Warrior Gap | Page 9

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