Down along the building railway in the valley or the Platte there had been two years of frequent encounter with small bands of Indians.  Down along the Smoky Hill, in Kansas, the Cheyennes were ever giving trouble.  Even around Laramie and Frayne, on the North Platte, settlers and soldiers had been murdered, as well as one or two officers, caught alone out hunting, and the Indians were, of course, the perpetrators.  Nevertheless, it had been the policy of the leaders of the Northern Sioux to avoid any meeting in force and to deny the complicity of their people in the crimes committed.  Supply trains to Reno, Kearney and C. F. Smith, the Big Horn posts of the Bozeman Trail went to and fro with guards of only moderate size.  Officers had taken their wives and children to these far-away stations.  The stockades were filled with soldiers’ families.  Big bands of Indians roamed the lovely valleys of the Piney, the Tongue, and Rosebud, near at hand, and rode into full view of the wary sentries at the stockades, yet made no hostile demonstration.  Officers and men went far up the rocky canons of the hills in search of fish or game, and came back unmolested.  Escorts reported that they sometimes marched all day long side by side with hunting bands of Sioux, a mile away; and often little parties, squaws and boys and young men, would ride confidently over and beg for sugar, coffee, hardtack ­anything, and ride off with their plunder in the best of spirits and with all apparent good feeling.  And yet the great war-chief of the Brules ­Sintogaliska ­Spotted Tail, the white man’s friend, gave solemn warning not to trust the Ogallallas.  “Red Cloud’s heart is bad,” he said.  “He and his people are moving from the reservations to the mountains.  They mean trouble.”  Old traders like Folsom heard and heeded, and Folsom himself hastened to Fort Frayne the very week that Burleigh and his escort left for Warrior Gap.  Visiting at the ranch of his son in a beautiful nook behind the Medicine Bow Mountains, the veteran trader heard tidings from an Indian brave that filled him with apprehension, and he hurried to the fort.

“Is it true,” he asked, “that the government means to establish a post at Warrior Gap?  Is it true that Major Burleigh has gone thither?” And when told that it was and that only Captain Brooks’s troop had gone as escort, Folsom’s agitation was extreme.  “Colonel,” said he, to the post commander, “solemnly I have tried to warn the general of the danger of that move.  I have told him that all the northern tribes are leaguing now, that they have determined to keep to themselves the Big Horn country and the valleys to the north.  It will take five thousand men to hold those three posts against the Sioux, and you’ve barely got five hundred.  I warn you that any attempt to start another post up there will bring Red Cloud and all his people to the spot.  Their scouts are watching like hawks even now.  Iron Spear came to me at my son’s ranch last night and told me not ten warriors were left at the reservation.  They are all gone, and the war dances are on in every valley from the Black Hills to the Powder.  For heaven’s sake send half your garrison up to Reno after Brooks.  You are safe here.  They won’t molest you south of the Platte, at least not now.  All they ask is that you build no more forts in the Big Horn.”

But the colonel could not act without authority.  Telegraph there was none then.  What Folsom said was of sufficient importance to warrant his hurrying off a courier to Laramie, fully one hundred miles southeast, and ordering a troop to scout across the wild wastes to the north, while Folsom himself, unable to master his anxiety, decided to accompany the command sent out toward Cantonment Reno.  He long had had influence with the Ogallallas.  Even now Red Cloud might listen if he could but find him.  The matter was of such urgency he could not refrain.  And so with the gray troop of the cavalry, setting forth within an hour of his coming, rode the old trader whom the Indians had so long sworn by, and he started none too soon.

Reno was some ninety miles away, and not until late the next evening did the grays reach the lonely post.  Not a sign of hostile Indian had been seen or heard, said the officer in command.  Small bands of hunters were out toward Pumpkin Butte two days before. ­Yes, Ogallallas ­and a scouting party, working down the valley of the Powder, had met no band at all, though trails were numerous.  They were now patroling toward the Big Horn.  Perhaps there’d be a courier in to-morrow.  Better get a good night’s rest meantime, he said.  But all the same he doubled his guards and ordered extra vigilance, for all men knew John Folsom, and when Folsom was anxious on the Indian question it was time to look alive.  Daybreak came without a sign, but Folsom could not rest.  The grays had no authority to go beyond Reno, but such was his anxiety that it was decided to hold the troop at the cantonment for a day or two.  Meantime, despite his years, Folsom decided to push on for the Gap.  All efforts to dissuade him were in vain.  With him rode Baptiste, a half-breed Frenchman whose mother was an Ogallalla squaw, and “Bat” had served him many a year.  Their canteens were filled, their saddle-pouches packed.  They led along an extra mule, with camp equipage, and shook hands gravely with the officers ere they rode away.  “All depends,” said Folsom, “on whether Red Cloud is hereabouts in person.  If he is and I can get his ear I can probably stave off trouble long enough to get those people at the Gap back to Kearney, or over here.  They’re goners if they attempt to stay there and build that post.  If you don’t have word from us in two days, send for all the troops the government can raise.  It will take every mother’s son they’ve got to whip the Sioux when once they’re leagued together.”

“But our men have the new breech-loaders now, Mr. Folsom,” said the officers.  “The Indians have only old percussion-cap rifles, and not too many of them.”

“But there are twenty warriors to every soldier,” was the answer, “and all are fighting men.”

They watched the pair until they disappeared far to the west.  All day long the lookouts searched the horizon.  All that night the sentries listened for hoof-beats on the Bozeman road, but only the weird chorus of the coyotes woke the echoes of the dark prairie.  Dawn of the second day came, and, unable to bear suspense, the major sent a little party, mounted on their fleetest horses, to scour the prairies at least halfway to the foothills of the Big Horn, and just at nightfall they came back ­three at least ­galloping like mad, their mounts a mass of foam.  Folsom’s dread was well founded.  Red Cloud, with heaven only knew how many warriors, had camped on Crazy Woman’s Fork within the past three days, and gone on up stream.  He might have met and fought the troops sent out three days before.  He must have met the troops dispatched to Warrior Gap.

And this last, at least, he had done.  For a few seconds after the fall of the buffalo bull, the watchers on the distant ridge lay still, except that Dean, turning slightly, called to the orderly trumpeter, who had come trotting out after the troop commander, and was now halted and afoot some twenty yards down the slope.  “Go back, Bryan,” he ordered.  “Halt the ambulances.  Notify Captain Brooks that there are lots of Indians ahead, and have the sergeant deploy the men at once.”  Then he turned back and with his field glass studied the party along the ravine.

“They can’t have seen us, can they, lieutenant?” muttered the trooper nearest him.

But Dean’s young face was grave and clouded.  Certainly the Indians acted as though they were totally unaware of the presence of troops, but the more he thought the more he knew that no big body of Sioux would be traveling across country at so critical a time (country, too, that was conquered as this was from their enemies, the Crows), without vigilant scouts afar out on front and flank.  The more he thought the more he knew that even as early as three o’clock those keen-eyed fellows must have sighted his little column, conspicuous as it was because of its wagons.  Beyond question, he told himself, the chief of the band or village so steadily approaching from the northeast had full information of their presence, and was coming confidently ahead.  What had he to fear?  Even though the blood of settlers and soldiers might still be red upon the hands of his braves, even though fresh scalps might be dangling at this moment from their shields, what mattered it?  Did he not know that the safeguard of the Indian Bureau spread like the wing of a protecting angel over him and his people, forbidding troops to molest or open fire unless they themselves were attacked?  Did he not laugh in his ragged shirt sleeve at the policy of the white fool who would permit the red enemy to ride boldly up to his soldiers, count their numbers, inspect their array, satisfy himself as to their armament and readiness, then calculate the chances, and, if he thought the force too strong, ride on his way with only a significant gesture in parting insult?  If, on the contrary, he found it weak then he could turn loose his braves, surround, massacre and scalp, and swear before the commissioners sent out to investigate next moon that he and his people knew nothing about the matter ­nothing, at least, that they could be induced to tell.

One moment more Dean watched and waited.  Two of the Indians in the ravine were busily reloading their rifles.  Two others were aiming over the bank, for, with the strange stupidity of their kind, the other buffalo, even when startled by the shot, had never sought safety in flight, but were now sniffing the odor of blood on the tainted air, and slowly, wonderingly drawing near the stricken leader as though to ask what ailed him.  Obedient and docile, the Indian ponies stood with drooping heads, hidden under the shelter of the steep banks.  Nearer and nearer came the big black animals, bulky, stupid, fatuous; the foremost lowered a huge head to sniff at the blood oozing from the shoulder of the dying bull, then two more shots puffed out from the ravine, the huge head tossed suddenly in air, and the ungainly brute started and staggered, whirled about and darted a few yards away, then plunged on its knees, and the next moment, startled at some sight the soldier watchers could not see, the black band was seized with sudden panic, and darted like mad into the depths of the watercourse, disappeared one moment from sight, then, suddenly reappearing, came laboring up the hither side, straight for the crest on which they lay, a dozen black, bounding, panting beasts thundering over the ground, followed by half a dozen darting Indian ponies, each with his lithe red rider scurrying in pursuit.

“Out of the way, men!  Don’t fire!” shouted Dean.  And, scrambling back toward their horses, the lieutenant and his men drew away from the front of the charging herd, invisible as yet to the halted troop and to the occupants of the ambulance, whose eager heads could be seen poked out at the side doors of the leading vehicle, as though watching for the cause of the sudden halt.

And then a thing happened that at least one man saw and fortunately remembered later.  Bryan, the trumpeter, with jabbing heels and flapping arms, was tearing back toward the troop at the moment at the top speed of his gray charger, already so near that he was shouting to the sergeant in the lead.  By this time, too, that veteran trooper, with the quick sense of duty that seemed to inspire the war-time sergeant, had jumped his little column “front into line” to meet the unseen danger; so that now, with carbines advanced, some thirty blue jackets were aligned in the loose fighting order of the prairies in front of the foremost wagon.  The sight of the distant officer and men tumbling hurriedly back and to one side, out of the way presumably of some swiftly-coming peril, acted like magic on the line.  Carbines were quickly brought to ready, the gun locks crackling in chorus as the horses pranced and snorted.  But it had a varying effect on the occupants of the leading wagon.  The shout of “Indians” from Bryan’s lips, the sight of scurry on the ridge ahead brought the engineer and aide-de-camp springing out, rifle in hand, to take their manly part in the coming fray.  It should have brought Major Burleigh too, but that appropriately named non-combatant never showed outside.  An instant more and to the sound of rising thunder, before the astonished eyes of the cavalry line there burst into view, full tear for safety, the uncouth, yet marvelously swift-running leaders of the little herd.  The whole dozen came flying across the sky line and down the gentle slope, heading well around to the left of the line of troopers, while sticking to their flanks like red nettles half a dozen young warriors rode like the wind on their nimble ponies, cracking away with revolver or rifle in savage joy in the glorious sport.  Too much for Burleigh’s nerve was the combination of sounds, thunder of hoofs and sputter of shots, for when a cheer of sympathetic delight went up from the soldier line at sight of the chase, and the young engineer sprang to the door of the ambulance to help the major out, he found him a limp and ghastly heap, quivering with terror in the bottom of the wagon, looking for all the world as if he were trying to crawl under the seat.