Away to the left of the little command tore the quarry and the chase.  Out on the rolling prairie, barely four hundred yards from where the ambulance and mules were backed into a tangle of traces and whiffletrees and fear-stricken creatures, another buffalo had dropped in a heap; a swarthy rider had tumbled off his pony, cut a slash or two with ever-ready knife, and then, throwing a bead bedizened left leg over his eager little mount, had gone lashing away after his fellows, not without a jeering slap at the baited soldiery.  Then, in almost less time than it takes to tell it, the pursued and pursuers had vanished from sight over a low ridge a mile to the north.  “Only a hunting party!” said one or two nervous recruits, with a gulp of relief.  “Only a hunting party,” gasped Burleigh, as presently he heaved himself up from the floor, “and I thought I’d never find that damned gun of mine.  All this fuss for nothing!” he continued, his lips still blue and quivering.  “That green youngster up there in front hasn’t learned the first principles of plains-craft yet.  Here, Brooks,” he added loudly, “it’s high time you were looking after this sub of yours,” and Brooks, despite his illness, was indeed working out of the back door of his yellow trundle bed at the moment, and looking anxiously about.  But the engineer stood pale and quiet, coolly studying the flustered growler, and when Burleigh’s shifting eyes sought that young scientist’s face, what he read there ­and Burleigh was no fool ­told him he would be wise to change the tune.  The aid had pushed out in front of the troop and was signaling to Dean, once more in saddle and scanning through his glass the big band afar down the valley.

“Take my horse, sir,” said the sergeant, dismounting, and the officer thanked him and rode swiftly out to join the young commander at the front.  Together they gazed and consulted and still no signal came to resume the advance.  Then the troopers saw the staff officer make a broad sweep with his right arm to the south, and in a moment Dean’s hat was uplifted and waved well out in that direction.  “Drop carbine,” growled the sergeant.  “By twos again.  Incline to the right.  Damn the Sioux, I say!  Have we got to circle five miles around their hunting ground for fear of hurting their feelings.  Come on.  Jimmy,” he added to the driver of the leading wagon.  Jimmy responded with vigorous language at the expense of his lead mules.  The quartermaster and engineer silently scrambled in; the ambulance started with a jerk and away went the party off to the right of the trail, the wagons jolting a bit now over the uneven clumps of bunch grass.

But once well up at the summit of the low divide the command reined in for a look at the great Indian cavalcade swarming in the northeastward valley, and covering its grassy surface still a good mile away.  Out from among the dingy mass came galloping half a dozen young braves, followed by as many squaws.  The former soon spread out over the billowy surface, some following the direction of the chase, some bounding on south west ward as though confident of finding what they sought the moment they reached the nearest ridge; some riding straight to the point where lay the carcasses of the earliest victims of the hunt.  Here in full view of the soldiery, but vouchsafing them no glance nor greeting whatever, two young warriors reined in their lively ponies and disdainfully turned their backs upon the spectators on the divide, while the squaws, with shrill laugh and chatter, rolled from their saddles and began the drudgery of their lot ­skinning and cutting up the buffalos slaughtered by their lords.

“Don’t you see,” sneered Burleigh, “it’s nothing but a village out for a hunt ­nothing in God’s world to get stampeded about.  We’ve had all this show of warlike preparation for nothing.”  But he turned away again as he caught the steady look in the engineer’s blue eyes, and shouted to his more appreciative friend, the aide-de-camp:  “Well, pardner, haven’t we fooled away enough time here, or have we got to wait the pleasure of people that never saw Indians before?”

Dean flushed crimson at the taunt.  He well knew for whom it was meant.  He was indignant enough by this time to speak for himself, but the aide-de-camp saved him the trouble.

“I requested Mr. Dean to halt a few moments, Burleigh.  It is necessary I should know what band this is, and how many are out.”

“Well, be quick about it,” snapped the quartermaster, “I want to get to Reno before midnight, and at this rate we won’t make it in a week.”

A sergeant who could speak a little Sioux came riding back to the camp, a grin on his sun-blistered face.  “Well, sergeant, what’d he say?” asked the staff officer.

“He said would I plaze to go to hell, sorr,” was the prompt response.

“Won’t he tell who they are?”

“He won’t, sorr.  He says we know widout askin’, which is thrue, sorr.  They’re Ogallallas to a man, barrin’ the squaws and pappooses, wid ould Red Cloud himself.”

“How’d you find out if they wouldn’t talk?” asked the staff officer impatiently.

“’Twas the bucks wouldn’t talk ­except in swear wurruds.  I wasted no time on them, sorr.  I gave the first squaw the last hardtack in me saddle-bags and tould her was it Machpealota, and she said it was, and he was wid Box Karesha ­that’s ould Folsom ­not six hour ago, an’ Folsom’s gone back to the cantonment.”

“Then the quicker we skip the better,” were the aide-de-camp’s words.  “Get us to Reno fast as you can, Dean.  Strike for the road again as soon as we’re well beyond their buffalo.  Now for it!  There’s something behind all this bogus hunt business, and Folsom knows what it is.”

And every mile of the way, until thick darkness settled down over the prairie, there was something behind the trooper cavalcade ­several somethings ­wary red men, young and wiry, who never let themselves be seen, yet followed on over wave after wave of prairie to look to it that no man went back from that column to carry the news of their presence to the little battalion left in charge of the new post at Warrior Gap.

It was the dark of the moon, or, as the Indians say, “the nights the moon is sleeping in his lodge,” and by ten P. M. the skies were overcast.  Only here and there a twinkling star was visible, and only where some trooper struck a light for his pipe could a hand be seen in front of the face.  The ambulance mules that had kept their steady jog during the late afternoon and the long gloaming that followed still seemed able to maintain the gait, and even the big, lumbering wagon at the rear came briskly on under the tug of its triple span, but in the intense darkness the guides at the head of the column kept losing the road, and the bumping of the wagons would reveal the fact, and a halt would be ordered, men would dismount and go bending and crouching and feeling their way over the almost barren surface, hunting among the sage brush for the double furrow of the trail.  Matches innumerable were consumed, and minutes of valuable time, and the quartermaster waxed fretful and impatient, and swore that his mules could find their way where the troopers couldn’t, and finally, after the trail had been lost and found half a dozen times, old Brooks was badgered into telling Dean to let the ambulance take the lead.  The driver shirked at once.

“There’s no tellin’ where we’ll fetch up,” said he.  “Those mules can’t see the trail if a man can’t.  Take their harness off and turn ’em loose, an’ I suppose they can find their way to the post, but sure as you turn them loose when they’ve got somethin’ on ’em, or behind ’em, and the doggone cussedness of the creatures will prompt them to smash things.”

But the quartermaster said he’d tried it with those very mules, between Emory and Medicine Bow a dozen times, and he’d risk it.  The driver could get off his seat if he wanted to, and run alongside, but he’d stay where he was.

“Let me out, please,” said the engineer, and jumped to the ground, and then the cavalcade pushed on again.  The driver, as ordered by an employer whom he dare not disobey, let the reins drop on the mules’ backs, the troopers falling behind, the yellow ambulance and the big baggage wagon bringing up the rear.

Then, with a horseman on each side, the mules were persuaded to push on again, and then when fairly started Burleigh called to the troopers to fall back, so that the mules should not, as he expressed it, “be influenced.”  “Leave them to themselves and they can get along all right,” said he, “but mix them up with the horses, and they want them to take all the responsibility.”

And now the command was barely crawling.  Brooks, heavy, languid with splitting headache, lay in feverish torpor in his ambulance, asking only to be let alone.  The engineer, a subaltern as yet, felt that he had no right attempting to advise men like Burleigh, who proclaimed himself an old campaigner.  The aide-de-camp was getting both sleepy and impatient, but he, too, was much the quartermaster’s junior in rank.  As for Dean, he had no volition whatever.  “Escort the party,” were his orders, and that meant that he must govern the movements of his horses and men by the wishes of the senior staff official.  And so they jogged along perhaps twenty minutes more, and then there was a sudden splutter and plunge and stumble ahead, a sharp pull on the traces, a marvelously quick jerk back on the reins that threw the wheel team on their haunches, and thereby saved the “outfit,” for when men and matches were hurried to the front the lead mules were discovered kicking and splashing in a mud hole.  They were not only off the road by a dozen yards, but over a bank two feet high.

And this last pound broke the back of Burleigh’s obstinacy.  It was nearly midnight anyway.  The best thing to be done was unhitch, unsaddle and bivouac until the gray light of dawn came peering over the eastward prairie, which in that high latitude and “long-day” month would be soon after three.  Then they could push on to Reno.

Not until nearly eight o’clock in the morning, therefore, did they heave in sight of the low belt of dingy green that told of the presence of a stream still long miles away; and here, knowing himself to be out of danger, the major bade the weary escort march in at a walk while he hurried on.  In fifteen minutes the black-hooded wagon was twisting and turning over the powdery road a good mile ahead, its dust rising high over the sage-covered desert, while the other two, with the dust-begrimed troopers, jogged sturdily on.  Loring, the young engineer, had waved a cordial good-by to his old cadet acquaintance.  “See you later, old man,” he cried.  Stone, the aide-de-camp, nodded and said, “Take care of yourself,” and Burleigh said nothing at all.  He was wondering what he could do to muzzle Loring in case that gifted young graduate were moved to tell what the quartermaster actually did when he heard the rush and firing out at the front on the road from Warrior Gap.

But when at last the black wagon bowled in at the stockaded quadrangle and discharged its occupants at the hut of the major commanding, there were tidings of such import to greet them that Burleigh turned yellow-white again at thought of the perils they had escaped.

“My God, man!” cried the post commander, as he came hurrying out to meet the party, “we’ve been in a blue funk about you fellows for two whole days.  Did you see any Indians?”

“See any Indians!” said Burleigh, rallying to the occasion as became a man who knew how to grasp an opportunity.  “We stood off the whole Sioux nation over toward Crazy Woman’s Fork.  There were enough to cover the country, red and black, for a dozen miles.  We sighted them yesterday about four o’clock and there were enough around us to eat us alive, but we just threw out skirmish lines and marched steadily ahead, so they thought best not to bother us.  They’re shy of our breech loaders, damn ’em!  That’s all that kept them at respectful distance.”

The major’s face as he listened took on a puzzled, perturbed look.  He did not wish to say anything that might reflect on the opinions of so influential a man as the depot quartermaster at Gate City, but it was plain that there was a train of thought rumbling through his mind that would collide with Burleigh’s column of events unless he were spared the need of answering questions.  “Let me tell you briefly what’s happened,” he said.  “Red Cloud and his whole band are out on the warpath.  They killed two couriers, half-breeds, I sent out to find Thornton’s troop that was scouting the Dry Fork.  The man we sent to find you and give you warning hasn’t got back at all.  We’ve had double sentries for three days and nights.  The only souls to get in from the northwest since our fellows were run back last night are old Folsom and Baptiste.  Folsom had a talk with Red Cloud, and tried to induce him to turn back.  He’s beset with the idea that the old villain is plotting a general massacre along the Big Horn.  He looks like a ghost.  He says if we had five thousand soldiers up there there’d hardly be enough.  You know the Sioux have sworn by him for years, and he thought he could coax Red Cloud to keep away, but all the old villain would promise was to hold his young men back ten days or so until Folsom could get the general to order the Warrior Gap plan abandoned.  If the troops are there Folsom says it’s all up with them.  Red Cloud can rally all the Northern tribes, and it’s only because of Folsom’s influence, at least I fancy so ­that ­that they didn’t attack you.”

“Where is Folsom?” growled Burleigh, as he shook the powdery cloud from his linen duster and followed the major within his darkened door, while other officers hospitably led the aid and engineer into the adjoining hut.

“Gone right on to Frayne.  The old fellow will wear himself out, I’m afraid.  He says he must get in telegraphic communication with Omaha before he’s four days older.  My heaven, man, it was a narrow squeak you had!  It’s God’s mercy Folsom saw Red Cloud before he saw you.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said the quartermaster, turning over a little packet of letters awaiting him in the commanding officer’s sanctum.  “We could have given a good account of ourselves, I reckon.  Brooks is down with fever, and young Dean got rattled, or something like it.  He’s new at the business and easily scared, you know; so I practically had to take command.  They’ll be along in an hour or so, and ­a word in your ear.  If Brooks has to remain on sick report you’d better put somebody in command of that troop that’s had ­er ­er ­experience.”

The post commander looked genuinely troubled.  “Why, Burleigh, we’ve all taken quite a shine to Dean.  I know the officers in his regiment think a heap of him; the seniors do, at least.”

But Burleigh, with big eyes, was glaring at a letter he had selected, opened, and was hurriedly reading.  His face was yellowing again, under the blister of sun and alkali.

“What’s amiss?” queried his friend.  “Nothing wrong, I hope.  Why, Burleigh, man!  Here, let me help you!” he cried in alarm, for the quartermaster was sinking into a chair.

“You can help me!” he gasped.  “Get me fresh mules and escort.  My God!  I must start for Frayne at once.  Some whisky, please.”  And the letter dropped from his trembling hands and lay there unnoticed on the floor.