Remonstrance on part of his men would have been a violation of their rules of order.  Obedient to the lieutenant’s instructions, Sergeant Bruce, with evident reluctance, lowered his hand.  Whoever these Indians were they well understood the principles that governed civilized warfare.  They well knew that the white soldiers would respect a flag of truce, though in their own vernacular they referred to the sacred emblem only as a “fool flag,” and sometimes used it, as did the Modocs five years later, to lure officers into ambush and deliberately murder them.  They knew the white soldiers would take no advantage of foemen gathered for a conference or parley, and thus far the Sioux themselves had observed the custom which the Modocs basely violated when in cold blood they slaughtered General Canby and the peace commissioners sent to treat with them.  Confidently, therefore, came the two young warriors, but as Dean raised himself from the ground and was about to step forward, the sergeant spoke: 

“Beg pardon, sir, but these fellows know all our officers.  They would recognize you at once.  The word would go to Red Cloud faster than any pony could gallop.  Let me meet them, or let one of the men.”

The ponies were coming at the lope now, and not an instant was to be lost.  The safety of his command might possibly depend on their not being recognized as of the troop before whose carbines Chaska, brother to Lizette, had met his death.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Dean.  “Halt them again.  Conroy, you go with Sergeant Bruce.”

Eagerly a young trooper, carbine in hand, sprang up and stood by the sergeant’s side as the latter repeated his warning signal.  Obediently, yet not too promptly, showing evident desire to get where they could peer over into the ravine and count the number of the white men and horses, the Indians again drew rein, this time barely one hundred yards away.  Then Bruce and Conroy, holding up their emptied hands, strode forward along the grassy slope, making the further sign, “Dismount.”

In those days few of our cavalry wore, when on Indian campaign, the forage-cap with its crossed sabres and distinguishing letters.  Nothing in the dress or accoutrements of the two men thus advancing to meet the Indian emissaries would give to the latter any clew as to the troop or regiment to which they belonged.  Could they see the horses, however, the matter would be settled at once.  The U. S. brand, with that of the number of the regiment and letter of the troop showed on every cavalry mount in the service, and the Ogallallas knew the earmarks of two, at least, of our cavalry regiments in ’68 as well as they did the cut of their own hair.  But in the modesty of the non-commissioned officer Bruce had underrated his own prominence in Indian eyes.  Not only did these keen observers know every officer by sight, and have for him some distinguishing name of their own, but many a trooper, easily singled out from his fellows because of his stature, or the color of his hair, or some other physical peculiarity, was as well known as his captain or lieutenant, and Bruce, ex-trooper of the Scots Greys, and now a model sergeant of Yankee cavalry, was already a marked man in the eyes of the southern Sioux.  Brule, Minneconjou and Ogallalla knew him well ­his aquiline beak, to which the men would sometimes slyly allude, having won him the Indian appellative of Posh Kopee or Big Nose.

Before the two parties came within fifty yards of each other, therefore, watchers along the ravine saw the quick exchange of significant glances between the young braves.  “Twig that?” whispered Trooper Blaine, in low, emphatic tone.  “Those fellows know ‘Scotty’ just as well as we do.”

All the same, leaving their trained ponies to nibble at the scanty bunch grass, the two came straight forward with extended hands and cordial “How, colah!” on their lips, one of them adding, in agency English, “Want talk chief.  Indian poor.  Heap sick.” (And here he clasped his stomach with both hands.) “Want coffee, sugar, bread.”

“All right,” said Bruce promptly, noting the while how the roving black eyes searched the edge of the ravine.  “Stay here.  Don’t come nearer.  You got buffalo meat?”

A grunt was the reply of one, a guttural “Buffalo, yes,” the answer of the other.

“Bring tongues, then,” and Bruce touched his own.  “Five,” and he threw forward the outspread right hand, rapidly touching in succession the thumb and four fingers.  “We give both hands full ­coffee, sugar, hardtack,” and Bruce illustrated as he spoke.  “That’s all!” he finished abruptly, with the well-known Indian sign that plainly tells “I have spoken ­there is nothing more to say,” then calmly turned his back and, bidding Conroy follow, started to return to his comrades at the ravine.

But Indian diplomacy was unsatisfied.  The Sioux had found “Big Nose” to be one of the soldiers in the field.  He, at least, was of the hated troop that fought and chased Burning Star and killed Chaska.  The trail told them there were nearly a dozen in the party, all on shod horses, with two in lead-spare mounts or pack-horses, doubtless ­so they had extra rations and had come far; but why were they going this way, so far west of the usual road to the Big Horn posts?  Why were they so few in number?  Where were the rest?  Why were they hiding here in the ravine, instead of marching?  Answer to this last question was easy enough.  It was to keep out of sight of Indian eyes and needed no excuse.  There was something behind this mysterious presence of ten or twelve soldiers in the southern foothills, and Machpealota would expect of his scouts full information, hence the instant movement on the part of one of the two braves to follow.

Impressively, Bruce turned again and waved him back.  “Go, get buffalo tongue,” said he, “or no trade.  Keep away from our tepees,” and he drew with his spurred boot-heel a jagged line across the turf.  “Your side,” said he, indicating the slope to the southeast of the line.  “This ­ours.  That’s all!” And this time the Indian knew he must come no nearer.

“I’ve got ’em talking trade, lieutenant,” reported Bruce, the instant he reached Dean’s side.  “We don’t need the tongues, but we’ve got more coffee and sugar than we are apt to want, and at least we can keep them interested until dark, then we can slip away.  Of course, they’ve sent word to their main body that we’re over here, but I believe they can’t come in force before night.”

“They knew you, sergeant, and they know it is probably our troop,” said he.  “There must be only a small party near us.  Make your trade, but while you’re doing it we’ll saddle.  I mean to get out of this and into the thick of the timber before they can surround us.  Stand ’em off, now, while we get ready.”

Promises must be kept when made to an Indian, even if they are otherwise sometimes broken.  In ten minutes, with coffee, sugar and hardtack in their hands, the sergeant and his comrades were back at the front.  One brave was still there, the other had vanished.  Five minutes, neither party saying a word, the troopers waited; then Bruce turned to Conroy.  “I knew they had nothing to trade.  Take this sack with you and fall back.  Tell our fellows to keep me well covered till I follow.”  The instant the soldier started with the sack swung over his shoulder, the Indian, who had been squatted on the turf, sprang up and began rapid expostulation in fluent Ogallalla.  “It’s no use, young man,” interposed Bruce.  “Your chum there has no buffalo tongues, and he knew it.  Here’s some hardtack for you,” and he spread one liberally with sugar and handed it to the ever-receptive paw, outstretched to grasp it.  A glance over the shoulder showed that Conroy was nearly at the edge.  Then, quietly, Bruce, too, began to retire.  He had not got ten paces, still facing his unwelcome visitor, when the Indian gave a shrill, sudden cry and tossed up his hands.  Not a second too soon Bruce turned and darted for cover.  The Indian flung himself flat on the turf and rolled away into a depression where he could find partial shelter from bullets from the ravine, whence he evidently looked for them, and out from behind the knoll, bridles held high, “quirts” lashing at their ponies’ flanks, darted half a dozen painted savages, tearing down upon the spot at the top speed of their agile mounts.  Only two men remained on watch at the moment, Dean and one trooper.  Most of the others, already in saddle, were filing away up the game trail that threaded the windings of the ravine, the two lead horses with them, while a few yards behind the young officer and his comrade, halfway down the reverse slope, two others, afoot, handled the reins of their own horses and those of the lieutenant and men still held at the edge.  It was an exciting moment.  Bruce had only a hundred yards to run before he could get under cover, and there was no chance of their hitting him at that range, yet a puff of smoke rose from the knoll, and a bullet, nearly spent, came tumbling and singing up the turf, and the dashing warriors, yelling wildly, applauded the shot.  Bruce took matters coolly.  Leaping behind the shelter of the ledge, he reached for his carbine, and in a moment more, as the pursuing Indians came lashing within long range, four seasoned cavalry carbines, each with a keen eye at the sight and a steady finger at the trip, were leveled on the coming foe.  Dean’s young heart beat hard, it must be owned, for hitherto the Indians had been fighting in retreat or on the defensive, while now they came as though confident of success; but there was soldier exultation and something like savage joy mingling with the thrill of excitement.

“There’s more behind those beggars, sir,” growled Conroy, a veteran at Indian work, “but they’ll sheer off when they get within three hundred yards.”  On they came, shields and lances dangling, ponies on the keen jump, feathers and pennons streaming on the wind.  But, just as Conroy said, no sooner was Bruce safely under cover and they felt themselves drawing within dangerous range than, fan-like, they opened out to right and left, and, yelling still like fiends, veered in wide circle from their line of attack, and ducking over their ponies’ shoulders, clinging with one leg to the upright part of the cantle, they seemed to invite the fire of their white foe ­and got it.  A daring fellow in the lead came streaking slantwise across the front, as though aiming to pick up the comrade lurking in the dip of the prairie-like slope, and Conroy’s carbine was the first to bark, followed almost instantly by Dean’s.  The scurrying pony threw up his wall-eyed head and lashed with his feathered tail, evidently hit, but not checked, for under the whip he rushed gamely on until another bullet, whistling within a foot of his neck, warned the red rider that he was far too close for safety, for with halting gait the pony turned and labored off the field, and presently was seen to be staggering.  “Score one for our side,” laughed the Irishman, in glee.  “Now’s your time, sergeant.”

But Bruce, reloading, was gazing sternly at the distant knoll.  The other warriors, riding right and left, were now chasing crosswise over the billowy slopes, keeping up a fire of taunt and chaff and shrill war-cries, but never again venturing within three hundred yards ­never wasting a shot.

“I thought so,” suddenly cried the sergeant.  “They’re signaling from the knoll.  They never would have attacked with so few, unless there were dozens more within sight.  Now’s our time, lieutenant.  We can mount and ride like hell to the timber ­I beg your pardon, sir,” he broke off suddenly.  “I didn’t mean to say what the lieutenant should do.”

“No apologies,” laughed Dean, his eyes snapping with the vim of the fight.  “Glad you see the truth of what I said.  Come on.  Mount quickly, men.”

Two minutes more and the entire party of blue-coats were spurring swiftly northward up the winding gorge, the pack-horses lumbering alongside.  Eagerly Dean and Bruce in the lead looked right and left for a game trail leading up the slope, for well they knew that the moment their reinforcements came the warriors would dash into the ravine and, finding their antagonists fled, would pursue along the banks.  It would never do to be caught in such a trap.  A gallop of a quarter of a mile and, off to the right, a branch ravine opened out to higher ground, and into this the leaders dove and, checking speed, rode at the trot until the ascent grew steep.  Five minutes more and they were well up toward the head of the gulch and presently found themselves nearly on a level with the hillsides about them.  Here, too, were scattered pine-trees and a few scrub-oak.  The timber, then, was close at hand.  Signaling halt to the climbing column, Dean and Bruce, springing from saddle, scrambled up the bank to their right and peered cautiously back down over the tumbling waves of the foothills, and what they saw was enough to blanch the cheek of even veteran Indian fighters.

Far over to the east, beyond an intervening ridge and under the dun cloud of dust, the earth was black for miles with herds of running buffalo.  Far down to the southeast, here, there and everywhere over the land, the slopes were dotted with little knots of Indian braves ­they could be nothing else ­all riding like mad, coming straight toward them.  Machpealota probably had launched his whole force on the trail of the luckless troopers.