knew that it was intended for him.

This mode of signalling, which is usually called "telegraphing by smokes," is in general use among the Plains Indians, and it was from them that our army-officers serving on the border caught the idea. Of course they have a system of their own, which is very different from that of the Indians. The latter cannot read an army-signal, and neither can the officers, with all their striving and scheming, gain a key that will enable them to read the Indian code. It is as much of a mystery as the manner in which a chief conducts a drill of his warriors or controls them in battle without appearing to hold any communication with them. Both these secrets are closely guarded, the Indians considering that it would be "bad medicine" to reveal them to the white man.

"Did you see the exact spot from which that smoke arose?" Bob asked of his companion.

"Yes," answered the trooper.

"Then fix it in your mind, so that you can point it out to George Ackerman. Now that our work is done we will go back to camp."

Breakfast was soon despatched, and in less than half an hour the squad was again on the move, three of the troopers, in order to accommodate the rescued boys and the Indian captive, being obliged to "carry double." Their route lay along the edge of the bluff, within easy reach of water, only three halts being made—one for dinner, and two for the purpose of sending up signals to Captain Clinton. As his replies, which were promptly made, came from the same place, Bob became satisfied that the captain was waiting for him. Of course this caused much speculation among the troopers. Had the captain given up the pursuit, or had he overtaken and scattered the thieves and recovered Mr. Wentworth's stock? Bob was inclined to hold to the latter opinion.



"The captain is a hard man to get away from when he once makes up his mind for business," said he; "and I just know that he's got those cattle, or the most of them. If he has, Mr. Wentworth is all right, for we have got his boys. If your theory is correct—and I begin to believe it is, for everything else has turned out just as you said it would—Lieutenant Earle will come out at the little end of the horn, won't he?"

"Some officer almost always has to do that," answered George. "But the lieutenant will have some honor reflected upon him, if he doesn't win any for himself, for it was a portion of his own troop, commanded by one of his own non-commissioned officers, who rescued the boys."

About two hours before sunset the troopers began to call one another's attention to the fact that the sandhills, among which they had been marching all day long, were growing less in number and height, and to congratulate themselves on drawing near to their journey's end. An hour later they came to the last hill, and as they were riding by it a sentry who had been stationed there presented himself to their view.



CHAPTER XIV.

"THREE CHEERS FOR THE 'BRINDLES'!"

"Hallo, Buel!" exclaimed Bob, recognizing in the sentry one of his own company boys, "you'll let us in, won't you?"

"Well, I am beat!" replied the man. "Corporal, you're a brick. Three cheers for the 'Brindles'!"

He stood in the "position of a soldier," with his carbine at a "carry," and spoke in a low tone, for he knew that there were officers with field-glasses not far away, and that he had no business to exchange compliments with anybody after this fashion while he was on post. But when he saw the captive Indian and Mr. Wentworth's boys he could not restrain himself.

"Bob, the boys ought to give you a benefit," he added.

"We've got something to show for this scout, even if we are 'Brindles,' haven't we?" said the corporal, holding himself very stiffly in his saddle and looking straight before him, so as not to 'give the sentry away.' "Have you beaten us any?"

"Not by a great sight."

"What have you done, anyway?"

"We've got the most of the stock back, but nary red. Where's Lieutenant Earle?"

"Haven't seen him," answered Bob.

"We haven't seen him either, nor have we heard from him since that courier arrived."

The troopers now found themselves on the border of a wide plain, whose opposite side was bounded by a long line of willows, which fringed the banks of a water-course. On the edge of the willows were gathered the members of the main body, who, having been apprised by their sentinels of the approach of Bob and his party, had assembled to see them come in. Bob began to grow excited at once. He and his men had performed no ordinary exploit, and so impatient was he to have his success known to his comrades that he could not wait until he reached the camp to tell his story.

"You fellows who carry double, ride out there and square yourselves around, so that they can see that we have not returned empty-handed," commanded Bob, who forthwith proceeded to execute his own order by placing the three men who "carried double" one behind the other, broadside to the camp, so that the officers with their field-glasses could observe that each horse had two riders on his back. "I declare I feel like one of those old Roman conquerors—on a small scale; but in order to carry out the role I ought to make one end of a lariat fast to that Indian's neck and drag him into the camp, oughtn't I? That's the way the Romans used to do with their captives, only they chained them to their chariot-wheels. There you are!—Swing your caps, you kids, and holler, to let your father know you are here."

The boys obeyed with alacrity, swinging their caps around their heads and laughing and shouting by turns, while the two soldiers behind whom they rode raised their own caps on the muzzles of their carbines and joined in with a wild soldier yell. George Ackerman kept watch of the camp through his glass to note the movements of its inmates and make reports of the manner in which this demonstration was received by them.

"There's the captain," said he. "He is coming out in front of the men, in company with some of the officers. Now they are all looking at us through their glasses. Now the captain has taken down his glass and is saying something. Here they come!"

It was evident that the captain had reported the result of his observations, for as George uttered these last words and lowered his glass the men broke into a run and dashed across the plain, raising their charging-yell as they came.

"You fellows who carry double, take the post of honor," commanded Bob; "ride at the head of the squad.—Say, boys," he added, facing about in his saddle and speaking to the men behind him, "look out for Wentworth. There was a look in his eye the last time I saw him that I didn't at all like, and when he finds out that we have captured one of the Indians, he may—"

"There he comes now!" exclaimed one of the troopers.

Bob looked toward the camp, and saw that his man had not been mistaken. Behind the troopers, who were still running forward to meet their returning comrades, but rapidly overhauling them with every jump of his horse, was the father of the rescued boys. He rode without saddle, bridle or hat, his long hair was streaming straight out behind him, he carried in his hand the rifle with which he had done such deadly work while he was defending his home, and he was constantly digging his heels into the sides of his horse, as if he were trying to make him go faster. The man could have but one object in view: that was Bob's opinion, and it must have been Captain Clinton's opinion too, judging by his actions. The latter had raised both hands to his face and stood with his head thrown back, as if he were shouting out some orders; but if he gave any they were drowned in the lusty cheers of the approaching troopers, who ran as if they were engaged in a foot-race.

"That man certainly means mischief," said George.

"I am sure of it," replied the corporal. "But I should act in just the same way if I were in his place. I'd put an end to that Indian in spite of all the soldiers that ever wore the 'honored blue;' but that, I know, would be very wrong, for this red imp is one of the government wards, and nobody must presume to lay an ugly hand on him."

"What would be done with Mr. Wentworth if he should shoot your prisoner?" asked George.

"'What would be done with him?'" repeated Bob, bitterly. "Why, he would be put in arrest before he could say 'Jerusalem!' and the agent of the Kiowas would insist on his being tried for murder, notwithstanding the fact that this same Indian was one of the party that burned Mr. Wentworth's house and carried his children into captivity. Why, George, unless you are posted you have no idea—But I will tell you a short story by and by. Just now I must attend to our friend Mr. Wentworth. Stand by me, for I believe I shall need a helping hand before I get through with him."

While this conversation was going on Bob had kept a watchful eye upon the movements of Mr. Wentworth, who had by this time passed the troopers and was guiding his horse so as to come up on the left flank of Bob's squad. As soon as the latter became satisfied that this was the man's intention, he rode out of the line and placed himself beside the captive Indian, who was riding on Loring's horse and was by no means an uninterested spectator of what passed before him. He too was keeping his gaze directed toward Mr. Wentworth, whom he doubtless recognized.

"White man very angry—heap mad—as mad, in fact, as a wet hen," said Bob, trying to imitate an Indian's way of talking, but making a sad mess of it in his excitement. "He's mad at you for carrying his boys off, and he's going to shoot you dead—heap dead—as dead as a door-nail; and he'll serve you just right, too."

"I hope he won't miss the red and hit me," said Loring.

"You needn't be afraid of that, for these Texans are all good shots," answered Bob; adding in a lower tone, "I'll just tell you what's a fact, Loring: I wouldn't interfere with him if I could help it."

The young savage understood what Bob said, but not a muscle of his face changed. If he had been an old warrior, he would probably have begun his death-chant; but having performed no deeds of which he could boast, he remained silent and calmly awaited the fate that would have been inevitable had it not been for George Ackerman's skill in horsemanship.

The animal on which Mr. Wentworth was mounted was evidently accustomed to being ridden without a bridle, for his master guided him with the greatest ease. When he had almost reached the squad he suddenly swerved from his course, in obedience to a signal conveyed to him by a quick movement of his rider's body, and galloping swiftly around the head of the line stopped short on the other flank. By this unexpected change of tactics the enraged father had gained a position on the unguarded side of the prisoner, and if he had acted as soon as his horse came to a standstill he would have accomplished his purpose in spite of everything; but he could not resist the temptation to talk for just a moment, and that moment's delay defeated him. Cocking his rifle with great deliberation, he said fiercely,

"You have eaten salt in my house, you have slept by my fire, you have drunk from my spring when you were thirsty, you Indian dog, and now—"

When the man had gone thus far rage choked his utterance, and he could not say another word. He drew his rifle to his shoulder, but the muzzle, instead of covering the head of the Indian, covered the person of George Ackerman, who was coming toward him with all the speed his horse could put forth.

The boy had sprung into life and activity the instant he witnessed Mr. Wentworth's cunning manoeuvre, for he knew what it meant. Giving a pull at his left rein, at the same time touching his horse lightly with the spurs, the animal wheeled like a flash on his hind feet, and, dashing through the line behind Bob Owens (some of the troopers afterward declared that he jumped clear over Bob's horse), brought his rider to the right side of the Indian just in time to intercept the deadly aim. In another second George had seized the rifle with both hands, and a terrific struggle began between him and Mr. Wentworth for the possession of the weapon. In less time than it takes to tell it the man, having no stirrups to support him, was jerked off his horse, and before he could recover himself and plant his feet firmly on the ground the rifle was twisted out of his grasp, and the bullet contained in the chamber was sent whistling harmlessly off over the sandhills.

"No more of that!" exclaimed Bob, who rode up just half a minute too late to be of any assistance. "Keep quiet now, or you'll go back to camp with a guard over you."

"Mr. Wentworth," said George, bending down from his saddle and laying his hand upon the angry man's shoulder, "your good sense must tell you that the corporal can't stand peaceably by and see his prisoner shot. What are you thinking of?"

"Give me that gun," panted Mr. Wentworth, who was white to the lips and trembling in every limb. "I'll—I'll—"

"You'll do nothing but behave yourself," interrupted Bob. "You can't have that rifle again until Captain Clinton says so, for you don't know how to act when you have it in your hands; you point it around too loose and reckless. Haven't you something besides revenge to think of now? Can't you see that we have brought your boys back to you safe and sound?"

The man's face softened at once. Tears came to his eyes, and darting quickly around Bob's horse he ran up to his children, and, pulling them both to the ground at once, folded them in his arms. But we will not say any more about that meeting, will we? The joy of a family reunited under circumstances like these is something too sacred to be intruded upon even by a sympathizing pen, isn't it? Even the troopers, some of whom had witnessed many an affecting scene, could not stand it, but turned away their heads and drew their hands hastily across their eyes, as if to brush away something that seemed to be obscuring their vision. One of them caught Mr. Wentworth's horse, and after the latter had mounted and taken his boys up with him, one in front and the other behind, the squad continued its march toward the camp.

When Bob came to look in front of him, he found that the appearance of things had changed somewhat. The comrades who had started out to meet him were no longer advancing in a compact body. They had halted and drawn themselves up in two parallel lines, facing each other, and leaving room enough between them for Bob and his squad to pass through.

"Hallo!" exclaimed the delighted corporal. "The boys have got up a reception for us, and we must meet it in good shape.—Attention, squad! Draw sabres!—Loring, ride on ahead with Mr. Wentworth.—George, come up on my right."

When these orders were issued the men promptly fell into line, conversation ceased on the instant, tobacco was knocked out of pipes that had but just been filled, carbines were adjusted in soldier-fashion, caps that had been worn with the peak behind were turned right side in front, and twelve bright blades leaped from their scabbards. In this order the successful troopers rode by their comrades, who cheered them loudly, and then fell in behind and followed them into camp, marching in column of fours. Bob at once rode up to Captain Clinton's fire, and dismounted to make his report, which he did in this way:

"I have the honor, sir, to report that we surprised five Indians in camp last night, captured one, killed three and released Mr. Wentworth's boys."

"Good for you, corporal!" exclaimed the captain, his astonishment getting the better of him for the moment. "Anybody hurt on your side?"

"One wounded, sir. Private Carey received a knife-thrust in the right arm while assisting Private Loring to capture the Indian."

"Very good," said the captain, resuming his official tones and dignity at the same time. "Stake out your horses, and then come back here. I want to hear all the particulars. What was the cause of that disturbance out there on the plain?"

"I was the cause of it, cap, you bet," exclaimed Mr. Wentworth, whose face did not look much as it did when he galloped out to meet Bob and his squad. Then it was disturbed with passion; now it was beaming with joy. "I'd ha' sent that Injin to the happy land o' Canaan in a little less than the shake of a buck's tail if Ackerman hadn't stopped me, you bet."

"It was a good thing for you that he did stop you," said the captain quietly. "You would have brought yourself into serious trouble by such a proceeding."

"I know that," said Mr. Wentworth, "but who cares for trouble when his dander's up? Say, cap, may I have my rifle? Ackerman took it away from me."

"You may have it on condition that you will make no more attempts on the life of this prisoner," replied the captain. "There is a law to deal with such fellows as he is."

"Where in the world is it, I'd like to know?" exclaimed Mr. Wentworth fiercely. "It hasn't got out here to Texas yet. If I had shot him, as I meant to do, you would have had a guard over me in no time; but he came with a band of his friends and set fire to my house, and carried off my little boys, and killed my herdsmen, and drove off my stock; and you, knowing it all, stand here, with your hundred and twenty blue-coats, and tell me that I must not touch him. Your colonel will give him up when his agent makes a demand for him, and he'll go back to his reservation, and the government will feed him on good food and give him good clothes, and some rascally trader will sell him more powder and balls to kill white folks with; but if I—Dog-gone my buttons!—Ackerman, give me that rifle."

It was plain that Mr. Wentworth's "dander" was still "up"—'way up. The listening troopers exchanged glances of approval with one another, and would have cheered him if they had dared. Being a civilian, the man was at liberty to talk pretty much as he pleased; but if one of their own number had made such an exhibition of temper in the presence of an officer, he would have been punished for it.

"We will not discuss that matter," said the captain calmly. "I know my business and attend to it strictly, leaving the agents to look out for their own affairs. They are not responsible to me, or to you either, for the manner in which they do the work entrusted to them."

"All right, cap," said Mr. Wentworth, picking up one of his boys and then lowering him carefully to the ground. "Mum is the word, if you say so. But I haven't heard you tell Ackerman to give me that rifle yet."

"Neither have I heard you make that promise," was the reply.

"Well, I'll make it, but I tell you I hate to, mightily."

The captain smiled, and nodded to George, who rode up and handed over the Winchester.

"She's a good one, cap, and when she speaks she means business—she does," said Mr. Wentworth, holding the recovered weapon off at arm's length and gazing at it with admiring eyes. "She is sure death on Kiowas, for she knows I have got something ag'inst them. She rubbed out ten of 'em during the last fight she was in, and she'll spoil the good looks of many more of them before I hand her over to my oldest boy for good.—Put her on your shoulder, Sheldon, and come on."

Lifting his youngest child in his arms, Mr. Wentworth walked away, Sheldon marching proudly by his side with the rifle on his shoulder, and the horse following quietly at his heels. Then Bob and George rode away with the squad, the troopers gradually dispersed, and the captain and his officers went back to the blankets on which they had been dozing away the time while waiting for Corporal Owens.

If it had not been for the fact that he had nearly a thousand head of recaptured stock on his hands, the captain would have set out for the fort at once; but it is almost impossible to drive Texas cattle during the night, for they are about half wild, anyway, and as easily stampeded as a herd of buffaloes. Under favorable circumstances two men who understand their business can take care of a herd of five hundred of them; but this stock which the captain had just recovered from the Indians had grown so unmanageable during the short time they had been in the possession of the raiders, who had pushed them ahead night and day at their greatest speed, that it took thirty well-mounted troopers to keep them within bounds. If they became quieted down during the night, the captain intended to set out for the fort with the main body of his men early the next morning, leaving a few of his troopers to assist Mr. Wentworth to drive the cattle in.

"I say, corporal," exclaimed Carey as Bob led his squad away, "where does Wentworth hang out? What mess does he grub with?"

"I don't know," answered Bob. "I saw him going toward the other end of the camp."

"Now, such work as that won't do," continued Carey. "He'll go up there among those high-toned Grays or Blacks, and they will honey around those boys of his and make much of them, and cut us Brindles completely out of their good graces. They belong to us, and they ought to stay with us; don't you say so?"

Bob replied that he did say so.

"Can't we bring them into our mess?" asked Carey.

"You can try. I'll take care of your horse if you want to make the attempt."

Carey at once dismounted, and started back toward the upper end of the camp, and Bob rode on to find the place where his troop had staked out their horses. While he is looking for it we will explain what the words "Grays," "Blacks" and "Brindles," as used by Private Carey, meant.

One of the first things to be done in a new regiment of cavalry, or in an old one that has just been remounted, is to "color the horses." We mean by this that the animals are divided into lots according to their color, the blacks being placed in one lot, the grays in another, the whites in another, and so on. After these divisions are made there are always some "off" horses, such as roans and browns, which are put into a lot by themselves and called the "brindles." The ranking captain then makes his choice of the colors. For the sake of illustration, we will suppose that he prefers to have his company mounted on black horses. He first takes the finest animal in the lot for his own use, his first lieutenant comes next, the second lieutenant next, the first sergeant next, and so on down through all the sergeants and corporals, each one selecting according to his rank. Then those of the privates who have proved themselves to be the best soldiers are called up one by one, and after they have made their selections the shirks and grumblers, like Bristow and Gus Robbins, have to take those that are left.

The captain who is second in command makes the next choice of colors, and his horses are distributed in the same way. The whites are generally chosen next to the last, not because they are not as good or as handsome as the others, but for the reason that it is harder work for the men to keep them clean, and in action they present conspicuous marks for the rifles of the enemy. "The brindles," the horses of all colors and of no color at all to speak of, are the only ones left, and the lowest company commander must take them because he has no choice. He does not like them, and neither do his men, because the troop that is doomed to ride them cannot make so fine appearance on dress-parade as the others do, and for the reason that the Brindles are the butt of all the jokes that old soldiers can play upon one another. When we have said that we have said a good deal, for if there is any mischief that a lot of veterans will not think of when they have a leisure hour on their hands, we don't know what it is.

When the horses were "colored" at Fort Lamoine the brindles fell to the lot of Lieutenant Earle, as he was the lowest company commander, all the others being captains. This was the troop to which Bob Owens belonged, and, in common with its other members, he had suffered from the practical jokes that had been played upon him by the more fortunate troopers. But of late these jokes were not as frequent as they had formerly been, for the "Brindles" had proved themselves to be the best of soldiers. When their achievements were taken into consideration they led every troop in the garrison. They had gallantly borne their part in every duty they were called on to perform, their non-commissioned officers had invariably been successful when sent out in pursuit of deserters, and now one of them had done something for which the members of his regiment were glad to honor him in the way we have described. During the rest of Bob's life at Fort Lamoine but little was said about the despised Brindles; but if any trooper did forget himself and make disparaging remarks concerning them or their "ringed, streaked and striped" horses, some listening Brindle would promptly interrupt him with—

"Look here, Bub, we didn't enlist to show ourselves off on dress-parade. When you Blacks" (or Grays or Chestnuts, as the case might be, the offending trooper being designated by the color of the horses on which his company was mounted) "have followed an Indian trail across the Staked Plains, and been burned up by an August sun, and had your mouths and throats filled so full of sand that you couldn't tell the truth for a whole month, and have surprised a party of hostiles in their camp, and rescued two prisoners alive and unharmed,—when you have done all that, you can talk; until then hold your yawp. That feat has never been accomplished but once in the Department of Texas, and then it was accomplished by our boys, the Brindles of the ——th Cavalry."

Bob and his men were proud of that exploit, and, what was more, they did not mean to be robbed of any of the honor they had won. That was one reason why they wanted to bring Mr. Wentworth and his boys into their mess. They supposed they were going back to the fort with Captain Clinton's command, and they wanted to carry those boys through the gate themselves. But, as it happened, the captain had decided upon something else, and by that decision had unconsciously given Bob's lucky squad of Brindles an opportunity to add to their laurels. We shall see what use they made of it.



CHAPTER XV.

MORE BAD LUCK FOR MR. WENTWORTH.

While Bob and his men were staking out their horses they were besieged by anxious Brindles who wanted to know just where they had been and what they had done during their absence. No incident connected with the experience of their successful comrades was deemed too trivial for their notice. Bob and the rest answered their questions as fast as they were able, and asked a good many in return. They learned that Captain Clinton had fallen in with the stolen cattle about one o'clock that morning, but the Indians they had hoped to find with them were not to be seen. The captain had pursued them so closely that they did not have time to drive the stock into the Staked Plains, to die there of thirst, and neither did they harass the column, as George said they would. Their force was too small to accomplish anything by it. The captain had spent all the forenoon in gathering up the stock, and it was now feeding on the prairie close by, guarded by a large squad of troopers.

"I'll tell you what's a fact, boys," said one of the Brindles. "This raid must have been a big thing, for just after you left us we struck the trail of a large drove that joined ours, and a little farther on we found another. But they were both older than our own, so the scout said, and the drove we followed was left behind as a sort of bait for us to swallow, while the main herd was driven off."

"Why didn't you go on after the main herd?" asked Bob.

"It would have been of no use. It had too much of a start; and besides, we have already got just as much on our hands as we can attend to. We have been all day gathering up the cattle we have got, and it is just all we can do to hold fast to them. The fellows up there must attend to the rest."

By "the fellows up there" the troopers meant to indicate the cavalry attached to the several posts north of the Staked Plains.

When Bob went back to the captain's head-quarters, George, being a privileged character, went with him. The officer questioned them closely in regard to their movements, took copious notes to assist him in making out his report to the colonel, and by the time he got through he came to the conclusion that the two young men deserved especial mention for the skill and courage they had exhibited. He rewarded them on the spot by giving them more work to do—some that was not supposed to have any danger in it, but which, nevertheless, gave them an opportunity to show whether the success that had attended them during their last scout was owing to good luck or good management.

"I am more than satisfied, because you have accomplished more than I expected of you," said the captain as he put his note-book into his pocket. "As you will probably have some hard riding to do to-morrow, I will see that you are allowed a good night's rest."

"Are we going back to the fort in the morning, sir?" asked George.

Although Bob was fully as anxious as his companion was to know what the captain meant by saying that he and his squad would probably have some hard riding to do the next day, he never would have dared to ask such a question; and if he had, the officer, if he had made any reply at all, would very likely have told him that he would find out all about it in due time. But he expressed no surprise at George's inquisitiveness.

"I am going back to fort," said he, "but you and the corporal will have to stay and help Mr. Wentworth with the cattle. You will be of more use to him, George, than half a dozen green hands, for you know how to drive stock and can act as instructor to the rest. You know where Holmes's ranche is, I suppose? Well, I shall want the corporal to stay with Mr. Wentworth until he gets there, and then you will have to guide the squad to the fort. If you should happen to meet any raiders on the way, why take them in," added the captain with a smile.—"Corporal, is Carey badly hurt?"

"He grumbles a good deal, sir, but I think it is more from anger than pain."

"Perhaps you had better take a man in his place and let him go to the fort with us, so that the doctor can look at his arm," said the captain.

"I tell you there is nothing like having friends at court," said Bob as he and George walked away. "Until you came among us I didn't know that these officers could be so very friendly and good-natured. Why, George, if I knew the country as well as you do, and could get scout's pay, I would stay in the army all my life. We have got a sort of roving commission now, and I hope we can do something with it before we go back to the fort."

Details for such duties as this which had just been assigned to Corporal Owens are about the only recreations that fall to the lot of a private soldier on the Plains, and they are eagerly sought after. Being almost always commanded by a sergeant or corporal who has proved to the satisfaction of his superiors that he can be trusted, the men never fail to enjoy themselves to the fullest extent. It is a great relief to them to be entirely out of reach of their Argus-eyed officers, who are so prompt to take them to task for the least neglect of duty.

When they reached the place where the Brindles were encamped, they found that Carey had been successful in his mission. He had brought Mr. Wentworth and his boys back with him, and the troopers were crowded about them listening to Sheldon's account of his experience among the Kiowas.

"Get all you can out of them, boys," exclaimed Bob, "for you will not see them after to-night."

"Why won't we?" asked half a dozen troopers at once.

"Because they are not going to the fort. They are going to Holmes's ranche, wherever that is, and we're going to see them safely there with the stock."

"We? who?"

"Our same old squad—all except Carey."

The owner of that name, whose face had lighted up with pleasure, jumped to his feet with an angry exclamation. "What do you mean by that, corporal?" he demanded.

"It's no fault of mine, Carey," replied Bob. "The captain thinks you had better go to the fort, so that the doctor can look at your wound."

Carey made no reply, but elbowed his way through the crowd and started toward the other end of the camp. In a few minutes he was standing in front of Captain Clinton with his hand to his cap.

"What is it, Carey?" asked that officer after he had returned the salute.

"My respects to you, sir," answered the trooper, "and, if I might take the liberty, I'd like to know why I am to be left behind while the rest of our squad goes off on a picnic with them cattle?"

"Why, you are wounded," said the captain.

"Just a little scratch, sir," protested the trooper. "But even if I had no right arm at all, I could ride and shoot, and when it came to yelling I'd be there too."

"Very good. If you think you can stand it, go on."

"Thank you, sir. I knew you wouldn't go back on old Carey. I've been in every muss my troop has been in, and nobody ever hinted that I didn't do my duty."

The captain nodded his head and waved his hand in token of dismissal, and the trooper hurried away.

Up to this time George Ackerman had always messed with the officers, but that night he took supper with Bob's squad, because both he and they considered that he belonged to it. During the progress of the meal he reminded the corporal that the latter had promised to tell him a story.

"Oh yes," said Bob, after thinking a moment. "I was telling you, I believe, that if Mr. Wentworth killed that Indian he would be arrested and tried for murder. Well, that's an Indian's idea of justice, and it seems to be the agents' idea too. The Indians think they have a perfect right to kill and scalp whenever they feel like it, but if a white man kills one of them it is an awful thing. If they can't get hold of the man who did the shooting or any of his relations, they look to the government for pay. On a certain occasion a scouting-party of ten men was surprised and utterly wiped out. The surprise was so complete that every one of the party was killed at the first fire, with the exception of a corporal, who had just time to knock over two of the reds before he too was shot. Shortly afterward a peace was patched up, and a band of braves came in, bringing with them an old woman for whom they asked a government pension because her two sons had fallen in battle. Inquiries were made, and it turned out that these two sons were the very Indians who had been killed by the corporal. What do you think of such impudence?"

George did not know what to think of it, and probably the reader doesn't either; but this very incident is on record.

By daylight the next morning the camp was deserted. The main body of the troops was riding rapidly toward Fort Lamoine, and a few miles behind it came the herd which Captain Clinton had recaptured. It was moving leisurely along in front of Mr. Wentworth and George, who controlled it with less difficulty than the rest of the squad would have experienced in managing a dozen cattle. Behind them came Bob and his men, with the two boys, who were mounted on a couple of their father's horses which had been found with the herd. George's quick eye had already noticed that there were at least half a dozen different brands among the cattle, and he told himself that when the animals bearing these brands had been delivered up to their lawful owners, Mr. Wentworth would have very little stock left.

Bob and his troopers enjoyed this "picnic" by being lazy. They had nothing to do worth speaking of but to follow along in the rear of the herd and talk to the boys, the most of the work being performed by George and Mr. Wentworth, who during the first part of the journey managed the cattle both day and night. They offered to assist in any way they could, but the practised herders did not need them, and besides, they were afraid to trust them.

"I don't want to lose these steers and horses again, after all the trouble I have had to get them," Mr. Wentworth always replied. "I know you are good soldiers, or else you couldn't have got my boys back for me; but you can't herd cattle. The least awkward movement on your part would send them galloping back toward the Staked Plains again. Wait until they get over their fright, and then you can try your hands at guarding them during the night."

On the afternoon of the fifth day Bob noticed that George's field-glass was often brought into requisition both by himself and Mr. Wentworth, and on riding forward to inquire the cause of it, he was informed that they were looking for Mr. Taylor's ranche.

"And who is Mr. Taylor?" was Bob's next question.

"He is one of Mr. Wentworth's neighbors who was raided by the Indians. We know it, for we have some of his cattle with us; but whether or not they did him any damage beyond stealing his stock, we don't know; and we can't tell, either, until we find his house if it is still standing, or the ruins of it if it has been destroyed."

"Then we must be getting pretty near our journey's end," said Bob, whose arms and shoulders began to ache when he thought of the tedious routine of drill and guard-duty upon which he must enter as soon as he returned to the fort.

"I don't know what you mean by near," replied George. "The fort is all of a hundred and fifty miles from here, and we are not going toward it. We are going toward Holmes's ranche; and even if we have the best of luck, it will take us two weeks to get there."

"That sounds better," said Bob, who was greatly relieved. "When you spoke of Mr. Wentworth's neighbors, I was afraid that our pleasure-excursion was about to be brought to an end, for he doesn't live so very far from the fort, you know."

"It's just over there," shouted Mr. Wentworth at this moment. "I see cattle, and that proves that the raiders didn't scoop Taylor as they did me. Now look sharp; we've got rounding out enough to do already."

"What does he mean by that?" asked Bob.

"He means that we mustn't allow our cattle to mix in with Mr. Taylor's, for if we do we shall have to round them all out again. By 'rounding out' we mean separating the different herds from each other; and that is something that none but good herdsmen can do. It requires skill and a big stock of patience, I tell you. Just let a few green hands try it, and see how much they would make at it. Why, they would scare the cattle so that they would run clear out of the State."

Although Mr. Wentworth had declared that Mr. Taylor's ranche was "just over there," our friends did not reach it that day, nor until late in the afternoon of the next. Before they got there they knew just what Mr. Taylor's experience with the Kiowa raiders had been, for they had passed two or three of his herds, whose keepers had told them all about it. The Indians had suddenly made their appearance, coming from the south, and driving before them a large number of cattle; and although they had not come within five miles of Mr. Taylor's ranche, they had picked up one of his small herds which happened to be in their path.

Our friends camped that night close by Mr. Taylor's ranche, which proved to be a perfect little fort. It was built of heavy stone, was well supplied with provisions, and defended by five stalwart fellows who were armed with Winchester rifles. The raiders would have had a nice time of it if they had come there. The owner listened in great surprise to Mr. Wentworth's story, made much of his boys, and would not let him and George "round out" the stock that bore his brand.

"You're welcome to the steers, neighbor," said he. "I've got more left than I can take care of if the Kiowas bounce me as earnestly as they did you, and you will need them to help you start a new herd."

This same thing was repeated by every one of the half a dozen other ranchemen to whom Mr. Wentworth offered to surrender their stock. They all sympathized with him, and wanted to aid him by every means in their power. The result was, that our friends arrived within one day's march of their journey's end with just as many cattle as they had when they left the Staked Plains. Although Mr. Wentworth had been "completely cleaned out," he was still worth something like twenty thousand dollars.

George and his party made their last camp a short distance from the cabin of a squatter, who rode over to see them during the evening. He went home about ten o'clock, and George and his companions lay down on their blankets, leaving the herd to the care of four mounted troopers. The latter, who during the journey had exhibited the greatest eagerness to learn something of the mysteries of cattle-herding, had so far progressed in knowledge and skill as to be able to stand guard at night, and to give George and Mr. Wentworth an opportunity to obtain the rest of which they began to stand so much in need. About midnight George mounted his horse and rode around the herd to assure himself that everything was just as it should be. He went on horseback, because everybody rides while working about Texas cattle. If a man should venture among them on foot during the daytime, his life would be in danger; and if he went around them at night, he would probably stampede the whole herd.

"All serene," said Loring, who was the first guard George encountered during his rounds. "The moon shines so brightly that I can see the movements of every steer in the drove."

"If we were a little nearer the river perhaps things wouldn't be quite so serene," answered George. "The Mexicans take just such a night as this for their raids."

About an hour after George had retired to his blanket Loring noticed that the cattle began to show signs of uneasiness. Those that were standing up began to move about, those that were lying down arose and moved about with them, and presently the whole herd was in motion. The cattle did not attempt to run away, but walked restlessly about, as if they were unable to find a place that suited them.

"Suke, thing! suke, thing!" said Loring coaxingly.

The travelled reader would have said at once that Loring was a Southerner; and if he could have heard Phillips on the other side of the cattle trying to soothe them with "Co-boss! co-boss!" he would have said that Phillips was from the North. But the cattle did not understand either of them, or if they did they paid no attention to them. Their restlessness increased every moment, and finally Loring, good soldier though he was, deserted his post and started for camp as fast as he could make his horse walk.

"Ackerman," said he in an excited voice, "get up. There is something wrong with those cattle."

George was on his feet in an instant. One glance at the herd was enough.

"I should say there was something wrong!" he exclaimed. "How long has this thing been going on?"

"Not more than five minutes."

"Which way are they looking," continued George.

"Every way, but the most of them keep their heads in that direction," said Loring, waving his arm toward the south.

"Call everybody in camp while I speak to Bob and Mr. Wentworth. No noise now. I am afraid we are going to have trouble."

In less than two minutes all the troopers had been aroused, and George was holding an earnest consultation with Mr. Wentworth and the corporal. "I've seen cattle act that way before," said he, speaking as rapidly as he could make his tongue move, for time was precious; "and if we were a little nearer the river I could easily tell what is the matter with them; but I never heard of the Greasers coming so far into the country as this, and it may be nothing but nervousness that's troubling them. My advice would be to mount the men and move them quietly in line on the north side of the herd, and perhaps by making such a show of numbers we can keep them within bounds until they are quieted down.—What do you say, Mr. Wentworth?"

"It is the only thing that can be done," replied Mr. Wentworth, who seemed to be greatly excited and alarmed; "and even that is a slim chance.—Make haste, corporal. Do all you can for me, for if I lose this herd I shall be ruined, sure enough."

"Catch up!" commanded Bob.

"Look here," said George, seizing his friend by the shoulder and speaking with all the earnestness he could throw into his tones: "if you get in line in front of those cattle, and they start to run toward you, don't try to stop them, for you can't do it, any more than we could stop those buffaloes the other night. Run before them, and gradually draw off to the right or left of them, and you will get safely off; otherwise they will certainly run over you. But I am afraid it is too late to do anything," added George as he noted the increasing restlessness of the cattle.

"It is too late! it is too late!" exclaimed Mr. Wentworth, rubbing his hands nervously together. "There they go!"

Even as he spoke a noise like the rumbling of distant thunder sounded in their ears, and instantly the whole herd made off at the top of its speed. Looking over the mass of horns and tails that was tossed wildly in the air, the troopers were horrified to see Phillips standing directly in front of it. Being fully determined to do his duty to the utmost, the brave fellow sat in his saddle, swinging his arms about his head, and no doubt shouting at the top of his voice to stop the advance of the frightened herd, which was bearing down upon him with the resistless power of an avalanche.

"The man is crazy!" cried George in great alarm. Then, raising both hands to his face and using them as a speaking-trumpet, he yelled, with all the power of his lungs,

"Run! run for your life!"

Phillips afterward said that he did not hear what George said to him—in fact, he couldn't hear anything but the noise of those hoofs—but, seeing that if he remained where he was his death was certain, he wheeled his horse and fled with the speed of the wind. The last his friends saw of him was as he dashed over the top of a ridge, with the stampeded cattle close behind him. When they were all out of sight and the rumble of their hoofs had died away in the distance, the troopers turned to look at Mr. Wentworth. He stood with his hands in his pockets gazing disconsolately in the direction in which the herd had disappeared, but had nothing to say.

"Now, here's a go!" whispered Bob, giving George a nudge in the ribs with his elbow. "What am I to do? This is something Captain Clinton didn't think to provide for, isn't it? I was ordered to go to Holmes's ranche with Mr. Wentworth, but I wasn't told to follow up and collect his cattle if they were stampeded."

"You mustn't think of following them up," said George decidedly. "There is no man in the world who could get that same herd together again, for it will join others as soon as it gets over its fright; and how could we tell these cattle from others bearing the same brand? They are gone, and that's all there is of it. You must mount at once and see if you can find anything of Phillips."

"All right!—Mr. Wentworth," said Bob, "we are very sorry for the loss you have sustained, but we have done all we could for you."

"I know it, corporal, and I am very grateful to you and to the captain, who was kind enough to send you with me. Such things as these will happen sometimes, in spite of everything. Now I hardly know what to do."

Neither would anybody else have known what to do under the same circumstances. Mr. Wentworth had no home, no property except his rifle and the horses he and his boys rode, no work to do, and but little to eat in his haversack. It was a trying situation for a man who but a few days before had been worth a fortune, and almost any one would have been disheartened.

"I'll tell you what you can do," said George. "You can easily find your way to the Ackerman settlement, and if you go there and give Mr. Gilbert a note of introduction which I will write for you, he will take care of you until you can decide upon something."

George did not feel at liberty to tell Mr. Wentworth all he had on his mind. As soon as he returned to the fort he intended to write to his guardian, asking him if he might furnish Mr. Wentworth with a sufficient number of cattle from his own herds to give the impoverished man a new start in life. Of course Mr. Wentworth had a few cattle of his own among those that had just run off, but it would take some time to gather them up; and as he would not want to be troubled with his boys while he was engaged in the work, George intended to ask Mr. Gilbert to take care of them during their father's absence, and to lend Mr. Wentworth a few good herdsmen to assist him in getting his stock together. While he was thinking about it, and before Mr. Wentworth could thank him for his generous offer, something happened which told them very plainly that the stampede that had just taken place was not owing to the nervousness of the cattle, but to the presence of those of whom George Ackerman had every reason to stand in fear.

Their attention was first attracted by some unusual sound. They could not have told what it was or from which direction it came, but they all heard it, and waited for it to be repeated, that they might locate and define it. There was a moment's silence, and then a chorus of wild yells arose on the night air, accompanied by the rapid discharge of firearms. The troopers looked at one another in blank amazement, and then at George, who was not long in assigning a cause for the disturbance.

"The Greasers are attacking the squatter," he exclaimed; and he was quite as much astonished to be called upon to say it as the troopers were to hear it. It must be a strong and daring band that would venture so far into the country, and almost involuntarily George whispered the name of Fletcher. Bob was quick to decide upon his course. He knew just what Captain Clinton would expect of him if he were there.

"Mr. Wentworth," said he, "we must lend that man a helping hand. As you can't go with us on account of your boys, you will have to look out for yourself and them."

"And I am just the man who can do it," replied Mr. Wentworth. "Good-bye and good luck to you! Shoot hard, and shoot to hit."

"How cool and confident he is! I wish I had half his courage," thought Bob as he ordered his men into their saddles, following it up with the commands, "Forward! Trot! gallop!"

The troopers fell into line as they moved off, and a few yards in advance of them rode George and Bob. The former could easily have taken the lead if he had desired to do so, but, knowing that he did not command the squad, he curbed his impatience as well as he could and kept close by his friend's side. The troopers unslung their carbines, George made ready his Winchester, while Bob, who believed as firmly in the virtues of "cold steel" as did the gallant officer whom he afterward accompanied on his last memorable march, drew his sabre. All on a sudden the firing ceased, and when the troopers rode over the brow of a ridge a few minutes later, they saw a thin blue smoke arising from the squatter's cabin, and that told them more than they wanted to know. George was both astonished and enraged at the sight—astonished to know that the raiders would stop during one of their marauding expeditions, when haste was so necessary, to attack and burn so humble a dwelling as the abode of the squatter, and enraged to see that they had been successful enough to do even that. There was a crowd of Mexicans around the building, and others with horses were standing close by.

"Gobble the horses, Bob," said George, who was so highly excited that he could scarcely speak, "and then you can ride down and capture the raiders at your leisure."

Bob caught the idea in an instant. Turning in his saddle, he waved his sabre over his head, but instead of giving the command "Charge!" he effectually closed the mouths of his followers, who had already opened their lips and drawn in a long breath preparatory to giving vent to their favorite yell, by saying in a low tone, "Silence!"

Bob did not know whether or not this order had ever before been given during a charge, and, what was more, he did not care. His object was to cut the men who were lingering about the burning cabin off from their horses, and in order to do that he must get as close as he could to them before he was discovered.



CHAPTER XVI.

CONCLUSION.

The men about the cabin were so engrossed in their work of destruction, and the horse-guards were so intent on watching them, that Bob's advance was not discovered until he and his followers were within less than two hundred yards of the cabin. So entirely unexpected was their appearance that for a moment the cattle-thieves were struck motionless with astonishment; then they recovered their power of action, and those who were on foot made a rush for their horses. Some succeeded in reaching them, but others did not. Two or three of them fell before the carbines of the troopers, who opened a hot fire as soon as they saw that they were discovered, and the horse-guards, believing that the attacking party was backed up by a large force of soldiers which was close at hand, instantly put spurs to their nags and galloped off, taking the loose horses with them and leaving their companions to look out for themselves.

"Throw down and throw up, Greasers!" commanded Corporal Owens as he dashed up to the cabin swinging his sabre over his head; and the order, which meant, "Throw down your weapons and throw up your hands," was obeyed by five sullen fellows, who muttered Spanish oaths between their teeth and looked mad enough to do almost anything.

There was no fight at all. If there had been a shot fired at the troopers, they didn't know it. The party that had gone off with the horses outnumbered Bob's, and could, beyond a doubt, have driven them off the field if they had only thought so; but their surprise was complete, and, more than that, they were demoralized. The presence of the troopers they regarded as part of a pre-concerted plan to cut them off from the river, and that frightened them more than Bob's sudden onslaught.

"Still another feather for your cap, Corporal Owens," said George, after he and Loring and a few others had taken a shot or two apiece at the retreating cattle-thieves, "and nobody hurt on our side, either. Now I—What are you doing here? Is this the way you keep your promise?"

These questions were addressed to one of the prisoners, who took off his sombrero and scratched his head as if he were trying to stir up his ideas so that he could make some reply to these peremptory interrogations.

"Springer," continued George, slowly, "what are you doing here? Where's the squatter?"

"In there," replied the cattle-thief, jerking his head toward the cabin, which was now fairly ablaze and sending out so much heat that the troopers were obliged to draw away from it. "He never would have touched him, Fletcher wouldn't, if he had kept in the house an' left us alone; but he plumped one of us over when we fust came up; an' this here is the consequence," added Springer, nodding his head toward the cabin again.

George knew why it was that the cattle-thieves had stopped to destroy the squatter's house. He had killed one of their number, and they, in turn, had killed him after a hard fight, and it was now too late to recover his body or to save a single thing the cabin contained.

"So this is the fellow who twice befriended you, is it?" said Bob, who was surprised to hear George call one of the prisoners by name. "Don't you think it would be a good plan to chuck him into the fire too?"

"I do," said Loring fiercely.

Springer drew a little nearer to George for protection.

"I didn't have any hand in it," said he earnestly—"honor bright, I didn't. I can explain everything, so that you can see that I am not to blame for being here."

"Carey," exclaimed Bob, "go back to Mr. Wentworth and give him his choice between taking care of himself and going to the fort with us. Hurry up, now.—If I only had a spade or two, I would make these prisoners bury their dead comrades."

"Springer," said George, "can these friends of yours understand English?"

The cattle-thief replied that they could not; they were all Mexicans.

"I am glad to hear it, for I want to ask you a few questions before you explain how you came to be here. Did Fletcher have his whole band with him to-night?"

"Not half of 'em," was the reply; "he had only about thirty men."

"How many has he in all?"

"Two hundred or so."

"Does he still make his head-quarters at the Don's ranche?"

"Yes; but look here, Mr. George," said Springer earnestly; "if you are goin' over there after him, be mighty careful. You know what sort of a looking place that ranche is—all stone, you know—an' them fellows is all old soldiers, an' they'll fight awful."

George nodded his head as if to say that he knew all about that, and spent some minutes in questioning the prisoner in regard to the road that led to the ranche, while Bob sat by on his horse and listened. By the time George had heard all he wanted to know, and Springer had told how he had been arrested by the officer at Eagle Pass and rescued by Fletcher, Carey came back.

"Mr. Wentworth will take care of himself," reported the trooper. "He says that if he went to the fort he would have to come back to Holmes's ranche, anyway—he is going to make his home there for a while, for he and Holmes were boys together—and so he might just as well go there in the first place, and save time and travelling. He sent his best wishes to everybody, and hopes we will catch all the scoundrels who wiped out the squatter."

"I wish we could," said Bob, facing about in his saddle and gazing in the direction in which the thieves had retreated; "but we have five prisoners to take care of, and so our hands are tied."

"You just ought to have seen him, corporal," continued Carey. "He had thrown his three horses in a sort of triangle by tying their feet together and tripping them up in some way, and there he lay with his boys behind his living breastworks, all ready for a fight. Grit to the last, wasn't he? When I asked him why he hadn't mounted and dug out as soon as we left, he said that that wouldn't have been safe, for he might have run right in among the Greasers before he knew it."

"Well, boys," said Bob, gazing sorrowfully at the glowing bed of coals that covered the site of the squatter's cabin, "there is nothing more we can do here, and so we will make a break for the fort."

"Look here, corporal," said one of the troopers: "if you are going to make us carry double with those dirty Greasers, I am going to kick."

"Don't you worry," answered Bob. "I shouldn't do it myself, and of course I sha'n't ask you to do it. They'll have to walk.—Springer, draw these Mexican gentlemen up in line."

Springer gave the necessary order in Spanish, and it was sullenly obeyed.

"Just remind them, Springer, that if they don't step faster than that somebody may hasten their movements with a prod from the point of a sabre," said Bob angrily. "We are in no humor to stand a great deal of nonsense from them. Now, right-face them; that's better.—Fall in around them, squad, four on each flank and four in the rear. Forward, march!—Now, George, which way is the fort from here?"

"Off there," replied George, "but I am going to take you to the river-trail."

"What for?"

"So that you can get something to eat."

If they had been a little farther down the river, say about twenty-five miles, George would have taken them to his own house. It would have given him no little pleasure to entertain these companions of a long, toilsome and dangerous scout under his own roof; but of course he could not think of leading them out of their way in order to do it. They found plenty to eat after they reached the river-trail, but the ranchemen at whose houses they halted could give them no information concerning the raiders. They had been on that side of the river, and had gone back empty-handed, and that was all the ranchemen knew about the matter. This made it plain that Bob's gallant dash had not been without its effect. It had frightened the thieves so thoroughly that they dared not stop to pick up any of the cattle they found in their way.

Bob and his troopers camped that night near a farm-house whose owner was so delighted to see the five prisoners they had brought with them, and to learn of the success that had attended them ever since Captain Clinton sent them off by themselves, that he insisted on giving them a seat at his table. The next morning he gave them a breakfast; but the first squad who went in—which included Bob and George—had scarcely taken possession of their chairs when one of the sentries was heard calling lustily for the corporal of the guard. Bob excused himself and ran out, only to return again almost immediately and startle everybody with the order, "Boots and saddles!" George jumped up from the table, wondering what was the matter. When he reached the porch he found out. About a mile up the trail was a long column of blue-coats coming down at a sweeping trot.

"They are our boys, and they are after the Greasers," exclaimed Bob, as George came down the steps. "It's lucky we are here, for you are the very man they want if they are going across the river.—Catch up, boys, and fall in just as we do when we are on the march, only face to the left, so as to front the column when it comes up."

If we have a reader who is familiar with cavalry tactics, he will have discovered, long before this time, that Corporal Owens was not at all particular as to the orders he gave, provided he could make his men act to suit him. When in the presence of his superiors he always gave the proper commands, in order to save himself from the reproof that would have promptly followed the slightest departure from the tactics; but when he was in command of a scouting-party he was decidedly free and easy. Even an old trooper might have been puzzled over this last order, but the men who had marched with him so many miles were quick to catch his meaning and prompt to carry out his wishes; so that when the whole available cavalry force of Fort Lamoine, numbering two hundred men, came sweeping by the farm-house a few minutes later, with Captain Clinton riding at the head, they were astonished to see Bob's little squad drawn up in a hollow square, with their prisoners in the centre. Of late there had been a good many anxious inquiries made concerning these very men, and here they were, safe and sound, and, wonderful to tell, with more prisoners to show what good soldiers they were.

"Three cheers for the 'Brindles,' the old reliables!" shouted the sergeant-major; and the yells that arose from two hundred pairs of strong lungs could have been heard a long distance away.

George lifted his cap in response to a nod of recognition from Captain Clinton, and in obedience to a sign from him rode over to his side; but Bob and his men sat in their saddles as stiff as so many posts, looking straight to the front. When the next call for cheers came, however, it almost knocked Bob over.

"Three cheers for Sergeant Owens!" shouted a "Brindle;" and then came three more yells, followed by a "tiger" as loud and piercing as an Indian war-whoop. During his absence Bob had been promoted in general orders for gallantry, his pay as sergeant to begin on the day he rescued Mr. Wentworth's boys from the hands of the Kiowas.

Presently the bugle sounded, and the column came to a halt. The officers at once fell out and crowded around George, who, in as few words as possible, told Captain Clinton what Bob's squad had been doing since the captain left them back there on the borders of the Staked Plains. The officers were all very much pleased, especially Lieutenant Earle, who for a moment threw off his dignity and rode up to thank the members of the squad which had brought so much credit upon the troop he commanded.

"Sergeant," said he, extending his hand—which Bob accepted after running his own hand through his sword-knot and dropping his sabre by his side—"I congratulate you and all your men. You have done well."

Bob managed to stammer out something about being glad to have pleased the lieutenant, and the latter, after ordering them to sheathe their sabres, went on to tell how he had followed the Indians in his front until his men and horses were nearly exhausted and almost dead for want of water, and how he had finally returned to the fort a day behind the column, utterly disgusted with his want of success, to find that some of his own troop had carried off the honors of the scout. He was proud to command such men.

Meanwhile, Captain Clinton and George were engaged in an earnest consultation. The former told the young scout that he been sent out to punish the raiders who had just recrossed the river, and that he was going to do it, too. He was going to drive them out of their stronghold, and George must show him the way to it. His men had already had their coffee, but as George and the rest of Bob's squad had had none, they might stay there at the farm-house until they had eaten the breakfast that had been prepared for them, and then ride on rapidly and overtake the column, which would move down the trail at a trot. This having been decided upon, a squad was made up of details from the different companies to take charge of the prisoners, and the command given to a corporal, who was instructed to take them to the fort. Then the column rode on, the corporal marched off with his captives, and Bob and his troopers went back to the farm-house to eat their breakfast.

During the meal George Ackerman, who had thus far been one of the gayest of the party, was very silent and thoughtful. It was almost impossible for any one to get a word out of him. His face was as white as a sheet, but although everybody noticed it, Bob Owens was the only one who could account for it. When they had satisfied their appetites they went out to hold the horses, so that the rest of the squad could come in, and George and the new sergeant, who was not a little elated over his unexpected promotion, led their nags off on one side, so that they could converse without being overheard.

"I know just how it is," said Bob, "for I have felt so ever since Captain Clinton ordered me to follow up that trail. When you know that a good many lives besides your own depend upon a decision you may have to make in an instant of time, I tell you it is rather trying to a fellow's nerves. I used to envy the colonel and all the other high officers in the garrison, but I wouldn't give up my little sergeant's berth for double the money they make. There's too much responsibility connected with the positions they hold."

George told himself that that was just the objection to his own position. He began to see that being a scout meant something. There were two hundred men in Captain Clinton's command, and what if they should all be sacrificed by some blunder on his part?

As soon as the rest of the troopers had eaten breakfast, and Bob had thanked the farmer for his hospitality, the troopers sprang into their saddles and galloped after the column. When they overtook it George rode up beside the captain, and the Brindles, without creating the least confusion, fell into their usual places—all except Bob Owens, who did not belong in the ranks any longer. Being second sergeant, his place was in the rear of his company, "opposite the left file of the rear four;" and that was the position he fell into as soon as he had reported the arrival of his squad to the lieutenant.

"Well, Ackerman," said Captain Clinton as the boy galloped up beside him, "we are in your hands. We want to go to the nearest ford, and we don't want to get there before dark."

"Very good, sir. If you will move the column in that direction," said George, indicating a 'right oblique,' "you will cut off twenty miles, and besides, you can walk all the way, and save your horses for a rapid eighteen-mile ride that must come as soon as we cross the river."

We need not dwell upon the incidents of that day's march, or enlarge upon the feeling of suspense that George Ackerman experienced during that "rapid eighteen-mile ride" to which he had referred. It will be enough to say that they crossed the ford just after dark in safety; that George, without the least difficulty, found the narrow road that led from the river to Don Miguel's ranche; that at his suggestion the column marched "right by twos," which changed the troopers from four to two abreast, Captain Clinton and George riding at the head; that they moved as silently as possible, so as not to alarm any of the people living along the route, and rapidly, in order to reach the ranche before the cattle-thieves could receive notice of their approach; and that at the end of two hours they galloped into the valley and saw Fletcher's stronghold in plain view before them. A single glance at it showed them that they had arrived just in the nick of time. The courtyard was lighted up with lanterns, excited men were moving to and fro, loud voices were heard shouting out words of command, and the whole interior of the building presented a scene of the wildest commotion. Some watchful friend had got ahead of the column and warned the thieves, and they were gathering up their plunder preparatory to beating a hasty retreat. They were on the watch too, for the column had scarcely made its appearance when a sentry called out, "Who is it?" (equivalent to "Who goes there?"), following up his challenge with the cry of "The Americans! the Americans!"

George afterward said that he never had a very clear idea of what happened during the next few minutes. He remembered that he heard the bugle sound a charge; that he dashed through the arched stone gateway at headlong speed side by side with Captain Clinton; and that the rapid discharge of firearms rang in his ears, accompanied by the cries of the cattle-thieves, who fled in every direction, and such cheers and yells from the troopers as he had never heard before. When he came to himself, his horse, which seemed to enter fully into the spirit of the matter, was dancing about in front of a pile of forage that filled one end of the courtyard. When George saw it he threw himself from his saddle and caught up a lantern.

"I have seen the inside of this hole for the last time," said he to himself. "If Fletcher lives to make a prisoner of me, he shall not bring me to this ranche, and neither shall he harbor here to raid on my stock."

As these thoughts passed through the boy's mind he smashed the glass globe of the lantern with one savage kick, and picking up the lamp applied the flame to the pile of forage. He set it on fire in half a dozen different places, and then turned and threw the lamp into one of the nearest rooms, which seemed to be well filled with something. When he had done that he was frightened. What if it was powder in there? But, fortunately, it wasn't. It was some combustible matter that blazed up fiercely, sending huge volumes of flames out of the door and lighting up the courtyard, which was now occupied only by American troopers. The cattle-thieves had behaved just as they did when Bob Owens so gallantly attacked a portion of their number at the squatter's cabin. They fled in hot haste, making their escape by the roof, by doors whose existence George never dreamed of, and by squeezing themselves through the narrow openings that served the ranche in the place of windows. And, strange to tell, there was no one injured on either side. Having satisfied himself on this point by searching all the rooms to make sure that there were no dead or wounded men in them, the captain ordered his troopers into the saddle and departed as rapidly and silently as he had come. George looked over his shoulder now and then, and when he saw the thick clouds of smoke that arose in the air growing thicker and blacker, he told himself that he had made sure work of the old ranche, and that it would never serve the cattle-thieves for a harboring-place again.