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BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
ISet p. y^ 
 
 'they sent shell after shell into the village' 
 
BOY'S BOOK OF 
 THE ARMY 
 
 BY 
 
 GEN. CHARLES KING, JOHN HABBERTON 
 
 CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS 
 
 LIEUT. CHARLES D. RHODES 
 
 AND OTHERS 
 
 HXUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
The Boys' Library 
 
 Illustrated — ^Jackets Printed in Colors 
 
 Boys' Book of Cowboys 
 Boys* Book of Indians 
 Boys' Book of Pirates 
 Boys' Book of the Railroad 
 Boys' Book of the Sea 
 Boys' Book of the Army 
 Boys' Book of the Navy 
 
 Copyright, 1907, by Harper & Brothers 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 Printed in the U, S, A, 
 
 c-z 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 RECAPTURED 
 By General Charles King, U.S.A. 
 
 A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 
 By Lieutenant Charles D. Rhodes, U.S.A. 
 
 HOW REDDY GAINED HIS COMMISSION 
 By Captain Charles A. Curtis, U.S.A. 
 
 AT THE HELIO STATION 
 By Frank L. Pollock 
 
 "BILLY" OF BATTERY B 
 By Colgate Baker 
 
 FLORIDE'S PATIENT 
 By Bertha Watson 
 
 A RELIC-HUNTER'S STRANGE EXPERIENCE 
 By John Habberton 
 
 CLARE'S RIDE 
 By Charles L. Hildreth 
 
 HOW HO-TO-OTO BECAME A RECRUIT 
 By Laura Fitch McQuiston 
 
 "SCAPEGRACE" 
 By General Charles King, U.S.A. 
 
 THE SURRENDER OF COCHISE 
 By Julian Ralph 
 
 WITH CAPRON AT EL CANEY 
 By Fletcher C. Ransome 
 
 ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 
 By Captain Charles A. Curtis, U.S.A. 
 
 V 
 
 Ivi60825 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "They Sent Shell After Shell Into 
 
 THE Village" Frontispiece 
 
 *Teddy was Clinging to the Trunk, 
 AND Reddy Swimming in the Boiling 
 Current" Facing; p. 46 
 
 *'A Breathless Boy Stumbled Forward 
 Into Their Arms, Sobbing Out: The 
 Bridget" V 166 
 
 *Tlacing His Head Within the En- 
 trance He Called: *Oh, Mr. Arnold 
 —We Are HereT" •* 216 
 
 VI 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 "Fj^OR the most part these stories of brave deeds 
 •*" in army life show the kind of men who 
 guarded our West in the days of hostile Indians. 
 While these tales are usually fiction, yet the fic- 
 tion is usually founded upon some incident of 
 actual occurrence. The old frontier posts have 
 now disappeared. They were centres of a life 
 of adventure and often of a silent heroism, in 
 which women and children as well as officers 
 and men bore their full share. It was a lonely 
 life, but full of picturesque incident and thrill- 
 ing experiences, as these pages show. Many 
 adventures of Uncle Sam's soldiers are told in 
 the volumes of Harper s Strange Stories from 
 History, which sketch events in our great wars. 
 In the present volume it has seemed peculiarly 
 worth while to afford a glimpse of the soldier's 
 work in clearing the way for civilization upon 
 this continent. 
 
 There is the more reason for this because the 
 courage and endurance of the American regular 
 
 vii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 soldier, during the long years of Indian hostili- 
 ties in the West, has never received just recogni- 
 tion. The British soldier in every corner of the 
 v^orld has been celebrated by poets and story- 
 writers, and he has received substantial rewards 
 from the authorities at home. Many a brave 
 deed by American soldiers in our West, which 
 has passed almost unnoticed, would have given 
 a theme equal to Kipling's subjects, and the 
 heroes were equally deserving of recognition. 
 But the wretched mistakes in our treatment of 
 Indians, due so largely to politicians and dis- 
 honest agents, have reacted unfavorably upon 
 those who were simply the instruments of their 
 superiors — upon the American regular soldiers. 
 So much may properly be said, even in an in- 
 troduction to a story-book which oflfers, first of 
 all, entertainment. That will be found, assured- 
 ly, in these tales of daring, not only in the West, 
 but elsewhere, for there are glimpses of the great 
 war, and also of the stern duty which may de- 
 volve upon the soldier when law is set at naught 
 in civil life. 
 
 While these are tales for younger readers, and 
 young actors play a frequent part, it may well 
 happen that this book will tempt some one to 
 
 viii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 look closer into the record of the regular soldiers 
 which is given so inadequately in most histories 
 of our country. The Revolution, with its ex- 
 periences of Hessian and British regulars, 
 strengthened American distaste for a regular 
 soldiery. Afterwards the army of the United 
 States was reduced almost to the vanishing-point. 
 But the disasters of Harmer and Harmon in the 
 expedition against Chillicothe in 1790, and St. 
 Clair's disastrous defeat the following year, 
 were costly lessons. "However pacific the gen- 
 eral policy of a nation may be," wrote Washing- 
 ton in 1796, "it ought never to be without an 
 adequate stock of military knowledge." Hap- 
 pily, our country is pacific, and it is for the 
 younger generation to learn and continue lessons 
 of peace; but that does not diminish the value 
 of a true reading of history. For only a part of 
 the soldier's work has been in war. The great 
 explorers of the West were soldiers, Lewis and 
 Clark, who made their classic journey from St. 
 Louis to the mouth of the Columbia River in 
 1804-06; Pike, who sought the sources of the 
 Mississippi in 1805, and the following year, 
 travelling westward, reached Pike's Peak, and 
 Fremont, explorer of routes to the Pacific from 
 
 IX 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 1842 to 1853. These are only the most conspic- 
 uous examples of the achievements of the soldier 
 in initial path-finding and surveys and recon- 
 noissances. There was also the policing of the 
 old frontier and the guardianship of the great 
 routes know^n as the Overland, Oregon, and 
 Sante Fe Trails. 
 
 As to the wretched decades of Indian warfare, 
 closing only in 1890 with scenes suggested in 
 a story in this book, the arduous, gallant, thank- 
 less part of the soldier may be gathered from 
 General G. A. Forsyth's Thrilling Scenes of 
 ^Army Life, and J. P. Dunn's Massacres of the 
 Mountains. These and a few other books, par- 
 ticularly General Forsyth's Story of the Soldier, 
 record deeds like the march of Kearny and 
 Cooke over 2000 miles from Fort Leavenworth 
 to Sante Fe and the Pacific in 1846-47, the fruit- 
 less Utah expedition of 1857 against the Mor- 
 mons, the Fetterman massacre at Fort Phil 
 Kearny in the Big Horn country in 1866, and 
 the punishment of Red Cloud and his followers 
 by Major Powell the following year; General 
 Forsyth's gallant stand against overwhelming 
 numbers on a fork of the Republican River in 
 Kansas in 1868; the long years of campaigns 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 against hostile Sioux in the north and Apaches 
 in the southwest; the Modoc war in Oregon in 
 1872; the Custer massacre in 1876, and the won- 
 derful fight of the heroic Chief Joseph and his 
 Nez Perce followers in 1877, which covered 
 some 1500 miles, traversing three great mountain 
 ranges. These are a few of the campaigns and 
 battles in which the American soldier, obeying 
 orders, has done a hero's work in the winning of 
 our West. 
 
 A volume like this is, plainly, a small side- 
 light upon history rather than history itself. 
 But facts may be vividly illustrated in fiction, 
 and, in introducing this story-book to American 
 boys and girls, it has seemed worth while to lay 
 stress upon certain facts of our history which 
 have not been justly appreciated. 
 
 The regulars who fought to win and guard 
 the West were not responsible for broken trea- 
 ties, invaded lands, and stolen supplies. Even 
 the hostile Indians recognized the truthfulness 
 of regulars like Crook and Howard. More than 
 this, our greatest soldiers, like Grant, with his 
 prayer for peace, and Sherman, with his denun- 
 ciation of war, would have chosen to be not in- 
 struments of bloodshed, but messengers of peace. 
 
 xi 
 
BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
Boy's Book of the, ^rmy 
 
 RECAPTURED 
 A Story of the Apache Days in Arizona 
 
 'THHERE was a boy at old Camp Sandy once 
 -*• upon a time when white men were scarce 
 In Arizona. From the day he was ten years old 
 this boy's consuming desire was to help "clean 
 out," as he heard the soldiers express it, a certain 
 band of mountain Apaches who had surprised 
 and slaughtered a small party of people in whose 
 welfare he felt especial interest, for the reason 
 that there was with them a little fellow of his 
 own age. They had been at Sandy only three 
 days, and then, deaf to remonstrance, had gone 
 on their way up into the mountains "prospect- 
 ing" ; but during those three days the two young- 
 sters had been inseparable. "Sherry" Bates, the 
 sergeant's son, had done the honors of the post 
 
 3 
 
4 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 for Jimmy Lane, the miner's boy; had proudly 
 exhibited the troop quarters, stables, and corrals; 
 had taken him across the stream to the old ruins 
 up the opposite heights, and told him prodigious 
 .stories of thq odd people that used to dwell 
 .tliereVhadciiitroduced him personally to all the 
 /:hDunds,:big.^nd little, and had come to grief in 
 professing to be on intimate terms with a young 
 but lively black bear cub at the sutler's store. 
 He was rescued from serious damage from 
 bruin's claws and clasping arms only by the 
 prompt dash of by-standers. It took some of 
 Sherry's conceit out of him, but not all, and the 
 troopers had lots of fun, later on, at the corral, 
 when he essayed to show Master Jim how well 
 he could ride bare-back, and mounted one of 
 Mexican Pete's little "burros" by way of illus- 
 tration. 
 
 AH the same, they were days of thrilling in- 
 terest, and Sherry wept sorely when, a week 
 later, a friendly Indian came in and made known 
 to the officers, mainly by signs, that the party 
 had been killed to a man, that their mutilated 
 bodies were lying festering in the sun about the 
 ruins of their wagons up near Stoneman's Lake 
 in the pine country of the Mogollon.* The 
 
 ♦Pronounced Mogolj^on^. 
 
RECAPTURED 5 
 
 major commanding sent out a scouting party to 
 investigate, and the report proved only too true. 
 The bodies could no longer be identified; but 
 one thing was certain: there were the remains 
 of four men, hacked and burned beyond recogni- 
 tion, but not a trace of little Jim. 
 
 "It was Coyote's band, beyond doubt," said 
 the lieutenant who went in command, and for 
 Coyote's band the troopers at Sandy "had it in," 
 as their soldier slang expressed it, for long, long 
 months — for over a year, in fact — before they 
 ever got word or trace of them. They seemed 
 to have vanished from the face of the earth. 
 Meantime there had been chase after chase, 
 scout after scout. General Crook had been 
 transferred long since to another field, and was 
 busy with the Sioux and Cheyennes. Another 
 commander, one who lacked Crook's knowledge 
 of Indian tricks and character, had taken charge 
 in Arizona, and the Apaches had quickly found 
 it out. They made it lively for small parties, 
 and easily kept out of the path of big ones. And 
 this was the way things were going when, one 
 autumn night, signal fires were discovered 
 ablaze away up in the Red Rock country, and 
 Major Wheeler sent a troop post-haste to see 
 
6 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 what it meant. With this troop went Sergeant 
 Bates, and on its trail, an hour later, unbeknown 
 to almost everybody, went Sherry. 
 
 Indians rarely ventured into the deep valley 
 of the Sandy. The boy had hunted jack-rabbits 
 and shot California quail, and fished for 
 "shiners" and other inconspicous members of 
 the finny tribe along its banks, and he knew the 
 neighborhood north, south, and west for miles. 
 Eastward, out of sight of the flag-staff, he had 
 never ventured. That was towards the land of 
 the Apache, and thither his father had told him 
 no one could go safely. An only son was Sherry, 
 and a pretty good boy, as boys go, especially 
 when it is considered that he had been mother- 
 less for several years. 
 
 The old sergeant, his father, watched him 
 carefully, taught him painstakingly, and was 
 very grateful when any of the officers or their 
 wives would help with the lessons of the little 
 man. He had had a pony to ride, but that pony 
 was old when his father bought him from an 
 officer who was ordered to the East, and Sherry 
 soon declared him too old and stiff for his use. 
 What he craved was a horse, and occasionally 
 the men let him mount some of their chargers 
 
RECAPTURED 7 
 
 when the troop went down to water at the river, 
 and that was Sherry's glory. On this particular 
 October night he had stolen from his little bed 
 and made his way to the corral, and had got 
 Jimmy Lanigan, the saddler sergeant's son,' now 
 a trumpeter in ^T" Troop, to saddle for him a 
 horse usually ridden by Private McPhee, now 
 sick in hospital of mountain fever. As Mac 
 couldn't go, his horse would not be needed, and 
 Sherry determined to ride in his place. 
 
 But some one gave old Bates the "tip," and 
 he caught the little fellow by the ear and led him 
 home just before the troop started, and bade him 
 stay there; and Sherry feigned to be penitent 
 and obedient, but hugged his father hard, and 
 so they parted. 
 
 But boys who own dogs know the old dog's 
 trick. Sometimes when starting for a day's 
 pleasuring where Rover would be very much in 
 the way, the master has sternly ordered him 
 home when, with confident joy, the usually wel- 
 come pet and companion came bounding and 
 barking after. You have all seen how sad and 
 crestfallen he looked, how dumbly he begged, 
 how reluctantly he skulked homeward when at 
 last he had to go or be pelted with stones; and 
 
8 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 then, time and again, he finally turned and fol- 
 lowed, a long distance behind, never venturing 
 to draw near, until, so very far from home that 
 he knew he couldn't be sent back, he would re- 
 appear, tail on high and eyes beaming forgive- 
 ness and assurance, and the battle was won. 
 
 And Sherry had learned Rover's little game, 
 and he lay patiently in wait until he knew the 
 troop was gone, then over to the corral he stole, 
 easily coaxed the stable sentry into giving him 
 a lift, and in half an hour he was loping north- 
 ward along the winding Sandy under the starry 
 skies, sure of overtaking the command before 
 the dawn if need be, yet craftily keeping well 
 behind the hindermost, so that his stern old 
 father could not send him back when at last his 
 presence was discovered. 
 
 For, long before daybreak, the soldiers were 
 trailing in single file, afoot and leading their 
 horses up the steep, rocky sides of the Mogol- 
 lon, taking a short-cut across the range instead 
 of following the long, circuitous route to Stone- 
 man's Lake, and only a hundred feet or so be- 
 hind the rearmost of the pack-train followed 
 keen-eyed, quick-eared, little Sherry, still cling- 
 ing to his saddle, for his light weight made little 
 
RECAPTURED 9 
 
 difference to such a strong horse as McPhee's 
 Patsy. He trusted mainly to Patsy's power as 
 a trailer to carry him unerringly in the hoof- 
 prints of the troop. 
 
 When at last the sun came peering over the 
 pine crests to the east, the little command was 
 deep down in a rocky canon, and here the cap- 
 tain ordered the men to halt, lead into line, and 
 unsaddle. The horses and the pack-mules were 
 quickly relieved of their loads, and the men 
 were gathering dry fagots for little cook-fires — 
 fires that must make no smoke at all, even down 
 in that rocky defile, for Indian eyes are sharp 
 as a microscope. Before they marched on again, 
 men and horses both had to have their bite, and 
 the men their tin mug of soldier coffee, and here 
 it was that some one suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 "Well, I'm blessed if here ain't Sherry!" 
 
 It was useless for the old sergeant to scold 
 now. The officers promptly and laughingly 
 took the boy's part and declared him "a chip 
 of the old block," and bade the sergeant bring 
 the boy along. It was safer, at all events, than 
 sending him back. 
 
 And so, secretly proud of him, though open- 
 ly declaring he would larrup him well the mo- 
 
10 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 ment they got back to the post, Sergeant Bates 
 obeyed his captain, and thus it happened that 
 Master Sherry was with ^'F" Troop the chill 
 October morning, just at dawn, when they found 
 out, entirely to their satisfaction, just what those 
 signal-fires meant. 
 
 They were not visible from Camp Sandy, you 
 must understand. Indians are too sharp for that. 
 They were started in certain deep clefts in the 
 Red Rocks, which permitted their glare to be 
 seen only from the southeast or the east, the 
 direction from which the roving bands ap- 
 proached when seeking to steal their way back 
 to the old reservation after some bloody foray, 
 sure of food and welcome at the lodges of their 
 friends and fellow-savages, provided they came 
 not empty-handed. Coyote^s band had not been 
 near the reservation since their exploit of the 
 year before. A price was on the leader's head, 
 but scouting parties away down to the southeast 
 in the Chiricahua country had learned that 
 recently Coyote, with some forty followers, had 
 crossed to the north of the Gila, and seemed to 
 be making his way back to his old haunts in the 
 Mogollon. All this was wired to Major 
 Wheeler, who sent some trustworthy Apache- 
 
RECAPTURED 11 
 
 Mohave scouts out towards the headquarters of 
 Chevelon's Fork to the east, with orders to watch 
 for the coming of Coyote. It was one of these 
 runners who brought in the tidings that the sig- 
 nal-fires were burning, and that meant, ^^Come 
 on. Coyote ; the coast is clear." 
 
 And Apache confederates, watching from the 
 reservation, twenty miles up-stream, would have 
 said the coast was still clear, for the road to 
 Stoneman's Lake was untrodden. A day after- 
 wards, to be sure, they got word that a whole 
 troop of horse had gone by night into the moun- 
 tains, but it was then too late to undo what they 
 had done — lured Coyote many a mile towards 
 his enemies. They sent up "smokes" in the after- 
 noon to warn him, but by that time Coyote's 
 people, what was left of them, knew more than 
 did their friends at the reservation. 
 
 For, early that morning, just at dawn, while 
 some of them were sound asleep in their brush 
 shelters, or "wickie-ups," away on top of a rocky 
 pinnacle that overlooked the country for miles, 
 this is what happened : 
 
 Following the lead of three or four swart, 
 black-haired, beady-eyed Apache scouts, the sol- 
 diers came stealthily climbing the steep. Away 
 
12 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 down in a rocky canon they had left the horses 
 and pack-mules, their blankets, and, many of 
 them, their boots, and in moccasins, or even 
 stocking feet in a few cases, they noiselessly made 
 their way. Officers and all carried the death- 
 dealing little brown cavalry carbine, and thim- 
 ble belts of copper cartridges were buckled 
 about their waists. ^Tind um top," the leader 
 of the little squad of scouts muttered to the cap- 
 tain, as he pointed the evening before to this 
 distant peak, and well he knew their ways, for 
 only three years before he himself had been a 
 "hostile," who was tamed into subjection by 
 General Crook. And so it proved. Relying on 
 the far-away night fires. Coyote and his weary 
 band had made their brush shelters on the old 
 Picacho. The few squaws with them had filled 
 their water-jars at the canon. Two trusty 
 runners had gone on westward to the reservation, 
 and the rest betook themselves to sleep. Coyote 
 thought the white soldiers "too heap fool" to 
 think of making a night march through the 
 mountains instead of coming away around by the 
 old road. 
 
 With the troop-horses was left a small guard, 
 and with the guard a little boy — Master Sherry 
 
RECAPTURED 13 
 
 Bates — fretting and fuming not a little as he lay 
 there among the rocks, wrapped in his father's 
 blanket, and listening with eagerness unspeak- 
 able for the crash of musketry away up on that 
 dimly outlined peak which would tell that his 
 father and the boys had found their foemen and 
 the fight was on. Presently, as the eastern sky 
 began to change from crimson to gold, the lofty 
 summit seemed to blaze with glistening fire. 
 The light, still dim and feeble in the jagged 
 ravine, grew sharp and clear along the range, 
 and one of the guard, peering through the cap- 
 tain's binocular, swore he could "see some of 
 the fellers climbing close to the top"; and 
 Sherry, though shivering with cold and excite- 
 ment, rolled out of his blanket and scrambled to 
 his feet. 
 
 An instant more, and, floating on the moun- 
 tain breeze, there came the sudden crash and 
 splutter of distant musketry, and Sherry could 
 control himself no longer. Mad with excite- 
 ment, he began dancing about the bivouac. The 
 men were all listening and gazing. The horses 
 were snorting and pawing. Half shrouded by 
 the lingering darkness in the gorge, he stole 
 
14 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 away among the stunted pine and went speed- 
 ing as though for dear life up the canon. 
 
 The fight itself was of short duration. Sur- 
 prised in their stronghold, the Indians sprang 
 to their arms at the warning cry of one hapless- 
 ly wakeful sentinel. It was his death-song, too, 
 for Sergeant Bates and the veteran corporal at 
 his side, foremost with the guides, fired together 
 at the dark figure as it suddenly leaped between 
 them and the sky, tumbling the sentry in his 
 tracks. Then, before the startled band could 
 spring to the shelter of surrounding bowlders, 
 the soldiers with one volley and a ringing cheer 
 came dashing in among them. Some warriors, 
 in their panic, leaped from the ledge and were 
 dashed upon the rocks below; some, like moun- 
 tain-goats, went bounding down the eastward 
 side and disappeared among the straggling tim- 
 ber; some, crouching behind the bowlders, 
 fought desperately, until downed by carbine 
 butt or bullet. Some few wailing squaws knelt 
 beside their slain, sure that the white soldiers 
 would not knowingly harm them ; while others, 
 like frightened does, darted away into the shelter 
 of rock or stunted pine. One little Indian boy 
 sat straight up from a sound sleep, rubbing his 
 
RECAPTURED 15 
 
 baby eyes, and yelling with terror. Another 
 little scamp, with snapping black eyes, picked 
 up a gun and pulled the trigger like a man, and 
 then lay sprawling on his back, rubbing a dam- 
 aged shoulder, and kicking almost as hard as 
 the old musket. And then, while some soldiers 
 went on under a boy lieutenant in chase of the 
 fleeing Indians, others, with their short-winded 
 captain, counted up the Indian losses and their 
 own, and gave their attention to the wounded; 
 and all of a sudden there went up a shout from 
 Sergeant Bates, who was peering over the edge 
 of a shelf of rock. I 
 
 "Here's more of 'em, sir, running down this 
 way!" followed by a bang from his carbine and 
 a yell from below, and men who reached his 
 side were just in time to see a brace of squaws, 
 dragging two or three youngsters by the hand, 
 darting into the bushes, while their protecting 
 warriors defiantly faced their assailants, fired 
 a shot or two, and then plunged after them. "I 
 know that Indian," almost screamed old Bates. 
 "It's Coyote himself!" 
 
 "After 'em, then!" was the order, and away 
 went every man. 
 
 Two minutes later, out from under a shelving 
 
16 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 rock came crawling a trembling squaw. Peer- 
 ing cautiously around, and assuring herself the 
 troopers were gone, she listened intently to the 
 sound of pursuit dying away down the mountain- 
 side; then in a harsh whisper summoned some 
 one else. Out from the same shelter, shaking 
 with fear, came a little Apache boy, black and 
 dirty, dragging by the hand another boy, white 
 and dirtier still, and crying. Seizing a hand of 
 each, the woman scurried back along the range, 
 until she reached the narrow trail by which the 
 troopers had climbed the heights ; then, panting, 
 and muttering threats to the urchins dragging 
 helplessly after, down the hill-side she tore, but 
 only a hundred yards or so, when, with a scream 
 of fright and misery, she threw herself prone 
 upon her knees before the body of a lithe, sinewy 
 Apache just breathing his last. And then, for- 
 getting her boy charges, forgetting everything 
 for the moment but that she had lost her brave, 
 she began swaying to and fro, crooning some 
 wild chant, while the boys, white and black, 
 knelt shuddering among the rocks in nerveless 
 terror. 
 
 And this was the scene that suddenly burst 
 upon the eyes of Sherry, the sergeant's boy, as 
 
RECAPTURED 17 
 
 he came scrambling up the trail in search of his 
 father. And then went up a shrill, boyish voice 
 in a yell of mingled hope and dread and despera- 
 tion, and the dirty little white savage, screaming 
 ^^Sherry! Sherry!" went bounding to meet the 
 new-comer. And, the squaw rose up and 
 screamed, too — something Master Sherry 
 couldn't understand, but that sent terror to the 
 white boy's heart and lent him wings. "Run! 
 run!" he cried, as he seized Sherry by the hand, 
 and, hardly knowing where they were going, 
 back went both youngsters, tearing like mad 
 down the tortuous trail. 
 
 Five minutes later, as some of the men, well- 
 nigh breathless, came drifting in from the pur- 
 suit, and Corporal Clancy was running up from 
 the canon in pursuit of the vanished "kid," both 
 parties stumbled suddenly upon this motley pair, 
 and the rocks rang with Clancy's glad cry. 
 
 "Here he is, sergeant! all right, and Jimmy 
 Lane wid him." 
 
 And that's why Sherry didn't get the prom- 
 ised larruping when they all got back to Sandy. 
 
A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 
 Jerry and the Highwaymen 
 
 'T^HERE are a great many advantages in be- 
 ^ ing a big fellow; but, on the other hand, 
 there are a number of advantages in being a little 
 fellow. If Jerry had not been a very little fel- 
 low, something might have happened that would 
 have been a source of great regret, and this story 
 might never have been written — at least, not 
 about this particular boy. 
 
 Aside from all the old-time dangers in our 
 West from Indians and wild animals, there were 
 others, not less to be dreaded, from the lawless 
 characters who took advantage of the difficulty 
 of enforcing the laws of the country. The towns 
 were few and far between, and even in the towns 
 themselves there was little law and order. Oc- 
 casionally the law-abiding people would attempt 
 to rid themselves of the rough characters, and 
 the latter, driven from their dishonest pursuits 
 
 18 
 
A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 19 
 
 in the towns, would go into the open country and 
 become horse-thieves or highwaymen — ^more 
 commonly known through the West as "road- 
 agents." 
 
 Little by little, as the Western country became 
 more thickly settled, these bad characters dis- 
 appeared, but not entirely. And even now one 
 quite frequently hears of the doings of these men 
 in the wilder localities. 
 
 It was in just such a place that the scene of 
 my story is laid. Fort McKay was one of those 
 small, isolated army posts in the Indian country 
 which could only be reached by a long overland 
 trip from the little box of a railroad station over 
 one hundred and fifty miles away. There was 
 a stage — a rickety vehicle, drawn by four lean 
 broncos — ^which made the long trip twice a 
 week. But the price charged was so high, and 
 the journey was such an uncomfortable one, that 
 people from the army post much preferred to 
 travel in their own ambulance, drawn by four 
 well-fed government mules. 
 
 And now I think it time for you to know a 
 little more about Jerry — other than the fact that 
 he was a little fellow. He was the only son — a 
 motherless son — of an old soldier in one of the 
 
20 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 cavalry regiments, and what he did not know 
 about an army post and army life was not worth 
 knowing. He had had very little care in his 
 bringing up, but in his short life had picked up 
 a great deal of the good, a few of the bad, and 
 a great many of the indifferent traits of Uncle 
 Sam's soldiers. He was never known to spell a 
 word right the first time, and he accounted it a 
 very great accomplishment that he could write 
 his name. On the other hand, Jerry could ride 
 like an Indian, drive a team, or even a "four," 
 with a skilled hand, and assist in packing a mule 
 like a veteran. One could never guess Jerry's 
 age, and as he felt rather sensitive about his 
 small size, one could never persuade him to tell 
 just how old he was. But he was so quick and 
 smart and good-natured that he was a general 
 favorite with all whom he met. 
 
 Not many years ago the regiment to which 
 Jerry's father belonged received a change of 
 station; and about the same time one of the 
 numerous troubles with the Indians broke out 
 in the very country to which the regiment was 
 transferred. So Jerry, who, to tell the truth, 
 had never had much affection lavished on his 
 young head, was left with a distant relative at 
 
A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 21 
 
 a small Nebraska town through which the train 
 bearing the troops passed, until the new stations 
 of the regiment were made known. Now, three 
 months later, the Indian hostilities had ceased, 
 a part of the regiment was safely housed at Mc- 
 Kay, and Jerry was alone at the little railroad 
 station of Bronco, ready to take the overland 
 journey to McKay, if he had to walk. Jerry's 
 confidence in his father was unbounded, and 
 when the latter had written to him to take the 
 train for Bronco on a certain day, Jerry had done 
 so, and had asked no questions. 
 
 The two young fellows who managed affairs 
 at Bronco had taken Jerry into their house as 
 a matter of course — in the West one's hospitality 
 is not measured by the size of one's dwelling- 
 place. And here, for two days, Jerry had re- 
 mained, hoping that something would turn up 
 to help him along towards McKay. 
 
 And something did turn up. On the morning 
 of the third day the ambulance from McKay 
 arrived at the station, with Lieutenant Johnson 
 in charge; and the next train from the East 
 brought Major McGregor, a crusty old bachelor 
 officer of the regiment; Mrs. Johnson and baby, 
 the lieutenant's wife and child; and Dr. San- 
 
22 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 born, a young army surgeon from the East, who 
 was about to join his first army post at McKay. 
 
 In spite of a certain amount of grumbling on 
 the part of the major, who did not like boys of 
 Jerry's age, the latter readily obtained permis- 
 sion to ride on the ambulance with the driver, 
 and the party started across the rough country 
 in high spirits. Jerry waved a very enthusiastic 
 farewell to his railroad friends with what re- 
 mained of a soiled pocket-handkerchief; Davie, 
 the teamster, cracked his long whip, and the 
 ambulance moved smoothly along over the 
 prairies, leaving in its wake a cloud of thick, 
 white dust. 
 
 The trip proceeded during the first day with- 
 out incident The country consisted of rolling 
 cattle-ranges, with no fences, trees, or cultivated 
 land to be seen in any direction. The only signs 
 of life were occasional bunches of range-cattle 
 and the ever-present prairie-dogs. 
 
 As it became cooler, Davie wrapped his extra 
 blanket about Jerry's small body, and the two 
 huddled together for warmth. Jerry had re- 
 ceived too many hard knocks during his life- 
 time to make a fuss about a little cold. 
 
 The first night was spent at a large ranch- 
 
A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 23 
 
 house, surrounded with cottonwood-trees, from 
 which could be seen the mountains — on the 
 eastern slope of which Fort McKay was situated. 
 On the following day the journey was resumed, 
 bright and early. The country became rougher, 
 and to the right of the long, winding road the 
 Bad Lands, in all their ugly barrenness, rose into 
 view. 
 
 It was a long day's journey — made necessary 
 in order to arrive at the expected stopping-place 
 before nightfall. But the road was rougher than 
 was anticipated, and late in the evening the am- 
 bulance was still a long distance from the end 
 of the day's journey, and the weary mules re- 
 quired an occasional touch from the long whip 
 to keep them up to the steady gait. 
 
 And this was the time that something hap- 
 pened. 
 
 As the ambulance passed over a small divide, 
 and began the descent on the other side, two 
 horsemen galloped up from the timber which 
 fringed the base of the hill, while a third rider 
 moved out to the right and circled towards them 
 from the side. 
 
 "Road-agents!" softly whispered Jerry, in 
 
24 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 suppressed excitement, and Davie, the teamster, 
 laughed. 
 
 But whether it was the instinct of self- 
 preservation or something else, Jerry had slid 
 down beneath the seat and was lost to view. 
 Davie continued to chuckle to himself. 
 
 An instant later and Jerry had poked his head 
 up on the inside of the ambulance, between the 
 major's knees, much to that worthy's surprise, 
 for he had begun to doze. 
 
 "What in the name of all that's good is this?" 
 gasped the major. 
 
 An ambulance with four grown persons and a 
 baby inside is not a very roomy place at its best, 
 and when Jerry's small body was squeezed in, 
 it created a surprise, for the leather sides of the 
 vehicle had been battened down to keep out the 
 night air, and made it very dark. 
 
 " 'Sh!" said Jerry, in a stage-whisper. "Road- 
 agents ahead. Give me your money, quick, and 
 I'll hide." And suiting his action to the word, 
 Jerry began to grope around for whatever he 
 might find of value. 
 
 The major began to splutter, and the baby 
 began to cry. 
 
 "You young scamp," he began, "to come in 
 
A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 25 
 
 here in this manner and attempt to alarm a lady 
 — and a — a baby!" with a look in the direction 
 of the howling child. 
 
 But the others did not laugh. They were im- 
 pressed by Jerry's earnestness. 
 
 Just then, however, a gruff voice was heard 
 in front. The ambulance came to a sudden stop, 
 and another voice called to the driver; "Hands 
 upl Come down from there!" 
 
 Then it was that the passengers, the major 
 excepted, fully realized what had happened, and 
 valuables were thrust into Jerry's broad- 
 brimmed hat in less time than it takes to tell it. 
 Two rolls of greenbacks, three watches, some 
 rings, and a diamond pin were among the arti- 
 cles, and just as a rough hand turned the knob 
 of the ambulance door, Jerry, with his precious 
 hat, rolled under the hangings of the front seat 
 out of sight. 
 
 "Climb out of here!" yelled a fierce-looking 
 man with a red handkerchief tied over his face 
 to conceal his features. And he poked the 
 muzzles of two revolvers under the major's nose. 
 
 Then, and not till then, did the incredulous 
 major realize that he had really been "held up" 
 by highwaymen ; and as he was nearest the door, 
 
26 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 he was the first to climb awkwardly but quickly 
 down on to the ground and hold up his hands. 
 
 Resistance was useless. The others were 
 forced to alight, and while two of the robbers 
 covered the party with their revolvers, the third 
 searched them for valuables. 
 
 The search w^as not pleasant to the major. His 
 arms were getting tired, and he incautiously 
 allowed one of them to drop. He had no sooner 
 done so, however, than one of the desperadoes 
 fired his pistol high over the major's head, as 
 a hint of what he might expect if he was not 
 careful. The major took the hint, and straight- 
 ened up with a jerk. 
 
 But the shot had another, very unexpected, 
 eflFect. The four mules attached to the ambu- 
 lance were frightened and sprang forward, and 
 in another instant they were speeding along the 
 road at a gallop, glad to be once more travelling 
 towards home and supper. 
 
 The robbers took little heed of this occurr- 
 ence, until, as they failed to find anything of 
 great value on any one except the major, who 
 meekly submitted to being robbed of a large 
 roll of bills, they began to realize that the valu- 
 ables of the passengers must have been left in 
 
A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 27 
 
 the ambulance. Then they sprang on their 
 horses, spurred them forward, and dashed down 
 the road after the ambulance in the twinkling 
 of an eye. 
 
 Meanwhile, as the mules dashed away, Jerry 
 had crawled up on the driver's seat, and seizing 
 the reins with skillful hands, was soon guiding 
 the runaway animals down the long slope and 
 up the hill on the other side. At the top he 
 glanced behind in time to see the highwaymen 
 mount their horses ; then the mules dashed down 
 the next hill, and Jerry clung to the reins with 
 all his strength. 
 
 Fortunately the road was straight and smooth 
 at this point, and as the moon was rising, objects 
 could be seen for a long distance ahead. Just 
 how long he could keep ahead of the pursuers 
 depended on how fresh their horses might be, 
 for the mules had already had a long trip, and 
 as their fear disappeared they began to slacken 
 their pace. 
 
 In the frosty air sounds could be heard for 
 a long distance, and Jerry felt sure, before long, 
 that his pursuers were steadily gaining on him. 
 But he urged the animals on with the whip, 
 
28 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 hoping that he might soon strike a ranch or meet 
 a friendly face. 
 
 But a new danger presented itself. At a point 
 near at hand the road made a sweeping turn to 
 the left, in order to avoid some jutting spurs of 
 bluffs on the right. Here it seemed apparent 
 that the outlaws would, by moving across coun- 
 try, overtake the ambulance, and this is exactly 
 what they attempted to do. One of the men kept 
 straight along the road, while the other two 
 turned across the level plain, gaining perceptibly 
 at every bound of their wiry mustangs. 
 
 Still, Jerry hung to the reins, although his 
 arms were aching from fingers to shoulders, and 
 he felt almost sure that, unless something un- 
 foreseen should occur, he would be overtaken. 
 What would become of him he did not know. 
 The pistol-shot which he had heard while he 
 was concealed might have killed one of the 
 party, and the same fate might be awaiting him. 
 He had a confused idea at one time of jumping 
 from the ambulance and concealing himself 
 in the hills, but he gave it up. He would stick 
 to the ambulance and mules, come what might. 
 
 What actually did happen was this: As the 
 ambulance approached the bluffs, nearer and 
 
A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 29 
 
 nearer, Jerry saw the two men to the left turn 
 suddenly about, and race quite as hard to the 
 rear as they had previously been racing to the 
 front Another moment, and the cause of their 
 precipitate flight was apparent. A roaring 
 camp fire at the edge of the bluffs, hiherto con- 
 cealed from view, rose in sight, and by its light 
 Jerry saw white tents, and a dozen of Uncle 
 Sam's soldiers sprawling about, eating supper. 
 Never had the blue uniform, everywhere sym- 
 bol of law and order, looked so fascinating, and 
 Jerry had to choke down a big lump which in- 
 sisted on rising in his throat as he realized that 
 he was among friends. 
 
 The mules slowed up as they caught sight of 
 the little camp, and brayed loudly. They were 
 answered by a friendly bray from the mules in 
 camp, and in a few seconds more were standing 
 quietly by the bales of hay, impatient for some 
 kind hand to unharness them and give them their 
 supper. 
 
 Friendly faces crowded about Jerry, and 
 friendly hands helped him down from the am- 
 bulance, for his stiffened arms and legs refused 
 to act as they usually did. 
 
 Jerry's story was soon told, and the sergeant 
 
30 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 in charge of the detachment, which was on its 
 way to the railroad with wagons for commis- 
 sary stores, hurriedly mounted a few of his men 
 to look for the outlaws — a task which proved, 
 in the end, to be fruitless. The camp mules, too, 
 were quickly harnessed to the ambulance, and 
 several of the soldiers went back after the party 
 which had been so unceremoniously left in the 
 road — a number of miles to the rear. Jerry, his 
 precious hat by his side, sat by the blazing fire, 
 and, between bites of hot supper served on a tin 
 plate, recited over again, for the benefit of the 
 camp cook, the story of his fast drive over the 
 hills. 
 
 A couple of hours later the ambulance again 
 appeared, and, crowded as it was, Jerry was 
 taken inside at once, and as the ambulance 
 rumbled along to the ranch near by, he went 
 over the whole affair again. 
 
 The ranch was soon reached, and Jerry, you 
 may be sure, was the hero of the hour. He had 
 to eat another supper with his enthusiastic 
 friends ; and afterwards, like a game of forfeits, 
 each member of the party, save the major, was 
 called upon to redeem the property which had 
 so hastily been stuffed into Jerry's capacious hat. 
 
A VERY LITTLE FELLOW 31 
 
 '^You're a little fellow, Jerry," said the sur- 
 geon, "but it's lucky for us in many ways that 
 you have a big head, and consequently a big 
 hat," to which all the others, save the major and 
 the baby, gave unqualified assent. 
 
 The baby was asleep; and the major, dis- 
 gusted that he had lost his valuables through 
 his own stupidity, simply looked gloomy. 
 
 "I don't care so much about the money," said 
 he. "Luckily it did not amount to a great deal. 
 But there's that watch, an heirloom in my family 
 for nearly a hundred years — I wouldn't have lost 
 it for—" 
 
 But he did not finish his sentence, and no one 
 ever knew just what the major would have said. 
 For, from the moment that he mentioned the 
 watch, Jerry had been tugging at one of his tight, 
 little pockets until he was red in the face. 
 
 "I almost forgot," said he, eagerly. And in 
 another moment, from where it was crowded in 
 with a soiled handkerchief, an exploded cart- 
 ridge, a one-bladed knife, and a broken jews- 
 harp, Jerry dragged forth in triumph the ma- 
 jor's missing watch. 
 
 "How in the name of all that's good," gasp- 
 ed the delighted major, "did you get it?'^ 
 
32 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "I took it out of your vest pocket when I 
 squeezed up between your knees in the ambu- 
 lance," answered the equally pleased Jerry. 
 
 And every one, including the major, agreed 
 that under the circumstances it was a perfectly 
 justifiable case of pocket-picking, and that there 
 are many advantages in being a very little fel- 
 low, provided that one has a clear head and a 
 sure hand. 
 
HOW REDDY GAINED HIS 
 COMMISSION 
 
 The Story of a Rescue 
 
 I 
 
 f^UARD- MOUNTING was over. The 
 ^^ commanding officer in the adjutant's office 
 ,was occupied with the daily routine business of 
 a frontier post. At tables near him sat the post- 
 adjutant, the acting sergeant-major, and a sol- 
 dier clerk, writing and making up the semiweek- 
 ly mail for the post-office beyond the neighbor- 
 ing river. 
 
 Upon a bench outside the door, serving his 
 tour as office orderly, lounged a boy musician. 
 He leaned listlessly against the wall of the 
 building, apparently oblivious to the grandeur 
 of the views around him. To the south, across an 
 undulating plain, seventy miles away, were the 
 twin Spanish Peaks. To the west, the Cuerno 
 Verde range let itself down to the plain by a 
 
34 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 succession of lesser elevations, terminating in 
 rounded foot-hills, forty miles distant. Eighty 
 miles to the northwest towered the majestic form 
 of Pike's Peak. 
 
 The fort was occupied by a troop of cavalry 
 and a company of infantry, the captain of the 
 infantry being in command. This officer was 
 now attaching his signature to various military 
 documents. When the last paper was signed 
 the young orderly entered, and, standing at 
 "attention" before the captain, said : 
 
 "Sir, my mother would like to speak to the 
 commander." 
 
 "Very well, Maloney ; take these papers to the 
 quatermaster and the surgeon, and tell your 
 mother to come in." 
 
 The orderly departed, and soon after a rud- 
 dy-faced, substantial daughter of Erin entered, 
 her sleeves rolled above her elbows, and her 
 vigorous hands showing the soft, moist, and 
 wrinkled appearance that indicates recent and 
 long-continued contact with the contents of the 
 wash-tub. Dropping a courtesy, she said: 
 
 "Can the commanding officer spare me a few 
 minutes of his toime?" 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 35 
 
 "With pleasure. Sergeant-major, place a 
 chair for Mrs. Maloney," said Captain Bartlett. 
 
 "Oi want to spake a worrud about me b'y 
 Teddy, son" 
 
 "What is it about your son? Does he need 
 disciplining?" 
 
 Seating herself upon the edge of the proffered 
 chair, the Irish woman clasped her moist hands 
 in her lap, and said : 
 
 "Small doubt but he nades disc//>lining, cap- 
 tain ; but it is of the great danger to his loif e in 
 carryin' th' mail oi want t' spake." 
 
 "A mother's nervous fear, perhaps. He's an 
 excellent horseman. You are not afraid he will 
 be thrown?" 
 
 "Oh, not at ahl, at ahl, son He sthicks to 
 the muel loike a bur-r-r. I belave no buckin' 
 baste can throw 'im. It's that roarin' river oi'm 
 afeared of. The min at the hay-camp, whose 
 business it is to row the mail acrass the strame, 
 let Teddy and Reddy do it, do ye know, sor, and 
 oi fear in the prisint stage of the wather, and the 
 dispisition of the b'yes to be larkin' in the boat, 
 they'll overset it, and be dhrowned." 
 
 "Are you quite sure the boys use the boat?" 
 asked the captain. 
 
36 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "Iv'ry mail-day for the last two wakes, sor." 
 
 "And you really think them in danger, Mrs. 
 Maloney? I am sure they both swim." 
 
 "That's jist it, sor! They're not contint to 
 row quiately over loike min, but they must thry 
 all sorts of antics with th' boat. ^Rowin' aich 
 other round' is one of 'em. Whin oi spake about 
 it they says they can swim. Small chance aven 
 a good swimmer would have in that roarin' 
 river, with its quicksands, its snags, and its bars." 
 
 "Well, I will order the hay-camp detail to 
 do the boating hereafter, Mrs. Maloney; so you 
 need have no further anxiety." 
 
 "Thank you, sor. It's no liss than oi expected 
 from a koindly and considerate gintleman loike 
 th' captain. Oi hope you'll overlook a mother's 
 anxiety and worrimint over her only b'y. It's 
 not mesilf would be interfarin' with the com- 
 manding officer's duties, but oi knowed that you 
 niver mint for Reddy and Teddy to be rowin' 
 that bit of a skift, whin it belonged to the min 
 at the hay-camp to do the same. Good-day, sor, 
 and many thanks for your kindness, captain." 
 And with much ceremonious leave-taking the 
 laundress backed out of the office and hurried 
 back to her tubs. 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 37 
 
 "Mr. Dayton," said the commanding ofScer, 
 "write Corporal Duffy to hereafter allow no 
 person not a member of his party to row the 
 mail-boat across the river, unless he brings au- 
 thority from this office." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The letter had been written and sealed when 
 Teddy returned, having changed the full-dress 
 coat and helmet of guard-mounting for a blouse, 
 forage-cap, and leather leggings. Nearly an 
 hour before his drum had rattled an exhilarating 
 accompaniment to the fife, as the guard of twelve 
 privates and three non-commissioned officers 
 marched in review and turned off to the guard- 
 house. Now he stood at the door with spurred 
 heels and gauntleted hands, ready to receive the 
 mail-pouch and ride his little zebra-marked 
 mule to the crossing, two miles from the fort. 
 
 The sergeant-major handed him the pouch 
 and the letter addressed to the corporal, with 
 this injunction: 
 
 "You are to deliver this letter to Corporal 
 Duffy at the hay-camp, and he will give you 
 some instructions which you are to obey care- 
 fully." 
 
 Slinging the pouch over his shoulder, and 
 
38 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 tucking the letter under his waist-belt, the boy 
 went to his mule behind the office, mounted, 
 and rode away. Passing the quartermaster's 
 corral, another boy, similarly attired, and 
 mounted on a piebald mustang, dashed out with 
 a whoop, and the two went cantering down the 
 slope to the meadow below* 
 
 Arriving side by side at a soapweed which 
 marked the southern limit of the river-bottom, 
 the boys put their beasts to the height of their 
 speed, and rode for a dead cottonwood which 
 raised its bleached and barkless branches beside 
 the road three hundred yards beyond. 
 
 This stretch was raced over every mail-day, 
 with varying victory for horse and mule. To- 
 day the mule reached the tree half a length 
 ahead, and Teddy was consequently in high glee. 
 
 "Ah, Reddy, my boy!" he shouted. "Eight 
 times to your six! Better swap that pony for 
 a mule, if you want to stand any chance with 
 Puss!" 
 
 "Pshaw! You were nearly a length ahead 
 when we reached the soapweed, and I almost 
 made it up. Bronc can beat Puss any time when 
 they start even." 
 
 "I should say so!" with great disdain. "How 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 39 
 
 about that day when you got off a length and a 
 half ahead, and I led you half a neck at the 
 Cottonwood?" 
 
 "You mean the day Bronc got a stone in his 
 shoe? Of course he couldn't run then." 
 
 The two young soldiers rode on at an easy 
 canter, warmly disputing, for the hundredth 
 time, over the merits of their well-matched 
 animals. 
 
 Redmond Carter was the fifer, as Edward 
 Maloney was the drummer, of the infantry com- 
 pany. The latter, the son of a laundress, was a 
 graceful and soldierly boy, dark-complexioned, 
 with black eyes and hair, who bestrode his mule 
 with easy confidence, riding like a Cossack. The 
 other boy, a blond-haired, blue-eyed lad of the 
 same age, quite as tall, but more delicately built, 
 showed less reckless activity in the saddle, but 
 he was a fine and graceful equestrian, neverthe- 
 less. He had enlisted a year before, in Philadel- 
 phia, naming that city as his residence; but cer- 
 tain peculiarities of speech led Captain Bartlett 
 to believe him a New-Englander. He used 
 better language than his fellows, and it seemed 
 he had received good school advantages before 
 entering the army. 
 
40 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 For instance, one day when it was Carter^s 
 turn to be office orderly, while sitting at the door 
 he overheard Captain Bartlett, who was writing 
 a private letter, ask the adjutant, ''How does 
 that Latin quotation run, Dayton — 'Timeo 
 Danaos et dona ferentesi or 'Danaos et dona 
 jerentes?' ^' 
 
 "Blest if I know. We don't waste time on 
 dead languages at the Point, as you college men 
 do. I can give you the equation of a parabola 
 if you want it." 
 
 Captain Bartlett did not ask for the equation, 
 or explain his reason for wanting the proper 
 order of the Latin sentence ; but, the morning's 
 office work concluded, and the orderly having 
 departed, as he and the adjutant were passing 
 out of the doorway the latter noticed a leaf of a 
 memorandum-pad lodged against the leg of the 
 bench just vacated. A drawing on its surface 
 attracting his attention, he picked it up. It was 
 a very creditable sketch of a huge wooden horse 
 standing within the wall of an ancient city, and 
 a party of Grecian soldiers in the act of descend- 
 ing by a ladder from an opening in its side. Be- 
 neath the drawing was written ^^Quicquid id est, 
 timeo Danaos et dona ferentes. — ^iEneid, II., 49.'* 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 41 
 
 "Here, captain," said Mr. Dayton, handing 
 the paper to the post commander; "here's the 
 answer to your question." 
 
 "What — that boy Carter? How does a boy 
 like that come to be a musician in the army?" • 
 
 "Can't tell. Probably for the same reason that 
 an occasional graduate of a foreign university 
 turns up in the ranks — hard times and want in 
 civil life, and plenty of clothing and food in 
 military life." 
 
 "He is indeed a bright boy, and I have noticed 
 a certain refinement of manner and precision of 
 speech not common to men in the ranks. I must 
 inquire about him." 
 
 The two "music boys," Teddy and Reddy, 
 were fast friends and constant companions. 
 They made common cause in all quarrels and 
 disputes, and to ill-treat one was to ill-treat both. 
 Teddy was frequently in trouble, and his friend 
 often pleaded for him at headquarters. Ind- 
 deed, the adjutant frequently declared that "but 
 for that rampageous young Celt, Carter would 
 never be in trouble." He was quiet by nature, 
 and punctilious in the observance of the most 
 exacting requirements of discipline; while Ted- 
 dy, through carelessness, was now and then sub- 
 
42 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 jected to punishment. Mrs. Maloney, while 
 bestowing a tender mother's love upon her 
 darling son, entertained a kindly regard, 
 mingled with great respect, for his friend, and 
 looked after Reddy's clothing and belongings 
 quite as carefully as after Teddy's. 
 
 Reddy divided the duty of mail-carrier and 
 office orderly with his fellow-musician, yet it 
 rarely happened that one rode without the 
 other's company. An indulgent corralmaster 
 had obtained the consent of the quartermaster to 
 allow two ^^surplus animals" to be used exclu- 
 sively by the boys, provided they would take 
 care of them. 
 
 On reaching the river the boys drew up be- 
 fore two tents pitched in a small grove of cot- 
 tonwoods upon the grassy bank, and occupied 
 by a corporal and three privates, whose duty it 
 was to keep the cattle of the neighboring 
 ranchmen from trespassing upon the meadows 
 of the military reservation. 
 
 The lads dismounted, Teddy going to the 
 corporal's tens to deliver the adjutant's letter. 
 But the corporal was not in, having gone with 
 two of his men to drive some cattle out of the 
 bottom. 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 43 
 
 "I will take the letter to Corporal Duffy, 
 Ted," said Redmond, "while you row over with 
 the mail-bag. Row well up stream before you 
 attempt to cross, so as not to get sucked into the 
 rapids." 
 
 "All right," replied the orderly; "and when 
 I come back we'll see which can row the other 
 round." 
 
 "That's already settled. I rowed you round 
 the last two times," said Reddy. 
 
 "Yes; one day when my wrist was lame, and 
 the other when I had cut my thumb." 
 
 "Anything ail you to-day?" 
 
 "I believe not." 
 
 "Then we will try it again ; and be sure if I 
 row you round, you are not to lay your defeat 
 to sprains, cuts, or rheumatism." 
 
 Redmond remounted his pony and started in- 
 to the meadow, while Teddy, having picketed 
 his mule, stepped into a neat wherry tied to the 
 bank. He was not unconscious that he was dis- 
 obeying orders, for his mother had told him the 
 result of her interview with the commanding 
 officer; but the order was not officially pub- 
 lished, and he wanted to have one last pull on 
 the river. 
 
44 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 It was in July, the season of freshets in streams 
 having their sources in the Rocky Mountains, 
 when the warmer the weather the faster the 
 snows melt and the deeper and more rapid the 
 stream. The silt-laden current swept swiftly 
 down the middle stream, swelling into rolling 
 waves, which caught the soldier boy's oars as 
 the boat rose on their crests and sank in their 
 troughs. 
 
 Reaching the other side, he carried the mail- 
 pouch to the overland stage station, and returned 
 to the boat. Repeating the precaution of row- 
 ing up stream before venturing to cross, he ar- 
 rived at the tents just as Reddy returned from an 
 unsuccessful search for the corporal. 
 
 The adjutant's letter was left in the tent, Bronc 
 picketed, and the boys drew lots for the oars. 
 Teddy won the choice and selected the bow. 
 The contest was to maintain an even-time stroke, 
 and see which could turn the boat toward his 
 opponent — "pull him round," as the phrase is. 
 
 Barefooted, barelegged, bareheaded, and coat- 
 less, the boys stepped into the boat. Confident 
 in their united strength, they did not row up 
 the eddy, but pulled directly from the shore, 
 beginning the struggle from the start. The 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 45 
 
 wherry leaped ahead, refusing to turn to the 
 right or left. The boys were evidently as well 
 matched as their mounts, Puss and Bronc. 
 
 The boat rose and fell in the current waves, 
 and the oars tripped and splashed in the roily 
 crests, until there suddenly came a sharp snap, 
 and Teddy fell backward, holding aloft the 
 bladeless half of an oar. Reddy ceased rowing; 
 the skiff lost headway and floated down the river. 
 
 In the confusion of the accident neither boy 
 saw a threatening danger. In the middle of 
 the river was the trunk of a dead cottonwood, 
 standing at an angle of forty-five degrees, its 
 roots firmly anchored to the bottom. The boat 
 floated against the snag, striking amidships. Its 
 starboard side rose, its port side lowered, the 
 water poured over the gunwale, and in an in- 
 stant Teddy was clinging to the trunk, and Red- 
 dy swimming in the boiling current. The boat 
 hung for a moment, as if undecided whether to 
 drop to the right or left of the snag, twisting and 
 struggling in the fierce tide, and at last slid off 
 astern and floated away down-stream. 
 
 A foot above the water was a large knot and 
 a swell in the trunk of the tree. Teddy climbed 
 above this, and sat astride of it, clasping the 
 
46 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 trunk in his arms. He was at first inclined to 
 treat the accident with bravado, and he waved 
 a hand above his head and shouted; but the 
 sight of Reddy floating towards the rapids froze 
 his utterance and paralyzed his arm. 
 
 It was plainly impossible for his comrade to 
 swim to the shore — he was too near the danger- 
 ous fall — but he hoped he might reach the jam 
 in the middle of its crest. 
 
 II 
 
 When Reddy found himself in the water, he 
 realized the impossibility of swimming to the 
 shore, and began to struggle in an effort to reach 
 the jam. This jam had its origin in a group of 
 sandstone bowlders in the centre of the river, 
 on the edge of the rapids. The river debris had 
 collected and compacted about them into several 
 square yards of solid surface. To the corporal 
 and his fellow-soldiers, now gathered on the 
 shore and watching the swimmer, it seemed that 
 the boy must be carried past to certain death. 
 
 They were ready to give him up for lost when 
 they saw him snatch at a branch attached to the 
 edge of the jam and swing himself about, then 
 reach a protruding log and climb out. Instantly 
 
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REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 47 
 
 he ran to the outer end of the log and reached 
 his floating oar. With the oar he caught the 
 prow of the boat, and swinging it within reach 
 of his hand, drew it out of the water. 
 
 The soldiers gazed at the stranded boys in 
 perplexity. There seemed no chance of rescu- 
 ing them. They knew of no other boat nearer 
 than the next government post, nor would a raft 
 be of use at the head of the roaring fall. The 
 stream was too deep for wading and too near 
 the plunge for swimming. The corporal quick- 
 ly mounted the mule and rode to the fort to re- 
 port the lads' plight to the commanding officer. 
 
 As soon as possible an ambulance containing 
 the officers and Mrs. Maloney started for the 
 river. They brought some tools, a spare oar, 
 and several coils of rope. A few moments later 
 nearly all the men of the garrison not on duty 
 lined the southern shore. Mrs. Maloney's worst 
 fears seemed to be realized when she saw her 
 son clinging helplessly to the snag in midstream. 
 Her anguish was heartrending. 
 
 "Ah, Teddy b^!" she screamed, oblivious to 
 the fact that he could not hear her voice above 
 the roar of the water, "don't ye let go the tray, 
 darlint! Howld on till hilp gets f yez!" 
 
48 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 But how to get to them, or to get anything to 
 them, was a serious question. The soldiers were 
 brave and willing men, but they did not possess 
 the skill of river-drivers nor the appliances and 
 tools of the craft. If the boys were only a mile 
 farther up stream, clear of the rapids, a score 
 of swimmers could take lines out to them; or, 
 for that matter, the boys could swim ashore with- 
 out assistance. The close vicinity of the snag to 
 the plunging and tumultuous descent in the river 
 made all the difference. 
 
 Experiment after experiment was tried. Sev- 
 eral brave fellows in turn tied the end of the 
 rope to their waists and swam out; but the cur- 
 rent pulling at the slack between them and the 
 shore drew them back. Another went far up 
 stream and swam out, while the shore end of 
 the rope was carried down by comrades at the 
 same rate as the flow of the current. He suc- 
 ceeded in grasping the snag; but the instant he 
 paused the titanic force of the water tore him 
 away, burying him beneath the surface. He was 
 drawn ashore and nearly drowned. 
 
 The commanding officer was about to send to 
 the fort for material for a raft and an anchor, 
 when his attention was called to the boy on the 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 49 
 
 jam. After the failure of the last attempt to 
 rescue his friend, Reddy was seen to approach 
 the boat and launch it. He then drew it to the 
 end of the log previously mentioned, held it by 
 the stern, with the prow pointed downward, and 
 appeared to be looking for a passage through 
 the submerged bowlders. Presently he turned 
 towards his friends on shore, swung the oar over 
 his head, stepped on board, and was quickly out 
 of sight. 
 
 A cry of alarm went up from the soldiers 
 when Reddy disappeared, and they with one ac- 
 cord started on a run down the shore. At the 
 foot of the steep descent they found the brave 
 soldier boy paddling his skiff into a quiet eddy. 
 
 He was greeted with vociferous enthusiasm, 
 and a dozen men shouldered him and the boat, 
 and carried them back to the landing. There 
 a line was attached to the stern of the skiff, and 
 a strong man rowed out towards the snag, but 
 the current dragged it back precisely as it had 
 the swimmers. Captain Bartlett next ordered 
 the boat to be towed a quarter of a mile up 
 stream, and as it floated down and was rowed 
 outward he directed the shore end of the line to 
 be carried along with it. 
 
50 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 It became quickly evident to the spectators 
 that the skiff would reach the snag, and an in- 
 voluntary cheer went up, Mrs. Maloney waving 
 her apron and screaming with tearful joy* But 
 through some blunder, or lack of skill, the 
 original accident was repeated. The wherry 
 dropped sideways against the tree and was 
 swamped. This time, however, a line being 
 attached, the skiflf was drawn free, and swung 
 back to the shore by the pull of the current. 
 The man clung to the boat and was landed at 
 the crest of the rapid. 
 
 The anguish of the poor mother at the failure 
 of what had promised to be certain rescue of 
 her son was pitiful. She fell upon her knees, 
 wrung her hands, and sobbed in abject despair. 
 Reddy approached, stooped beside her, and 
 placing an arm about her neck, said : 
 
 "Do not cry, Mrs. Maloney; I'm going to ask 
 the captain to let me go to Teddy, and I'll have 
 him here with you in no time." 
 
 "No, no, child. Don't ye be dhrowned, too. 
 Nothing can save me b'y, now ahl the min have 
 failed." 
 
 "But I mean to try it, Mrs. Maloney. Dry 
 your tears and watch me do it." 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 51 
 
 Teddy Maloney, on the snag in mid-stream, 
 was now suffering intensely. Seated upon a tree 
 trunk barely ten inches in diameter, and kept 
 from slipping down its slope by a rugged knot, 
 his position was almost unendurable. For five 
 hours he had clung there, hatless and coatless, 
 with his back to a broiling sun. Dazed by 
 suffering and dizzied by the leaping, gliding, 
 and wrinkling water that gurgled and pulled at 
 his half-submerged legs, he was still conscious 
 of the efforts being made for his rescue. He 
 saw Reddy shoot the rapids, and with a growing 
 conviction that he could not hold on much 
 longer, he wondered why his boy friend did not 
 come to his aid. "He is the only one in the 
 whole crowd that knows anything about a boat. 
 Why don't they let him do something?" thought 
 poor Teddy. 
 
 As if in answer to this silent appeal, Redmond 
 Carter at the same moment approached Captain 
 Bartlett and begged permission to go for his 
 comrade. 
 
 "But, Carter, how can you expect to accom- 
 plish what these older and stronger men have 
 failed to do?" asked the captain. 
 
 "They do not know what to do, sir. I was 
 
52 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 born on the Kennebec, sir. I have run bare- 
 footed on booms, rafts, and jams, and have 
 boated in birch canoes, dugouts, punts and yawls, 
 and I can run a rapid, as you have just seen." 
 
 "A Kennebec boy, Reddy!" said the officer, 
 for the first time using the boy's pet name. "I 
 know what Kennebec boys could do when I was 
 one of them. You may try it; but be careful." 
 
 Reddy sprang into the boat and began rowing 
 up stream in the shore eddy. Reaching the de- 
 sired distance he turned into the middle of the 
 river, and, changing his seat to the stern and 
 using an oar for a paddle, he dropped down the 
 current towards the snag. As he neared it, he 
 saw Teddy's hands relax and his body sway 
 slightly to the right. 
 
 "Hold on, Teddy!" he shouted. "Keep your 
 grip! I'm right here!" 
 
 Gliding along the right side of the trunk he 
 stayed the motion of the skiff by grasping it with 
 his left hand. 
 
 "Tumble in, Teddy— quick !" he said. 
 
 Teddy obeyed, literally falling into the bot- 
 tom of the boat, limp and sprawling between the 
 thwarts. 
 
 Reddy let go the trunk and went towards the 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 53 
 
 rapids, taking the crest at the same place he 
 had taken it before. Down, down the boil- 
 ing, foaming, roaring descent he sped, plying his 
 oar with all his might, lest in turning a frothing 
 Scylla he might be hurled upon a thundering 
 Charybdis. His former success attended him. 
 
 Again the soldiers ran to meet him at the foot 
 of the watery slope, filling the air with shouts 
 as they ran. But the sight of Teddy lying sense- 
 less in the bottom of the boat checked further 
 joyous demonstration. He was tenderly lifted in 
 stalwart arms and borne to a grassy knoll near 
 by, where he was received by his anxious mother 
 and the surgeon. Restorative treatment brought 
 him back to consciousness, and he was taken 
 at once to the fort. The wherry was again 
 carried to the landing before the hay-camp, and 
 the crowd of soldiers dispersed through the 
 ravines and groves in the direction of their bar- 
 racks. 
 
 Captain Bartlett accompanied Redmond Car- 
 ter to the place where the mule and pony were 
 picketed, and, saying that he would ride Puss 
 to the post, ordered one of the men to saddle her, 
 and entered into conversation with the boy. 
 
54 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 **I think you are out of place in the army, 
 Carter," said he. 
 
 "What, sir! Have I not always done my duty 
 well?" asked Reddy, in dismay. 
 
 "Much better than the average soldier. But 
 that is not what I mean. You seem qualified 
 for something better than the position you oc- 
 cupy. You are not of the material from which 
 the army is usually recruited. This slip of pa- 
 per, found beside the orderly bench at the 
 office," observed the officer, handing the boy 
 his sketch of the Trojan horse with the accom- 
 panying Latin sentence, "shows that you have 
 been a student. I do not know what accident 
 brought you here, but I think school is the 
 proper place for you." 
 
 "Nothing would please me better, sir, than 
 to be able to return to school; but it is not possi- 
 ble at present." 
 
 "Are you willing to tell me how you come 
 to be in the service?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; it is not a long story," replied the 
 young soldier. "My father and mother died 
 when I was too young to remember them, and I 
 was left to the care of a guardian, who sent me 
 to school, and afterwards to an academy, where 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 55 
 
 I prepared for college. I passed my entrance 
 examination to the freshman class in June, and 
 expected to go on in September ; but the failure 
 of companies in which my property had been 
 invested left me destitute, and I gave it up," 
 
 "But you have relatives?" 
 
 "Lots of them ; but they showed little inclina- 
 tion to help me. There had been some family 
 diilerences that I never understood, and I was 
 to proud to go begging for assistance, I shipped 
 on a granite-schooner for Philadelphia. I was 
 miserably seasick the whole trip, and was dis- 
 charged by the master of the vessel without pay. 
 Having no money I could not find food while 
 looking for work. I obtained an odd job now 
 and then, but soon wore my clothes to rags, so 
 that no respectable establishment would think 
 of hiring me. I slept on the streets, and fre- 
 quently passed a day without proper food. One 
 day I passed a recruiting-office, and it suggested 
 a means of escape from destitution. I enlisted 
 as a fifer, and was assigned to your company." 
 
 "And you have been with me ten months," 
 said the captain. "I suppose your relatives can- 
 not trace you?" 
 
 "They might trace me to Philadelphia," re- 
 
56 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 plied Reddy ; "but the trail becomes dark there. 
 Even if they suspected I had enlisted — ^which 
 is not likely — they could not find me, for the 
 recruiting sergeant blundered in registering my 
 Carter, when he should have written it Raymond 
 J. Corser." 
 
 "Not a rare mistake of the recruiting officer. 
 So you are of the General Corser family?" 
 
 "He was my grandfather." 
 
 "Then you have only to communicate with 
 your relatives in order to get out of the army. 
 Yours is an influential family." 
 
 "I shall serve out my enlistment, sir. The 
 army has served me a good turn, and when I 
 am discharged I shall be in better condition to 
 find employment than in Philadelphia." 
 
 "But what has become of your college aspi- 
 rations?" 
 
 "It will still be possible to accomplish that. 
 Sergeant Von Wold and I are studying together, 
 and I think I shall be able to enter sophomore. 
 Poor boys have worked their way before." 
 
 "I have noticed Von Wold. Is he a scholar?" 
 
 "Please not to mention it, sir; he is a German 
 university man. When I am discharged I shall 
 have most of my five years' pay, and consider- 
 
REDDY GAINS HIS COMMISSION 57 
 
 able savings on clothing not drawn. I expect 
 it will amount to nearly eight hundred dollars." 
 
 For a few moments the officer said nothing, 
 but gazed reflectively across the rushing and 
 roaring river. At last he turned again towards 
 the boy and asked, "How would you like to be 
 an officer in the army, Carter?" 
 
 "I should like it above all things, sir; but it 
 is not possible. While I might make a struggle 
 single-handed through college, I could scarcely 
 hope to secure an appointment to West Point." 
 
 "Still there is a way. The late Congress 
 passed a law allowing men who have served two 
 years in the army, and been favorably recom- 
 mended by their officers, to be examined for 
 appointment to the grade of second lieutenant. 
 You have a little more than four years to serve. 
 In that time you will have reached the required 
 age, and Lieutenant Dayton and I can give you 
 the necessary instruction. What do you say?" 
 
 "I'll make a hard struggle for it, sir, if you 
 ;will afford me the chance." 
 
 Five years later Sergeant Redmond A. Carter 
 passed a successful examination for a second 
 lieutenancy in the army, and was commissioned 
 
58 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 in the artillery under his proper name, Raymond 
 J. Corser. 
 
 Edward Maloney, who excelled in physical 
 rather than intellectual attainments, continued 
 in the service, becoming at the time of his second 
 enlistment first sergeant of Captain Bartlett's 
 company. 
 
AT THE HELIO STATION 
 
 The Capture of Alchise 
 
 T?OR two months L Troop of the Third 
 ^ United States Cavalry had been chasing 
 Alchise and his band of hostile Apaches over the 
 roughest ground in the world — the Sierra 
 Mogollon of southeastern Arizona. Alchise 
 was a negroid half-breed, and had been one of 
 Geronimo's lieutenants, in which capacity he 
 had fought General Crook, and had consider- 
 ably excelled his superior officer in ingenious 
 atrocities. The traces of his progress that L 
 Troop frequently encountered were such as to 
 convince them that he had lost none of his 
 wickedness with years. Yet for nearly nine 
 weeks it had been impossible to come to closer 
 quarters with the hostiles than a telescopic 
 glimpse of a dirt-brown figure skulking among 
 the rocks a mile away, or a long-range rifle slug 
 
 59 
 
60 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 dropped scientifically into the camp at about a 
 thousand yards. 
 
 At last, however, success seemed within reach. 
 The friendly Apache scouts with the column re- 
 ported that the enemy had established a ranche- 
 sia deep in a defile of the San Francisco range, 
 where there were warriors, and women, and 
 children, and numerous pits in which fires were 
 built to stew the leaves of the maguey plant, 
 from which an intoxicating drink is made called 
 mescal. It was fifty miles away, and Troop L 
 advanced carefully in that direction, moving 
 chiefly at night, and never lighting so much as 
 a match, except under a tented screen of 
 blankets. Then lest the enemy should escape at 
 the eleventh hour, they left a detail of signallers 
 on the top of the Yellow Butte, with orders to 
 report by beacon fire if at night, and by helio- 
 graph if by day, should they discern any sign of 
 Indians upon the landscape. This signal-station 
 was twenty miles from the column's line of 
 march, and there was a second station upon a 
 peak more directly in touch with the fighting- 
 line, to receive messages. 
 
 Lieutenant Ward Howell was in charge of 
 the heliograph post, and he had with him four 
 
AT THE HELIO STATION 61 
 
 troopers and an Apache scout. A small A-tent 
 afforded shelter for himself and for the signal- 
 ling instrument, and the troopers built a ram- 
 part of rough bowlders all around the tent, ex- 
 cept upon the east, where the ground dropped 
 five hundred feet straight to the brown 'dobe 
 desert that ran flat to the eastern sky-line. 
 
 There had been no sign of any enemy from the 
 pines on the peaks to the cacti on the plains, and 
 on the third evening they were rolled unexpect- 
 antly in their blankets about nine o'clock, when 
 Lieutenant Howell was aroused by the sentry's 
 challenge. He sprang up to see, by the starlight 
 and the gleam of a small fire in the enclosure, 
 a short, thick-set Indian parleying with the sen- 
 tinel, who was barring the way. 
 
 "Who's that, Connolly, and what does he 
 want?" demanded the lieutenant. 
 
 "It's a 'Pache, for sure, soor," replied the 
 trooper, richly. "An' I'm thinkin' he do want 
 to talk to yerself, but I can't be sure, for he's 
 shpakin' nothin' but his own avil lingo." 
 
 "Let him come in, then, if he's alone and isn't 
 armed," replied Howell. And the Apache 
 stalked gravely to the fire, and squatted beside 
 it with a grunt of "How!" He was stripped to 
 
62 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 the breech-clout and moccasins, his lank, black 
 hair confined by a strip of red flannel across the 
 brows, and a buckskin ^^medicine-bag" sus- 
 pended round his neck. The gleaming firelight 
 revealed the most hideously brutal face that the 
 lieutenant had ever seen. Jasaspi, the scout, 
 wormed himself towards Howell noiselessly in 
 the darkness. 
 
 "That's old Alchisel" he whispered, excited- 
 ly. "Ver* maldito bad Injun. He's got his 
 warriors out in the me s quite, you bet. Thinks 
 he's goin' wipe us out, or he wouldn't come in 
 here. Ugh I" 
 
 Suddenly the visitor spoke. Pointing to the 
 scout, he said: "Him 'terpreter?" 
 
 ''Si. All right. Bueno. Go ahead; he'll in- 
 terpret," replied Howell, and the chief plunged 
 into his oration in a mixture of Apache and 
 Spanish, translated by Jasaspi into a villanous 
 compound of tongues which it would be mad- 
 dening to reproduce. 
 
 "Says the Tinne se fatigan del guerra. Says 
 they're tired of war; want peace. They ain't 
 'fraid de los Americanos, but they can't fight the 
 scouts. Says he has a hundred warriors in the 
 chaparral, and he wants to be friends. Liar! 
 
AT THE HELIO STATION 63 
 
 Wagh!" added Jasaspi on his own account, as 
 the chief stopped talking. 
 
 "Very good," said Howell. "Tell him the 
 sooner he gives himself up the better." 
 
 This was interpreted, and the ambassador re- 
 plied : 
 
 "Says your words are good, and you are a 
 big chief. Says his young men '11 want to kill 
 us, but he won't let them. Wants us to give up 
 our guns, so his young men won't be mad when 
 they see us. Says he'll go with you to the Re- 
 serve, and you'll make a big talk to the agent, 
 so th.at they'll get all their land back." 
 
 "Tell him that we won't give up our rifles, 
 and that if he surrenders, I'll see that he's taken 
 good care of till he's tried." 
 
 When this had been interpreted, the half- 
 breed chief said no more, but after some seconds 
 rose in silence and turned to go. 
 
 "No!" ejaculated Howell, sharply. "Sit 
 down." 
 
 There were three separate clicks from the 
 gloom, and the Apache, turning, saw three gap- 
 ing muzzles covering his chest. He grunted, 
 and after a moment of deliberation sullenly sat 
 down again- 
 
64 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "Tie his feet, Clarke," said the lieutenant* 
 "I'll fix his hands, and look out that he hasn't a 
 knife." 
 
 But the Indian made no resistance beyond a 
 series of half-articulate grunts. "Says his war- 
 riors '11 cut our hearts out and eat 'em if he's 
 hurt," interpreted Jasaspi, grinning. 
 
 It was evidently time to light the signal. For 
 this purpose a great pile of light wood had been 
 collected about twenty feet from the enclosure, 
 and Jasaspi undertook the perilous duty — peril- 
 ous because it was almost certain that the dense 
 scrub was lined with an unseen but vigilant ene- 
 my. He wriggled out along the ground, but as 
 the first blue flame spluttered from the match 
 there were twenty darting flashes from the cover, 
 and a deafening rifle-volley. Bullets slapped 
 viciously into the fire-wood, skipped over the 
 stone rampart, an cut "r-r-rt" through the white 
 tent-covers; but the fire had taken hold, and 
 Jasaspi crawled back as he had gone, un- 
 wounded and triumphant. But the triumph was 
 brief. Before one-quarter of the beacon was 
 ignited the pile suddenly collapsed, and was 
 flung in all directions by some unseen agency, but 
 the yells of the savages showed that some of the 
 
AT THE HELIO STATION 65 
 
 number had simply crept up and scattered the 
 fire. It lay strewn over the ground in scattered, 
 flaming brands, but in face of the concealed rifles 
 it would have been madness for one of the lit- 
 tle party to attempt to reassemble it. It was 
 evident that the Apaches, themselves clever sig- 
 nallers, were fully alive to the importance of 
 preventing the besieged from sending any 
 message. 
 
 After this misfortune there could be no pos- 
 sibility of signalling the column before sunrise, 
 when the heliograph could be used, and the one 
 necessity was to hold the post till that hour for 
 the sake of the campaign, and as much longer 
 as possible for the sake of their own lives. 
 
 The heavy firing did not last long, and pres- 
 ently only an occasional shot snapped out as an 
 Apache fancied he saw a target over the low 
 camp wall. The blazing brands had died out, 
 and there was no moon, so that the battle-field 
 was only half lighted by the great stars that 
 cluster in the clear Arizona skies. 
 
 Between eleven and twelve o'clock the 
 Apaches made an attempt, some twenty of them, 
 to creep up to the wall and overpower the garri- 
 son at close quarters, but they were discovered 
 
66 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 and fired upon in the open ground. Two were 
 shot as they lay, and the rest escaped to the cha- 
 parral under a heavy covering fire. Then, for 
 a long time, hostilities lagged. 
 
 Every minute passed in quiet was a distinct 
 gain to the Americans. The procession of the 
 brilliant stars went over from east to west, and 
 the night passed leaden-footed till it was that 
 favorite hour for Indian attacks — that prover- 
 bially darkest hour which comes about three 
 o'clock in the morning. The enemy's fire had 
 almost entirely ceased, and this so disquieted the 
 soldiers that one of the men cautiously kindled 
 a brand at the fire and hurled it high over the 
 rampart. 
 
 The brand blazed up as it flew through the air, 
 and then fell into darkness, but the light had 
 flashed for an instant upon crawling rifle-barrels 
 and belts fitted with brass cartridge-heads. The 
 discovery was greeted with shrill whoops and a 
 rattling fire, and under this support the band of 
 Apaches, which had already approached nearly 
 to the camp, sprang up and endeavored to rush 
 the defences. They were met by the muzzles of 
 rifles and revolvers in the hands of men who 
 worked them with the regularity of machinery. 
 
AT THE HELIO STATION 67 
 
 No sooner did a warrior appear at the rampart 
 than he was shot down. But the whites them- 
 selves were not without loss. The Americans 
 fought in silence for the most part, but the high- 
 pitched, barking yelps of the Apaches domi- 
 nated the uproar. 
 
 The shots diminished of a sudden, there was 
 not a glimpse of the enemy, and the soldiers 
 found themselves with nothing to shoot at but 
 the occasional flashes from the thicket. The 
 attack was repulsed. 
 
 Some shooting was kept up by the concealed 
 enemy, but it was with less spirit. Howell took 
 the covers from the heliographic mirrors and 
 adjusted the tripods, ready for the first beam 
 of sunlight. 
 
 It was yet fifteen minutes, which seemed fif- 
 teen months, before the first segment of the sun 
 appeared above the straight eastern sk)dine. A 
 golden ray played over the grim scene of the 
 battle-field, and the lieutenant sprang up and 
 placed his tripods in position, partly behind the 
 tent, which in some degree screened him from 
 the eyes of the Apache marksmen. 
 
 There was bright sunlight on the butte almost 
 
68 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 instantly. Directly in front, six feet away, the 
 great precipice dropped sheer, and away thirty 
 miles to the left rose the hilltop where the second 
 signal-station was placed. The lieutenant fo- 
 cussed the light from the receiver upon the sig- 
 nalling-mirror, then sighted the crossed hairs in 
 the telescope upon the hilltop, and directed the 
 ray full upon the distant station — the calling-up 
 signal. Almost immediately were seen two 
 rapid, fiery dots in the distance, indicating: "Un- 
 derstood. Go on.'' 
 
 "Dot, dash; dot, dash, dash, dot; dot, dash; 
 dash, dot, dash, dot," signalled Howell, his 
 finger on the shifting-key, while the bullets zip- 
 ped around him. "Apaches attacking post in 
 force all night. Have captured Alchise, and — " 
 
 There was a surprising interruption. The 
 captured Apache had, as it transpired later, been 
 chewing industriously at his bonds all through 
 the hours of darkness, and had got them com- 
 pletely severed. Now, as if he had heard his 
 name called, he sprang up with a startling 
 whoop, and made a dash for liberty. Jassapi 
 was up and after him like a flash, pulling at his 
 pistol, which he wore in an open holster, plains 
 
AT THE HELIO STATION 69 
 
 fashion, when a volley blazed out from the bush. 
 The scout stopped short, made two drunken 
 steps, and dropped, while Alchise whirled about 
 on his heel and collapsed limply across the stone- 
 built rampart. 
 
 There was no more shooting from the enemy. 
 Probably the hostiles recognized immediately 
 that they had unwittingly slain their chief, and 
 a chief is prized by the renegade Apaches, who 
 depend upon him for moral support. The be- 
 siegers melted away, and in half an hour they 
 had vanished completely. 
 
 But Alchise was not dead, after all. He re- 
 covered consciousness in a few minutes, and the 
 soldiers dragged him back. They bandaged him 
 up and gave him what relief they could, for he 
 was wanted alive rather than dead. 
 
 That was practically the end of the campaign. 
 The ranchesia had been captured on the night 
 before, and the remaining hostiles were hunted 
 through the canons and deserts till they sur- 
 rendered. Lieutenant HowelPs plucky stand 
 really brought about most of this success, but he 
 never got any official credit for it, because hero- 
 ism was commonplace among officers in the old 
 
70 BOY*S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 days of the West. Most of the hostiles were 
 allowed to go back to the reserve without further 
 punishment, but Alchise was tried on a variety 
 of counts after his recovery, and sentenced to 
 twenty years in prison at Prescott, Arizona. 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 
 
 The Story of ^*A Horse as was a Horse^' 
 I 
 
 TT was in the hush of those quiet hours after 
 ■*■ "stables," when the golden sunshine fell 
 aslant through the skylight over the rows of 
 stalls, when the oats were finished, and the only 
 sound, was the rustle of sweet-smelling hay — 
 from which the dust floated upward into the 
 yellow block of light above and filled it with 
 dancing motes — that Billy and Bob had their 
 most confidential chats. It was then that Billy 
 had pointed out to him the pitfalls and snares 
 that beset every young high-tempered horse in 
 the service, and was clearly shown the error of 
 his way; and it was then that he poured into the 
 ears of Bob, that hardened old campaigner, all 
 the yearnings and ambitions of his immature 
 colthood. 
 All day long a white-haired old major-general, 
 
 71 
 
72 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 who had led his corps through the Wilderness, 
 sat his horse on top'of a hill, and watched cavalry 
 charge solid lines of infantry in the teeth of 
 mowing magazine fire, and infantry, in their 
 turn, walk calmly up to the belching muzzles 
 of a battery's guns. There was a very weary 
 look on the old general's face, for it was one of 
 those days they call "field-days," when, accord- 
 ing to the instructions issued on little slips of 
 white and brown paper, "the conditions of act- 
 ual warfare are to be simulated as far as possi- 
 ble," and all the simulation results in is noisy 
 bawling of orders, dust, smoke, and recrimina- 
 tion and disgust on the part of officers, men, and 
 horses. At one time, however, the general's face 
 wore a pleasant smile — that was when B Battery, 
 enveloped in a seething cloud of dust, rolled over 
 the plain hither and thither, vomiting forth 
 flame and smoke, like some mighty leviathan 
 warring the elements. Then the general had 
 smiled, keeping his eyes on the stop-watch tick- 
 ing in his hand, and listening to the cadenced 
 detonations of the six Hotchkiss pieces as they 
 swung "into battery," right, left, front, and rear. 
 By and by, when all the roar and confusion 
 were over, and the battery had come home, tired, 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 73 
 
 smoke-begrimed, and dusty, with* their heads 
 drooping and the reds of the choked nostrils 
 quivering, Billy tried to founder himself by 
 drinking a bucket of water some one had care- 
 lessly left in the corral, and Bob the wise had 
 dragged him away from it and gently kicked 
 him. 
 
 It had been a momentous day for Billy. He 
 had been promoted from off-swing horse, No. 1 
 gun, to near wheeler, same piece — Bob, the reg- 
 ular near-wheel horse, having a sore back. For 
 the first time in his military career he had felt 
 a driver's knees pressing his sides, and the re- 
 sponsibility that all this involved had been very 
 great. Then half the time the lead and the 
 swing teams stood loose in their traces, so that 
 Billy and Bob had to start the limber unassisted. 
 Between this and the responsibility and the un- 
 even ground, with the limber tongue flying up 
 and threatening to break his driver's legs and 
 Billy's ribs, Billy felt his lot was not one to be 
 envied. 
 
 He had seen the sorrels of the cavalry troop 
 next door sweep over the plain on a sabre charge 
 like a whirwind, and pulling at the near-wheel 
 trace of No. 1 gun seemed very tame work com- 
 
74 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 pared to a free, wild run like theirs over the 
 green bottom. It set Billy thinking of the old 
 blue-grass farm where he was foaled, with its 
 long stretches of meadow that he used to scamper 
 and frolic over in his coltish baby days. Then 
 he leaned over and rubbed his nose along Bob's 
 neck deferentially, and smiled, softly: 
 
 "Haven't you ever longed to be out of your 
 collar and charge like the cavalry. Bob — just to 
 lay yourself out flat on the green grass and go on 
 till you burst?" 
 
 Bob stopped tossing up his hay, and looked 
 jyith a dignified expression of pity at Billy. 
 
 "My dear colt! Where are your thoughts 
 wandering? We of Battery B are superior to 
 all that sort of thing. That's all very well for 
 a harumscarum lot like those sorrels over the 
 fence, who stampede at a red rag when they are 
 herded out, and who would scatter over forty 
 miles of country if you fired a blank from our 
 three 2-inch among 'em. But for us, Billy, our 
 position in the service does not permit of such 
 pranks. And as for charging, real charging, 
 what charge ever equalled the charge of Senar- 
 mont's ten light batteries on the Russian centre 
 at Friedland? "They unlimbered 120 yards from 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 75 
 
 the front* Why, cavalry ain't in it with us, 
 Billy!" 
 
 To this wise answer, Billy was unable to re- 
 ply ; but, nevertheless, deep down in his soul was 
 a longing for a frolic on the old blue-grass 
 meadow, and a half-formed wish for a stampede 
 of the battery herd — a thing that never hap- 
 pened. 
 
 They were all slashing big bays, the horses 
 of Battery B, and even for horses of a crack 
 light battery they were a proud and exclusive 
 lot. The service forgives the artillery, in a 
 measure, for their assumption of superior im- 
 portance, but so patronizing were those battery 
 horses to the sorrels of the cavalry troop in the 
 adjacent yard — ^whom they regarded as removed 
 only one degree from quartermaster's mules — 
 that the sorrels approached even the battery 
 fence with awe and trepidation. 
 
 "There are whole lots of things you don't 
 know yet, Billy," said the sage of the battery 
 herd, nosing over into his mate's manger for 
 a wisp of hay. "Your homesickness for that 
 sleepy old farm back in Kentucky makes me 
 tired. Instead of having the glorious mission 
 of hauling Uncle Sam's cannon into battle, you'd 
 
 ♦Report of Marshal Victor, Commander-in-Chief First Corps. 
 
76 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 rather be hauling potatoes into market for some 
 lanky old farmer. But if you had seen what I've 
 seen, and heard what IVe heard, you'd feel 
 thankful for your destiny. Why, colt, IVe met 
 fellows that dragged their guns up Cemetery 
 Ridge and Little Round Top, and saw them stop 
 Pickett's charge at the high-water mark of the 
 Confederacy! Those fellows saved their coun- 
 try, Billy. You've a mission, colt — a mission! 
 And you want to get all those crazy ideas about 
 free runs on the old farm and foolish cavalry 
 charges out of your head. It's lucky for you 
 that you weighed 1500 instead of 1100, and 
 didn't have skinny withers, or you'd never have 
 the distinction of belonging to Battery B. You'd 
 have gone to the cavalry, and in four years the 
 inspector would have condemned you and sold 
 you into an ash-cart. 
 
 "It's not in bran mashes and big feeds of corn 
 that the joys of life lie ; it's in appreciating your 
 mission and making the most of it. We are the 
 bowels of the army, the army is the blood and 
 body of the government, and our government is 
 the hope of the world. That's what my father 
 used to say to me, and he saw the whole thing 
 demonstrated in the rebellion. Now what you 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 77 
 
 want to do is to study your job. When you are 
 flying around out there on the parade, remember 
 that the life of your rider and the cannoneers 
 behind you, and, in battle, often the result of the 
 day, depend on your keeping your feet. In 
 ^action front,' when you leave the piece, throw 
 yourself into your collar like a cannon ball, or 
 you'll get pulled over some time, and, above all, 
 keep your eyes on the ground so you can jump 
 the hollows and the limber tongue won't fly up 
 and break your rider's legs. If you do that, and 
 always have your tugs taut, you will get your 
 reward some day, though we ain't generally 
 mentioned in histories, Billy." 
 
 "It is all very well for you to talk like that, 
 Bob," said Billy. "You are satisfied and proud 
 of your position, but if your old home had been 
 one like the one I left back East, you would feel 
 differently. There were no potatoes to haul and 
 no lanky old farmer there. My sire won the 
 blue ribbon on Churchill Downs, and my master 
 was a real, old Kentucky gentleman. I could 
 not have been better treated if I had been the 
 favorite of an Arab chief. We bred racing 
 stock. Of course, I was only a half-breed, and 
 too heavy to race, so I stayed quietly at home. 
 
78 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Then master's daughter took a fancy to me in 
 my puppy days, and made me her pet. Every 
 morning she came tripping out to see me in the 
 paddock with an apple or a lump of sugar and 
 a caress. She was the only one that ever rode me, 
 and her bridle hand was so light and her seat 
 so firm and gentle that it was a joy to have her 
 on one's back. We were all very happy back 
 there in those days, Bob, except master, who was 
 always worried and sad. You see, the prices of 
 horses had been sinking lower every year, and 
 the mortgage on the farm was eating everything 
 away, and master saw the day staring him in 
 the face when all he had would have to be sold 
 to pay it. The day came, sure enough, with the 
 sheriff and the red auction flag, along with the 
 throngs of curious, callous, hard-featured peo- 
 ple. There were some white faces in the family, 
 but not a word of complaint from master's wife 
 and daughter, who went about calm and com- 
 posed, with a brave smile on their faces, though 
 their eyes were very soft and shiny with sym- 
 pathy for heartbroken master. 
 
 "One by one the dear old things they loved — 
 the pictures, the books, the time-blackened ma- 
 hogany furniture — ^were carted away in wagons. 
 
"BILLY'' OF BATTERY B 79 
 
 Then it came our turn in the stables, and we were 
 walked out and handled and punched by veteri- 
 naries. We were trotted around the yard. Our 
 pedigrees were read, and all kinds of lies told 
 about us before the auctioneer knocked us down 
 to the highest bidder. After it was all over, and 
 I was tied up to a horse-dealer's wagon out in 
 the road, very blue and brokenhearted over our 
 misfortunes, I felt a pair of soft arms steal 
 around my neck, and my little girl's cheek nest- 
 ling close to me. There was no one near us, and 
 she had come to say good-bye. When I turned 
 and rubbed my nose on her shoulder she was 
 crying softly. 
 
 " ^Good-bye, you dear, old Billy,' she whis- 
 pered. ^Good-bye! Always be your good and 
 kind and gentle and true self.' 
 
 "I know I'll never meet anybody. Bob, who 
 will love me as she did, and now do you wonder 
 that I keep thinking of that old blue-grass farm 
 way back in Kentucky?" 
 
 Bob blinked sympathetically, and rubbed his 
 nose up and down Billy's neck to cheer him. 
 
 "At the same time, colt," said he, soberly, 
 "don't you think that little girl would be hap- 
 
80 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 pier if she knew you were following her ad- 
 vice?" 
 
 It was very late in the stables now; most of 
 the battery horses were down asleep in their beds 
 of hay. When the sad, resonant notes of "taps" 
 came floating in on the night air, poor, tired 
 Billy did not hear them, for he was fast asleep, 
 too, and dreaming of long vistas of blue-grass 
 meadow, and the gentle voice and hand that 
 used to guide and cheer him on his way, 
 
 II 
 
 The drifting snow, dry and biting as salt, was 
 filling all the hollows and crannies around a 
 desolate camp at the Rosebud Agency, on the 
 flat, brown plateau of South Dakota, one cheer- 
 less December afternoon in 1890. Inside the 
 dreary Sibley tents the men were huddled to- 
 gether under blankets, trying to thaw out, and 
 discussing the probable outcome of the uprising 
 of the Sioux ghost-dancers, whose threatening 
 actions had brought all the available horse and 
 foot of our army to the cold, barren region 
 where they lived. 
 
 A man had risen among them who called him- 
 self "the Messiah." He had talked to them in 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 81 
 
 a frenzied and impassioned way in a strain that 
 is ever welcome in the young Indian's ears — of 
 war and the glory of revenge; of the fancied 
 and real wrongs they had suffered at the white 
 man's hands ; of the cheating and stealing of the 
 White Father's agents. Then straightway they 
 had streaked their faces with hideous dashes of 
 yellow, vermilion, and blue, and stalked into 
 the agency full of an unholy desire for slaughter, 
 which had found expression in the saying of a 
 big chief who proclaimed "he could not die 
 happy until he had eaten a white man's heart." 
 
 The word of the government had gone forth, 
 for fifteen thousand rabid Indians cannot be 
 dealt with tenderly, and the telegraph wires 
 were kept smoking with hurrying messages to 
 troops who were coming helter-skelter from 
 north, south, east, and west. From each side of 
 the square two hundred miles of desert, large 
 bodies of troops were drawing in on the reserva- 
 tion, while back and forth over their bleak land 
 a restless wave of Indians swept, seeking to 
 avoid the inevitable contingency of surrender or 
 annihilation. 
 
 The government was trying very hard to 
 bring the Sioux to reason with a great show of 
 
82 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 force, and the older and wiser heads among the 
 Indians were seconding their efforts to prevent 
 a fruitless shedding of blood. But these efforts 
 had been made too late, for the fever of war was 
 in the hot blood of the young Sioux braves. Al- 
 ready there had been killing done, and new- 
 made graves studded the fast-whitening winter 
 prairie. Sitting Bull had been shot while re- 
 sisting arrest, and his followers were mad with 
 desire for revenge, while the government had 
 decreed a general disarming of the Sioux. 
 
 Down at the end of the agency camp was a 
 small detachment from Battery B — two guns 
 and fifteen men, and picketed near by in the chill 
 of the storm, shivering under their canvas 
 covers, were Billy and Bob, with about a dozen 
 of the battery bays. 
 
 "Wot's ther use of our bloomin' guns out 'ere, 
 I'd like ter know?" said Driver Burke to his 
 comrades in the snow-bound tent. "Chasin' In- 
 jians with cannon is the wust tomfoolishness I 
 ever 'eard of." But we must judge Driver 
 Burke leniently, for when a soldier is quartered 
 out on a frozen prairie in what seems to him a 
 purposeless way, all things look foolish. 
 
 Then up piped a pallid recruit from under a 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 83 
 
 pile of blankets. "Now that they got th' hull 
 outfit of 'em surrounded, they ought ter let us 
 go 'ome an' get warm — sure." This brought a 
 smile to the seared, weather-beaten face of the 
 old sergeant in charge, who was smoking his 
 pipe, and refusing to allow himself to be other- 
 wise than cheerful and contented. 
 
 "If you fellers would stop studyin' the con- 
 duk of the campaign an' the akshuns of the com- 
 manding officer, you'd be better off," interrupted 
 the sergeant. "You ain't gettin' thirteen dollars 
 a month for ter advise the major-gen'ral. All 
 you got ter do is ter obey orders and' keep your 
 faces closed, an' I think if you go out an' hustle 
 up a pile of wood for ter-night, you'd feel bet- 
 ter." 
 
 While that conversation was going on inside 
 of Battery B's tent, down at headquarters the 
 major-general was listening to the broken, im- 
 petuous story of a pale, half-frozen orderly with 
 a bloody bandage tied around his head. 
 
 The message was short and very pressing. 
 When the soldier finished he was dismissed, and 
 the grave, careworn general turned and asked 
 his aid if there were any mounted troops in 
 camp. 
 
84 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "No, sir," was the answer. ^^The cavalry is 
 all out, but there is that battery detachment." 
 
 The general thought of the fifteen long miles 
 between the camp and place where succor was 
 needed so badly, of the trail heavy with snow, 
 and he sighed for the absent cavalry. Then he 
 thought of the quiet, grim lieutenant of B Bat- 
 tery, who had been chafing at the useless role 
 he had been forced to play in the campaign, and 
 had repeatedly solicited permission to show 
 what his little Hotchkiss guns could do in sett- 
 ling matters with the Sioux, and he remembered 
 the slashing big bay horses that the battery was 
 so proud of. 
 
 "Send for Lieutenant Dacre, captain," was 
 his order to the silent aide. 
 
 When the battery commander received the 
 message he ran hot-footed to headquarters, in 
 glad anticipation of work to do, and his first 
 look at the stern, anxious face of his chief told 
 him what it was. 
 
 ^'The — th are having a row with Big Foot's 
 band down on Wounded Knee Creek. They 
 need help badly, and I have nothing here that 
 could reach them soon enough. Do you think 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 85 
 
 you can get your guns there in time to be of any 
 use? It's fifteen miles over the ridge west." 
 
 ^'I should like to try, general." 
 
 "Very good. Go ahead. We will be several 
 hours behind with the infantry." 
 
 There was a scramble around the battery tent 
 a few minutes later, and a rush of men laden 
 with harness and accoutrements over to the 
 horses at the picket-line. Never before did the 
 battery drivers hitch so quickly, and the can- 
 noneers ran the guns and limbers out of the can- 
 vas sheds with an agility that on-lookers had 
 never seen equalled. No bugles were blown, no 
 orders were given ; there was no need to tell any- 
 body to make haste, for the orderly with the 
 bloody bandage around his head had staggered 
 down the camp street on his way to the hospital 
 with a horror-stricken face, telling every one 
 that the Custer massacre was being repeated 
 down at Wounded Knee, and that the "Fighting 
 — ^^th" were making another hopeless struggle 
 against their old, pitiless enemies. 
 
 Out of sight of the bewildered infantry sol- 
 diers emerging from their tents the battery 
 whirled, soon lost to view in the swirling snow. 
 There was no time for a God-speed you or a 
 
86 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 farewell cheer. Cannoneers and drivers stared 
 grimly ahead, and only one thought was in their 
 heads — to get there in time, which depended al- 
 together on the horses. 
 
 . Did those horses hear what the general had 
 told the battery commander, or had they seen 
 the wounded orderly reeling through the camp 
 to the hospital? That is not given us to know. 
 At any rate, Billy and Bob knew that their bat- 
 tery was on business of a most urgent nature, or 
 they would never be flying at racing speed over 
 the cold, snowy plain towards the distant hills 
 and the sinking sun. They could almost meas- 
 ure the importance of their task by the way the 
 drivers on the swings and leads laid the quirt 
 over their teams ; but the wheelers on No. 1 gun 
 did not need any urging. 
 
 "Run low and steady, Billy; quit jerking 
 your collar. We have a long, hard run to make, 
 and who knows what might happen if we don't 
 made it? They need us badly somewhere — a 
 regiment must be getting slaughtered." 
 
 "Were you ever in action. Bob? How does 
 it feel?" asked Billy, as they bowled along. 
 
 "Oh, you feel as jolly as can be. It's all kinds 
 of fun. Everybody goes clean crazy, except us. 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 87 
 
 Some of 'em laugh, and some of 'em cry; some 
 of 'em, in fact, most of 'em, first time, get very 
 sick. Men are so much more foolish than we 
 are about these things. Look outl Slide, Billy, 
 slide!" 
 
 Just then they came to some ice holes. The 
 off leader slipped and fell, bringing down his 
 mate ; on top of the leads tumbled, crashing, the 
 swing team, while Billy and Bob just managed 
 to keep out of the awful mess by sitting down 
 on their rumps and sliding on their tails. They 
 dragged out of the squirming wreck the driver 
 of the swings unconscious and bleeding, and 
 laid them tenderly down on the snow while the 
 horses were looked to. 
 
 ^^Two of 'em's bruk ther legs, lieutenant," sang 
 out the sergeant, "an' this 'ere swing horse is 
 stove up inside." 
 
 "Take three horses off No. 2, and put them in 
 their places. Stay behind with 2, sergeant, take 
 those wounded men, and follow us as fast as you 
 can," said the lieutenant. 
 
 So in a few seconds No. 1 was rolling ahead 
 again, leaving behind its crippled mate and two 
 limp, unconscious forms stretched out on its 
 limber. On the foaming horses sped. 
 
88 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "My soul I What a narrow shave that was for 
 us, Bob!" 
 
 "Never you mind thinking about narrow 
 escapes," answered Bob; "you just keep your 
 eyes on the ground, and jump those ice holes. 
 Don't forget to sit down and slide if anybody 
 goes down in front. There is one thing sure, 
 we have to get this gun somewhere in very short 
 order, or a regiment will be slaughtered ; it must 
 be a regiment, for they wouldn't move us like 
 this for anything less." 
 
 Of a truth, the words of old Bob were timely 
 and to the point. Over the snow-covered prairie 
 frozen hummocks were scattered here and there, 
 and around these wicked little lumps were rings 
 of steely, black ice — ice that sometimes broke 
 and lacerated ankle-joints fearfully, while some- 
 times the rough-shod hoofs slipped over like 
 skates. 
 
 They were half-way up the gentle grade that 
 led to the gap in the ridge to the west, but they 
 never shortened their long, free stride. Men 
 and horses settled down to the work with that 
 grim determination that wins out many a for- 
 lorn hope. Not a sound, not a message from the 
 desperate fight beyond, had reached them yet 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 99 
 
 The lieutenant was riding ahead of the careen- 
 ing gun, picking out the trail. All at once there 
 loomed up against the sky-line of the ridge ahead 
 a big six-mule ambulance, which came tearing 
 down the grade to them. It was full of shriek- 
 ing, wounded men. The lieutenant pulled back 
 to speak to them. There were men with the 
 madness of the fight on them yet, cursing the 
 doctors who had taken them away; sad dying 
 men with blue faces, and pallid, sunny-haired 
 boys with tears running down their cheeks — all 
 of them crazy, irrational, incoherent. 
 
 "Push on! Push on, or there will be nobody 
 left over there," was all the ambulance driver 
 could say when questioned. And that gun did 
 push on as hard as strength of a man and beast 
 could push. 
 
 Up at the entrance of the gap there was some- 
 thing waiting for Battery B — something that 
 men and horses did not expect. It was an am- 
 bush that the crafty enemy had planned to cut 
 off the longed-for relief. With wily cunning 
 they had let the ambulance pass them unmo- 
 lested. Invisible things were hiding behind 
 crag and bowlder — things with dark, unhuman 
 faces, scanning with their gleaming eyes every 
 
90 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 detail of the little gun detachment which was 
 climbing confidently up to the steep, narrow gap 
 beneath them, waiting patiently till even the 
 element of skill was not needed to make murder 
 complete. Then the signal was given, the volley 
 was fired, and men and horses fell. Both the 
 lead and swing teams and the lieutenant's horse 
 were shot dead in their tracks. Billy saw old 
 Bob quiver, sink, and straighten himself with 
 an effort, he also felt his fore-leg give way as a 
 burning pain shot across his ankle. All this 
 time from the rocks above the Winchesters of 
 the Indians were spitting white puffs of smoke 
 downward, and bullets were singing below and 
 above, in front and rear. The men were all 
 killed at the first fire, except the lieutenant and 
 two drivers, and they were busy hacking away 
 with their sabres at the traces of the dead leaders 
 and swings. In a moment the gun was freed of 
 its dead horses, and Billy and Bob found them- 
 selves pulling it up through the gap all alone 
 — one horse on three legs, for the fourth had 
 been disabled by a shot, and the other with a 
 bullet in his lungs. Still, they struggled and 
 strained every aching fibre, and the gun went 
 up the gap. 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 91 
 
 What a great, noble soul can do in the hour 
 of agony and need — till nature calls a halt — is 
 a marvel to the world. 
 
 Just as they pulled out of range of the ambush 
 Bob fell dying in the snow, and as he looked up 
 at Billy with the mournful eyes of one who dies 
 while his task is yet undone, I think he must 
 have said: "You do it for me, Billy I" 
 
 They cut Bob loose, and the lieutenant and 
 the two men put their shoulders to the limber 
 and started the piece uphill once more. Four 
 hundred yards up the terrible grade Billy pulled 
 that gun for them, at every step digging his 
 wounded off front leg into the sharp shale and 
 jagged ice of the mountain trail; but his agony 
 and pain were nearly over. At the brow of the 
 divide they looked down into the valley where 
 the fight was going on. 
 
 Below them a thin blue skirmish - line 
 stretched out in a crescent, was replying feebly 
 to the rapid and destructive fire of the Indians, 
 sheltered in their village and in the command- 
 ing ground on the other side. There were many 
 silent gaps in the blue skirmish-line, and the 
 ground between it and the Indians was scattered 
 
92 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 with rigid blue-clad forms and the stiff, tawny 
 figures of dead Sioux. 
 
 If the authors of the "Drill Regulations for 
 Light Artillery" could have seen that gun, 
 drawn by a horse on three legs, and manned by 
 an officer and two privates, go "into battery" 
 on the brow of that hill, they would have mar- 
 velled greatly. 
 
 The limber did not come around on a gallop, 
 by a left traverse — as the book says it should — 
 but the gun was in position just as quickly as if 
 it had ; for two men had drawn the pin and un- 
 coupled the tailpiece from the limber before 
 they halted. They ran the gun out "by hand" 
 to the brink, while the lieutenant — self-insti- 
 tuted powder-monkey — dug deep into the limber 
 chest and filled his arms full of long, slim shrap- 
 nel shells. 
 
 Billy, tottering on three legs behind them, 
 saw everything — the breech opened, the cart- 
 ridge pushed home, and the breech closed and 
 locked. He saw the lieutenant down on his 
 knees adjusting the sights, and pointing the piece 
 which exact nicety at a swarm of Sioux behind 
 the tepees in the village. 
 
 Driver Burke stood with his knees bent and 
 
"BILLY" OF BATTERY B 93 
 
 the lanyard taut in his hand, impatient for the 
 word. In a low, firm tone it came, "Fire!" A 
 long tongue of flame shot forth, then a blast of 
 white, cloudy smoke, and, after a distinct pause, 
 the sharp detonation rang out and deafened 
 them. Straining forward, they saw the shell 
 burst over the village, and tepees, blankets, 
 ponies, and Indians seemed to be struck by a 
 tornado. Then they sent shell after shell shriek- 
 ing over the valley into the village and the In- 
 dian position. The hissing wail of the twisting 
 shrapnel as they flew through the air had a most 
 terrifying effect on the Sioux. They thought 
 they heard the voices of the dead they had killed 
 and tortured crying for vengeance. 
 
 As if hurried on by the ghosts of the departed, 
 swiftly and silently every Indian fled, and noth- 
 ing was left below to fire at but a mass of whirl- 
 ing wreckage. 
 
 Cheer on cheer came ringing up from the 
 rescued regiment below, but the lieutenant and 
 the two exhausted men lying flat on the ground 
 by the side of the reeking gun did not hear 
 them. Their eyes were fastened on a gaunt, 
 haggard horse awaying to and fro on three legs, 
 his soft, pleading eyes swimming with pain. 
 
94 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 A look flashed on the lieutenant's face that 
 made his hard features tender and womanly. 
 Then it was that Driver Burke, the worst black- 
 guard in the battery, spoke his mind. 
 
 "That's a horse as is a horse, an' 'e ought ter 
 'ave a medal as big as ther moon." 
 
 The lieutenant looked at Driver Burke, and 
 a bond of sympathy was established between 
 them right there and then. The other man was 
 dumb as an oyster, but he never took his staring, 
 wet eyes off Billy. 
 
 "Ther' ain't no such thing as givin' a horse a 
 wooden leg," said Burke, meditatively; "an' the 
 kindest thing we can do is ter do our duty." 
 And they did. 
 
 According to Burke, Billy's shiny, brown eyes 
 thanked him as he fired. 
 
 "If there is any horse's heaven," says Burke, 
 "where they does nothin' but play on ther blue- 
 grass meadows among the daisies all day long — 
 you'll find Billy there." 
 
 They all received medals of honor, every 
 member of that gun detachment; but among 
 themselves they often say that, "he who most 
 deserved a medal never received one" — ^mean- 
 ing, of course, Billy of Battery B. 
 
FLORIDE'S PATIENT 
 
 !^ True Story of the Civil War 
 
 A GREAT battle was fought near Floride's 
 ^^^^ home in the South. All day long she 
 listened to the distant roar of the cannon. She 
 had not a very clear idea of what the quarrel 
 was all about, but she was an ardent little rebel, 
 nevertheless. 
 
 She hated the Yankees bitterly when she heard 
 that they had gained the victory, and left hun- 
 dreds of Southern soldiers wounded and dead 
 on the field, and she grieved over the thought 
 of their suffering until it seemed as if she must 
 do something to help them. The dear, old 
 church where she used to go to Sunday-school 
 had been turned into a hospital. Floride would 
 often wander near it, thinking of all the pain 
 and misery within, until one day she peeped 
 through the open door. Inside she saw rows 
 of narrow cots, with haggard-looking men 
 
 95 
 
96 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Stretched upon them. Other men, evidently 
 surgeons and nurses, were hurrying back and 
 forth in a way that seemed to Floride noisy and 
 heartless. Just opposite the door lay a boy, with 
 dark, damp hair, and such a sad, tired face that 
 Floride could not keep back tears of pity. 
 
 Frank Laine had closed his eyes to shut out 
 the dreadful sight of so much suffering, and his 
 mind had wandered home again. Oh, if his 
 mother were only here to put her cool hand on 
 his burning head for one minute, or his little 
 sister, just to say she was sorry for him! But 
 there was no one to pity him now, and they 
 would never know how he longed for them. 
 
 He opened his eyes wearily, and saw stand- 
 ing in a gleam of sunshine that fell across the 
 doorway a little white-robed figure with shining 
 hair, and he wondered vaguely if it was an angel 
 as it came slowly towards him. 
 
 "Do you want some?" Floride whispered ; and 
 without waiting for an answer she jflung her 
 bunch of wild flowers on the cot and ran away. 
 
 Then Frank knew it was no angel, but a 
 tender hearted little girl like his own sister 
 Margaret, and an overwhelming rush of home- 
 sickness made him burst into tears. Poor fel- 
 
. FLORIDE'S PATIENT 97 
 
 low! he was no hero now, though he had fancied 
 himself one not long ago when he ran away 
 from home to join the Northern army. He had 
 meant to write to his mother after the first battle, 
 and tell of his wonderful deeds of bravery and 
 the praise he had gained. But there was nothing 
 of the kind to tell. Heroes are not left lying on 
 the roadside for hours, dizzy with pain, while 
 the army sweeps by and wins the victory with- 
 out their help. He would never write home 
 now. Everything had turned out as his father 
 foretold, and he could never, never expect to 
 earn forgiveness. 
 
 He hoped Floride would come again. She 
 was like a little bit of home unexpectedly find- 
 ing its way into the dreary place. The night 
 did not seem so long and tedious when he was 
 thinking about her, wondering whether she was 
 a rebel, and where she lived, and whether she 
 would come to-morrow. He was so anxious to 
 see her again that he grew restless and feverish 
 as the time wore on, but the nurses were too busy 
 to notice him. There were many others of more 
 importance in their eyes than the drummer-boy, 
 who was so dangerously wounded that he prob- 
 ably never would get well. 
 
98 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 To his delight the golden head peeped in 
 about nine o'clock, and after a moment's hesi- 
 tation Floride walked over to the cot. 
 
 ^^See, I've brought you something," she whis- 
 pered, her cheeks pink with suppressed excite- 
 ment; and she produced from under her apron 
 a china mug full of milk. Such a thing was un- 
 known in the hospital, and Frank was always 
 thirsty. 
 
 ^'That's good!" he cried, draining it eagerly. 
 ^^That's like home. It makes me think of Dap- 
 ple. Dapple was my cow, you know." 
 
 "Oh, have you got a cow?" asked Floride. 
 
 "I used to have. She was fine, I tell you. 
 Whenever I came in sight she'd run up to me 
 and lay her head on my shoulder, and — Oh, 
 well," he broke off, hastily, as he felt a lump 
 rising in his throat, "there's no use talking about 
 it. I'll never see her again." 
 
 "Did the Yankees steal her?" demanded 
 Floride. "The wicked, cruel, horrid things!" 
 
 "See here, you mustn't talk like that!" ex- 
 claimed Frank. "I'm a Yankee myself." 
 
 "Why, I thought you were nice!" cried Flo- 
 ride. "I thought you were a Confederate, I'm 
 sorry I brought you the milk. I hate you ! You 
 
FLORIDE'S PATIENT 99 
 
 killed my Uncle Paul. Oh, you bad, bad man!" 
 And with a stamp of her foot she ran away. 
 
 In vain Frank called her back. He had no 
 quarrel with her, little rebel though she was, 
 and he felt lonelier than ever when she was gone. 
 
 Poor Floride went home and had a good cry. 
 Down in the bottom of her heart she had always 
 thought of Yankees as black men who ate little 
 children. It was a great disappointment to find 
 out her mistake, and, besides, she was really 
 very sorry for the wounded soldier; but she 
 resolved never to go to the hospital again, or 
 take the "Yank" things to eat. If she could only 
 have had a long talk with her mother about him! 
 But Mrs. Elmer was many miles away, and 
 somehow Floride could not tell her secrets to 
 Aunt Carrie. Nothing would make her believe 
 that any Yankee was nice, and she would be 
 glad Frank was wounded. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and in the after- 
 noon Floride went off to Sunday-school with her 
 heart full of "hatred, malice, and all uncharita- 
 bleness." The Yankees had taken away their 
 church, and they had to meet in Miss Nelson's 
 house. That was another reason for hating 
 them. Besides, hadn't the "Yanks" killed dear 
 
100 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Uncle Paul, whom Miss Nelson had promised 
 to marry? 
 
 The text that day was "Love your enemies." 
 It made Floride feel uncomfortable, for just as 
 she said it, it struck her that the Yankees were 
 her enemies. Miss Nelson did not say one word 
 about the Northern soldiers, but she reminded 
 the girls of what bitter foes our dear Lord had, 
 and how He prayed, "Father, forgive them, for 
 they know not what they do," and she told them 
 that each and all must try to follow His example, 
 and do good to those that hated them. Suddenly 
 she stopped, and bursting into tears, said : "Go 
 home, children, go home." 
 
 "Well, I don't care what Miss Nelson says, I 
 hate the Yankees!" exclaimed one of the older 
 girls, as they went slowly out; and the others 
 cried out, "Oh, of course. Miss Nelson couldn't 
 mean to love Yankees !" 
 
 But Floride was silent. She knew very well 
 that Miss Nelson had meant the Northern sol- 
 diers, and she resolved to forgive the wounded 
 drummer-boy, and see what she could do to 
 make him happier. 
 
 Frank had watched for her all day, but when 
 evening came he gave up and tried not to be 
 
FLORIDE'S PATIENT 101 
 
 disappointed, but it was very hard to be brave. 
 He had no supper. How could he eat the coarse, 
 hastily cooked hospital food? He was not 
 hungry, but he was terribly thirsty. His head 
 ached, too. The pain seemed to vanish when 
 a light footstep that certainly was not that of 
 one of the surgeons fell on his ear, and Floride 
 came softly in, looking a little frightened. 
 
 "Here," she whispered, "I brought you some 
 more milk and some jelly, and I'm sorry I called 
 you a Yankee. Good-bye!" 
 
 ''Oh, stop, little girl, stop !" said the "Yankee," 
 eagerly. "You needn't be sorry. I don't mind ; 
 and thank you for the things. Won't you stay 
 and talk? I'm so — It's kind of lonely here." 
 
 "I should think it would be," said Floride, 
 sympathetically; "but I can't stay now. It's al- 
 most dark. I'll come again to-morrow, right 
 after breakfast," and with a happy nod she flew 
 away. 
 
 The next day, and every day after for more 
 than a week, she visited her patient faithfully. 
 She always brought something nice for him to 
 eat or drink, and Frank never dreamed that she 
 was denying herself to give it to him. Her visits 
 
102 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "were the'oiie bright spot in days that were cloudy 
 with pain. 
 
 The other patients watched for her, too, and 
 were better for the sight of her sunny face ; while 
 the doctors, when they thought of her at all, con- 
 cluded that she did the wounded boy good, and 
 they made no objection to her presence. As for 
 Frank, he was contented to lie still, with closed 
 eyes, while she chattered to him, or murmured 
 softly the hymns she knew, if he was in great 
 pain. "There is a green hill far away," and 
 "Once in royal David's city," were his favorites. 
 
 Sometimes, when he felt better than usual, he 
 would tell her about the dear Connecticut farm, 
 and just how his mother looked, and how stern 
 his father sometimes was, and yet how kind. 
 
 Floride would beg him to write to them and 
 say he was sorry for his disobedience, and tell 
 them he was wounded, but Frank always shut 
 his lips in a decided way and shook his head at 
 this. He was very proud, poor boy! One day 
 he asked Floride to bring him a sheet of paper 
 and an envelope. 
 
 "Are you going to write to your mother?" 
 asked Floride, eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, but I am not going to send it now," 
 
FLORIDE'S PATIENT 103 
 
 Frank answered. "I want you to take care of 
 it for me, and afterwards — ^when I — die — I 
 want you to send it" 
 
 That Frank was going to die was a new idea 
 to Floride. She gazed at him wistfully while 
 the tears rolled down her cheeks, and could not 
 speak ; but when he smiled back at her bravely, 
 and said, "Oh, don't cry! It doesn't matter 
 much," with a great sob, she rushed out into the 
 .woods, and throwing herself down on the grass, 
 cried as if her heart would break. 
 
 It was a very short letter that the poor boy 
 wrote, for his strength was failing fast. He told 
 how good the little rebel had been to him, and 
 how she had promised to send the' letter after he 
 was dead, so that they might know he longed for 
 their forgiveness, and missed them every minute 
 night and day. Then he gave it to Floride, and 
 they never spoke of the subject again, but when- 
 ever the little girl entered the hospital after that 
 she trembled for fear they would tell her that 
 Frank was dead. 
 
 Miss Elmer had so much to do, and so many 
 things to occupy her mind in those dark days of 
 the war, that she did not think a great deal about 
 the comings and goings of her little niece. Not 
 
104 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 long after this, however, she said to Miss Nel- 
 son: ^^I don't know what to make of Floride. 
 She is the strangest child — " 
 
 "Why, what has she been doing now?" asked 
 Miss Nelson. 
 
 "Oh, nothing; but she has such queer ideas. 
 She has taken a fancy to eat all her dainties in 
 private. She never will drink her milk at table 
 now, and she is always begging for jelly, or 
 berries, or something else to eat. Such an ap- 
 petite cannot be healthy." 
 
 "Well, let her enjoy herself if she can," said 
 Miss Nelson. "I suppose she likes to go off to 
 the woods and play tea-party." 
 
 "Poor child, she little realizes what terrible 
 suffering is at our door!" 
 
 But Miss Elmer found out that day how mucK 
 of the suffering Floride did realize, when one 
 of the Northern surgeons brought the little girl 
 home in his arms white and faint. A man had 
 had his leg cut off in the hospital, he explained, 
 and no one had known that Floride was there 
 until they heard a low groan, and she fell faint- 
 ing to the floor. They had revived her, and the 
 surgeon had undertaken to bring her home and 
 explain matters. 
 
FLORIDE'S PATIENT 105 
 
 Floride only half understood what he was say- 
 ing. She knew her aunt was puzzled and angry, 
 but the room seemed to be spinning round, and 
 she felt as if she did not care a great deal 
 what happened when she heard the surgeon say: 
 "It's doubtful if he pulls through." 
 
 "Oh, don't let him die!" she cried, springing 
 up with sudden strength. "Oh, Aunt Carrie, 
 poor Frank mustn't die! Oh, please, dear God, 
 don't let him die!" 
 
 But all Aunt Carrie answered was : "Floride, 
 I am surprised!" Then she turned to the sur- 
 geon with lofty courtesy and said : "Thank you 
 for your kindness. Floride shall not trouble 
 you again." 
 
 "You must not keep her away," he answered, 
 pleasantly. "She does young Laine a world 
 of good. If anything will help him out, it is 
 the way she takes care of him. Good-bye, little 
 nurse," he added, and was off. 
 
 In vain Floride begged and pleaded to be 
 allowed to see Frank once more, in vain she ex- 
 plained that she was only trying to love her ene- 
 mies, in vain she declared that Frank would die 
 if she did not go. The only thing Miss Elmer 
 
106 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 would say on the subject was to repeat, coldly: 
 "Floride, I am surprised!" 
 
 Floride was very lonely and unhappy after 
 that. She wondered sadly whether Frank would 
 think she had forgotten him, and whether he 
 really would die all alone in that dreadful hospi- 
 tal. Suddenly a happy thought seized her, and 
 she acted on it immediately. She would send 
 the letter he had written to his mother, inclosed 
 in a note of her own. Over this she took great 
 pains. 
 
 *'Dear Mrs. Laine,'' she wrote, "Frank is not dead. If 
 you could come and nurse him, perhaps he would get well. 
 I hope you will forgive him. He is a good boy. 
 
 "Your loving 
 
 "Floride." 
 
 The days that followed were full of suspense. 
 She had no doubt that Frank's mother would 
 come, but she was afraid Frank would be angry 
 with her. She had promised to keep the letter 
 until he died, and now she had broken her 
 promise. What would he think of her? 
 
 One day she was having a cry all by herself 
 in the summer-house when she saw Miss Nelson 
 come up the garden walk. Dear, kind Miss Nel- 
 son ! At any other time Floride would have run 
 
FLORIDE'S PATIENT 107 
 
 to meet her, but she was too utterly wretched 
 now to want to see anybody. 
 
 Miss Nelson stayed a long time, and Floride 
 sat listlessly in the summer-house, wondering 
 what they were talking about, but seeming to 
 see through all her dreamy thoughts Frank's 
 tired, patient eyes watching for her. 
 
 By and by Miss Nelson came out with Miss 
 Elmer. As they went slowly down the walk, 
 Floride heard her Sunday-school teacher say: 
 "Now you will let her go, won't you, Carrie 
 dear?" 
 
 "A Yankee soldier," Miss Elmer said, in 
 feeble remonstrance. She hated the North bit- 
 terly, but she could not look into Miss Nelson's 
 sweet, sad face, remembering how much she had 
 suffered by that cruel war, and yet steel her 
 heart against the wounded soldier for whom her 
 friend was pleading. 
 
 "He will never fight again, poor fellow," said 
 Miss Nelson, softly. "She did him so much 
 good, and since she ceased to come he has just 
 pined away." 
 
 "Well," said Aunt Carrie, reluctantly, and out 
 of the summer-house flew Floride. 
 
 "Oh, let me go now, please — this minute!" she 
 
108 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 begged. ^Tlease, please, please do, Aunt Car- 
 rie." 
 
 Now, Miss Elmer never did anything by 
 halves. "Well," she said again, but assentingly 
 this time. "And if you will go, I might as well 
 send the boy something to eat. Can you wait 
 until I pack the basket?" 
 
 "Yes; oh yes!" chirped Floride; but she was 
 sorry she had consented after a while, for it 
 took Aunt Carrie so long. Too happy to sit still, 
 she flew about picking flowers for her soldier, 
 and when at last the basket was filled with all 
 sorts of dainties to tempt a sick man's appetite, 
 she rushed off. 
 
 Over sticks and stones she flew, taking the 
 short-cut through the woods in her hot haste, 
 and at every step out flew something from the 
 basket. Peaches rolled under the trees, a little 
 stream of milk trickled down the front of her 
 new frock, and cookies strewed her pathway, 
 but she was perfectly unconscious of the havoc. 
 There was the dear church at last, and there was 
 Frank. But oh, how changed ! She had thought 
 he was thin and pale before, but now his eyes 
 were sunken, and there were dark circles around 
 
FLORIDE'S PATIENT 109 
 
 them, and his blue lips made a hard line that 
 told of pain even to the child. 
 
 "Oh, Frank! Frank!" she moaned, and he held 
 out his arms and clasped her close to him. 
 
 "Don't go away, Florrie," he murmured. "I 
 haven't anybody but you." 
 
 "Auntie w^ouldn't let me come before," she 
 ] whispered, sinking her voice involuntarily be- 
 cause his was so feeble. 
 
 "I know," he answered. "But I was sure she'd 
 let you come before — I died." 
 
 "Oh, Frank, you mustn't!" moaned the little 
 girl. 
 
 "I'm not afraid. If mamma was here, per- 
 haps, I would be. But I don't mind if I do, now 
 I've got you again." 
 
 His mention of his mother reminded Floride 
 of the confession she had to make, and set her 
 heart beating wildly. She felt as if she could 
 not tell him at once, so to change the subject she 
 said: "I reckon Aunt Carrie is sorry she 
 wouldn't let me come. She sent a whole lot of 
 things for you to eat. See !" and she triumphant- 
 ly took off the basket cover. 
 
 Behold, the only thing the basket contained 
 was a broken cup ! Frank actually smiled at the 
 
110 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 child's rueful face. "Never mind," he said; "I 
 don't want to eat, Floride; I just want to look 
 at you. I'm not half so homesick now you are 
 here." 
 
 "Are you yet homesick?" asked Floride. 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, don'tr groaned Frank. 
 
 "My darling! My precious boy!" cried a 
 voice, and there stood — his mother! 
 
 Frank had often dreamed of seeing her beside 
 him, but he knew it was no dream now when his 
 mother's arms were round him, and his tired 
 head could rest on her dear shoulder. 
 
 There was no fear of his being angry, but a 
 pang of jealousy shot through Floride's heart as 
 she watched them together. They were so wrapt 
 up in each other that they did not even see her. 
 She picked up her basket, and was about to steal 
 away, when Frank lifted his head from its rest- 
 ing place, and said : "Mamma, it's Floride, my 
 little nurse." 
 
 Then Mrs. Laine smiled at her radiantly, and 
 putting an arm around her, said: "My dear lit- 
 tle girl," in a way that meant more than all the 
 thanks in the world. 
 
 "Have you come to stay?" asked Frank, eager- 
 
FLORIDE^S PATIENT 111 
 
 ly, and when she answered, "Yes, my darling," 
 he sank back on his pillow, worn out with ex- 
 citepient, but perfectly happy. 
 
 It was some time before he opened his eyes 
 again, and then he looked at Floride, and said, 
 brightly: "I'm going to get well now." 
 
 And he kept his word. 
 
A RELIC-HUNTER'S STRANGE 
 EXPERIENCE 
 
 The Tale of a Mysterious Bombardment 
 
 rpRANK MORELEY had scarcely passed 
 from his last skirts to his first trousers when 
 he became known as the most persistent "col- 
 lector" in his native town. He began, under 
 the direction of his mother, with pressed flow- 
 ers ; then in succession he collected marbles and 
 tops; a year later his assortment of birds' eggs 
 were envied by every boy in town, and he after- 
 wards exhibited at the county fair a collection 
 of stuffed birds which attracted the attention of 
 a prominent naturalist Of course he attempted 
 to collect coins, and was finally discouraged by 
 the expense of securing a "full set" of anything 
 - — even American cents. When he grew old 
 enough to write in manly fashion, he spent all 
 his pocket money for stamps and stationery with 
 
 112 
 
A RELIC-HUNTER'S EXPERIENCE 113 
 
 which to solicit autographs of distinguished per- 
 sonages. 
 
 When the Civil War broke out Frank im- 
 portuned every volunteer of his acquaintance to 
 send him something — it mattered not what — 
 from fort or field, and as he was himself an 
 obliging fellow, his acquaintances responded so 
 freely that Frank's room soon looked like a junk- 
 shop, or a museum constructed from the con- 
 tents of a rubbish heap. 
 
 Finally Frank grew old enough to go to the 
 war himself, and from that time forward he 
 addressed himself to his favorite pursuit with 
 an industry that was equally amusing and amaz- 
 ing to the veterans among whom he was a re- 
 cruit. Nothing came amiss : a bit of the saddle- 
 cloth of a distinguished general; a broken bay- 
 onet from an abandoned Confederate camp; a 
 green cotton umbrella which an escaping 
 slave said had belonged to an ex-Governor 
 of Virginia; two bricks which Frank him- 
 self extracted from the wall of the Colonial 
 powder-house at Williamsburg; a shingle from 
 a house in which Washington was said to have 
 passed a night, were among the treasures which 
 Frank brought into the tent, only six feet square, 
 
114 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 in which he and three other soldiers lived while 
 in camp. 
 
 Frank's comrades merely laughed at these 
 things, but when the young collector endeavored 
 to make room for an entire window-sash, five 
 feet wide, two feet high, and full of diamond- 
 shaped panes of glass of the last century, the 
 other inmates of the tent objected so strongly 
 that Frank had to bribe a hospital steward to 
 secrete the precious "find" under an invalid's 
 bed. 
 
 What troubled the young soldier most, how- 
 ever, was that he was unable to secure any real 
 war relics — mementos of great battles. His 
 regiment, like most others in the cavalry service, 
 did much hard work, but seldom — indeed, never, 
 during Frank's early martial days — took part in 
 a hard fight. But one day the Confederates 
 made a reconnoissance in force towards the lit- 
 tle post at which the — th Cavalry was stationed, 
 and there was much powder burned, particular- 
 ly by a Union gun-boat, which steamed up a 
 little river on one flank, and fired many shells 
 over the woods at the enemy. 
 
 After the latter retired, and the cavalry re- 
 turned from a rather late pursuit, the regiment 
 
A RELIC-HUNTER'S EXPERIENCE 115 
 
 halted near the scene of the late engagement, 
 and Frank improved the opportunity to scour 
 the field for relics. His search was abundantly 
 rewarded, for he found several unexploded 
 shells, most of them very large. To carry them 
 all to camp was impossible, but Frank was fer- 
 tile in resources, so, after rolling one 30- pounder 
 shell in his overcoat and strapping it on his sad- 
 dle-bow, he lugged the others to a bit of woods 
 behind the abandoned house in which the picket 
 reserve was always quartered, laid them in a row 
 on the ground, placed rails from a neighboring 
 fence on each side and on top of them, and then 
 covered the whole with brush- wood, an immense 
 heap of which was close by. 
 
 "There!" said the relic-hunter to himself, 
 when his work was completed, "I don't believe 
 any other collector will ever find them. When- 
 ever I happen to be detailed for picket duty at 
 this post I can take one back to camp with me, 
 and some day I'll find a way to ship them all 
 home. What a fine lot they'll make to exchange 
 with other collectors for different things when 
 the war is over !" 
 
 About a fortnight later Frank was roused 
 from deep slumber in the middle of the night 
 
116 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 by the self-explaining bugle-call of ^'boots and 
 saddles." The regiment mounted quickly, and 
 went at a gallop through the little town, and out 
 in the direction of the recent reconnoissance and 
 fight. Nobody knew what was the matter, but 
 on passing the cavalry picket station itself — 
 guided, apparently, by the light of a fire which 
 somebody had made in the woods. Why they 
 had not fired more nobody knew, but there had 
 been enough to justify an alarm of the entire 
 post, and to establish the belief that fighting 
 would begin in bloody earnest as soon as day 
 dawned. So the cavalry remained "to horse" 
 all night, and a blacker or more rainy and utterly 
 miserable night Frank had never known. At 
 daybreak the cavalry advanced, a section of 
 artillery being with the advance, and scoured 
 the country ; but not a native — not even a friend- 
 ly negro — had seen one of the enemy within a 
 fortnight. 
 
 It was very strange — it was also very weari- 
 some ; so as soon as the regiment was again with- 
 in the picket lines the colonel ordered a halt and 
 rest. Frank was fearfully sleepy; he was also 
 hungry; but he was consoled by the thought 
 that now he could secure and carry to camp one 
 
A RELIC-HUNTER'S EXPERIENCE 117 
 
 of his hidden relics ; so he made his way towards 
 the woods behind the station. 
 
 He did not find the brush heap, nor even the 
 rails, but just where he had hidden the shells — 
 he was certain as to the place, for it was very 
 near an old pine-tree with a peculiar axe-mark 
 on the trunk — ^was a hole as large as a cellar, 
 and beside it stood the colonel of the regiment 
 and the captain of the picket guard. They were 
 in earnest conversation, and Frank heard the 
 Colonel say: 
 
 "I never heard of such extraordinary artil- 
 lery practice. You say the fire in the woods was 
 just here?" 
 
 "The very place," said the captain. "There 
 was a great brush heap here, and some fellow 
 set it on fire, I suppose, while lighting his pipe. 
 Of course when we saw it there was no way to 
 extinguish it." 
 
 "I suppose not," said the colonel; "but how 
 could the enemy have got the range so exactly? 
 They must have used the same gun each time, 
 and plumped their shells in exactly the same 
 spot." 
 
 "That isn't possible," said the captain. "Some 
 of the explosions were much louder than others, 
 
118 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 SO there must have been guns of different cali- 
 bre." 
 
 "It's a mystery," said the colonel, after eying 
 the hole all over, as if looking for an explana- 
 tion. "I can't understand it at all." 
 
 "I can," said Frank to himself, turning 
 abruptly and walking away. "I see it all. That 
 brush heap took fire, the fence rails burned, too, 
 the shells became red-hot, and one by one they 
 burst just where they lay. And that is the end 
 of the finest collection of war relics I ever saw. 
 Oh, dear!" 
 
 Then, like a dutiful soldier, Frank started 
 back to tell the colonel how the supposed shell- 
 ing of the station occurred, but he met the offi- 
 cer sauntering back to his command, and look- 
 ing so tired and cross, as the result of a wakeful 
 night, that the young soldier quickly concluded 
 that he would wait for a more appropriate time. 
 Rejoining his comrades, Frank thought that he 
 would at least tell somebody, but a full half of 
 the men were asleep, and the others were saying 
 such dreadful things about the enemy who had 
 been mean enough to keep two or three thousand 
 men awake all night without the privilege of 
 trying to get even in the morning, that the young 
 
A RELIC-HUNTER'S EXPERIENCE 119 
 
 relic-hunter again determined to say nothing 
 until a better time occurred. 
 
 So he kept his secret for more than twenty 
 years, and then he accidentally met his old 
 colonel, took him home to dinner, showed a lot 
 of relics he had picked up in the later years of 
 the war, and then told him the story substan- 
 tially as it is told here. 
 
CLARE'S RIDE 
 How a Boy Saved the Third Troop 
 
 ^HE FOURTH CAVALRY is a fine regi- 
 -*• ment, and has won a splendid reputation for 
 coolness and courage ; but of all its achievements, 
 it is prouder of none than Clare's ride. 
 
 In the first place, it really was a gallant under- 
 taking, and one that the boldest veteran might 
 have shrunk from ; then, Clare was only twelve 
 years old at the time, which was in the old days 
 of Indian fighting in the West. Clare's father 
 was a captain of the Third Troop, which was 
 stationed at Fort Beaver, a small frontier post 
 in the White River country. Clare's mother 
 was dead, and since his ninth year the boy had 
 lived with his father at the fort. 
 
 Though, of course, not a regularly enlisted 
 member of the regiment, Clare regarded him- 
 self as belonging to it. He wore the uniform, 
 turned out to guard mount at daybreak, attended 
 
 120 
 
CLARE'S RIDE 121 
 
 drills, and performed the duties assigned to him 
 ;with the promptness and precision of an old 
 soldier, Clare's father believed that the disci- 
 pline of military life would be of service to the 
 boy in after years. It must be admitted that 
 when roused out of a sound sleep by the bugle- 
 call on a cold winter morning, Clare would 
 gladly have turned over in his warm bed for 
 just one more nap. But he remembered what 
 his friend. Sergeant Tom, once said : "If a man 
 is afraid of the weather, what will he be when 
 it comes to bullets?" And so, though he yawned, 
 rubbed his eyes, and shivered a good deal, he 
 was never late at roll-call. 
 
 There was not a man in the regiment who did 
 not love the little fellow, with his frank, serious 
 face, and his quaint, dignified air. And not one 
 of them but saluted him as respectfully as if he 
 had really been an officer. It was because they 
 knew that from the tips of his small cavalry 
 boots, with their jingling spurs, to the crown of 
 his blue cap, with its crossed sabres, Clare was 
 a gentleman, and would sooner have lost his 
 right hand than tell a lie or carry a tale. "If 
 that boy," remarked Sergeant Tom, "should say 
 that he had seen a drove of elephants out on 
 
122 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 the plain yonder, I should believe him, for it 
 would be true." 
 
 During Clare's three years' experience as a 
 soldier, the Indians had remained quiet, and the 
 most exciting event w^hich had occurred in all 
 that time was a chase after strayed cattle, in 
 which he had taken part. But now there began 
 to be rumors of trouble. The Sioux on the 
 neighboring reservation were said to be prepar- 
 ing for war. Clare noticed that his father looked 
 grave, and that there were frequent consulta- 
 tions between the officers. The stockade, or high 
 wall of logs driven into the ground and bolted 
 firmly together, which constituted the defences 
 of the fort, was repaired and strengthened. 
 Rifles and sabres were cleaned and polished. 
 Sentries were doubled on the platforms over- 
 looking the plain, and strict orders were issued, 
 forbidding any soldier to leave the fort. 
 
 From his bedroom window in the upper story 
 of the officers' quarters, Clare often saw wild- 
 looking figures, in plumed head-dresses, career- 
 ing swiftly to and fro on their wiry little ponies, 
 far off on the prairie. Miles away, below the 
 level horizon-line, tall columns of smoke rose 
 up against the blue sky, and melted into the clear 
 
CLARETS RIDE 123 
 
 air. Sergeant Tom said that these smokes were 
 signals, by means of which the scattered parties 
 of Indians communicated with each other at a 
 distance. 
 
 Day after day went by, and Clare began to 
 think that the Indians meant no harm, after all. 
 He saw, too, that his father and the other officers 
 looked more cheerful. Only Sergeant Tom 
 shook his head, and said: "Wait!" 
 
 One afternoon Clare sat in his room working 
 out an example on his slate. It was warm, and 
 the whirring of the locusts in the long grass of 
 the prairie coming through the open window 
 made him drowsy. Two or three times he nod- 
 ded over the table, and at last he must really 
 have fallen asleep, for the next he knew there 
 was a sudden tumult of shouts and cries, tramp- 
 ling of hoofs, and firing of guns. Then came 
 the quick, sharp notes of the bugle sounding the 
 alarm. 
 
 He ran to the window and looked out. The 
 whole plain seemed alive with Indians, wheel- 
 ing and galloping hither and thither. Some of 
 the men on the platforms were firing over the 
 edge of the stockade; others were hurrying 
 across the parade-ground, buckling on their 
 
124 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 belts as they went. In the middle of the open 
 space he saw his father, with his sword drawn, 
 looking very calm and brave as he issued his or- 
 ders. 
 
 With his heart beating rapidly, Clare put on 
 his cap and ran down-stairs. At the door he met 
 Sergeant Tom, who smiled as he saw the boy. 
 
 "Well, lad," he said, "you are going to see 
 some real soldiering now. Are you frightened, 
 Clare?" 
 
 "A little," admitted Clare. 
 
 "That's because you are not used to the busi- 
 ness," said Sergeant Tom. "When you have 
 seen as many skirmishes as I have, you won't 
 mind a bit of a brush like this." And shoulder- 
 ing his rifle, he marched off toward the stockade, 
 as erect and cool as if on drill. 
 
 After their first repulse, the Indians drew 
 back out of range of the marksmen in the fort, 
 but apparently with no intention of giving up 
 the attack. Spreading out in such a way as to 
 surround the stockade on all sides, they dis- 
 mounted from their ponies, placed sentinels to 
 keep a close watch upon the movements of the 
 whites, and prepared to camp for the night. 
 
 The sun went down, and darkness stole slow- 
 
CLARE'S RIDE 125 
 
 ly over the wide surface of the prairie. Never 
 had the sight seemed so solemn to Clare, and 
 for a moment his stout little heart sank in his 
 breast, and the tears welled into his eyes. But 
 he dashed them away, with a feeling of shame ; 
 for there, on the platform beneath his window, 
 was Sergeant Tom, pacing to and fro, with his 
 rifle on his arm, whistling softly as he walked. 
 Nevertheless, he could not shake off the gloomy 
 thoughts that had seized him, and presently he 
 resolved to go down and talk with his father. 
 
 When he reached the bottom of the stairs, 
 however, he heard the sound of voices in his 
 father's room. As he turned to go up-stairs 
 again, he heard his own name mentioned. It 
 was his father who was speaking. 
 
 "If it were not for my poor little Clare," he 
 was saying, "I could face it better. I should 
 have sent him away at the first rumor, but no 
 one believed that there would be any serious 
 trouble." 
 
 "You think that we are in a tight place, cap- 
 tain?" said another voice. 
 
 "You can judge for yourself," responded the 
 captain. "The Indians number fully five hun- 
 
126 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 dred, and we have but thirty men to defend the 
 fort with." 
 
 "There are the six troops at Stanley, only 
 twenty miles away." 
 
 "It might as well be two hundred, for we 
 have no means of getting word to them in time. 
 According to the custom of these Indians, we 
 shall be attacked in force at daybreak to-mor- 
 row, and against a combined rush we could not 
 hold out half an hour." 
 
 "With your permission, captain," said a voice 
 which had not hitherto taken part in the con- 
 versation, "I will make a dash for it. With a 
 good horse — " 
 
 "Impossible, lieutenant! You would not go 
 a furlong. No; we must do our best to beat 
 them off until help arrives." 
 
 There was a long pause. "Let us go to our 
 posts, gentlemen. If the worst comes, we can 
 but do our duty." 
 
 Clare crept up-stairs, and sat down in the 
 dark to think. For a time he was sick with the 
 terror of what he had overheard ; then his cour- 
 age began to come back to him, and with it q 
 great resolve. He would save the fort! 
 
 A day or two before he had discovered b^ 
 
CLARE'S RIDE 127 
 
 chance, at the foot of the stockade behind the 
 stable, a hole which, by a little digging, he could 
 enlarge sufficiently to crawl through. He had 
 meant to speak of this hole to Sergeant Tom, 
 but in the excitement of the attack he had for- 
 gotten to do so. He was glad of it now, for that 
 hole was an important part of the plan he meant 
 to carry out. 
 
 At some distance from the fort there was a 
 deep ditch or gully, probably the bed of a dried- 
 up creek. Looking from his window at sunset, 
 Clare had observed at the bottom of this gully a 
 number of horses, fastened by halters, belonging 
 to the savages. 
 
 Now the whole surface of the prairie was 
 covered with tall, thick grass, and a person pass- 
 ing through the hole in the stockade might, with 
 great caution, work his way to the gully where 
 the horses were. This was Clare's plan. 
 
 Pulling off his boots, with their noisy spurs, 
 he crept softly down-stairs in his stocking-feet. 
 Keeping in the shadow of the buildings, he man- 
 aged to reach the stockade unseen by those with- 
 in. It was the work of a very few minutes to 
 dig away the soft earth so that he could squeeze 
 through. Once outside, the real danger of his 
 
128 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 attempt came upon him with overwhelming 
 force, turning him faint. But he resolutely 
 shook off his weakness, and began crawling 
 towards the gully on his hands and knees. 
 
 That terrible journey seemed long hours to 
 Clare. Every instant he expected to hear the 
 yell of discovery and the whiz of a rifle-ball. 
 Once, indeed, he was very near detection. One 
 of the Indian sentinels sauntered past within a 
 dozen feet of where he lay prone in the grass. 
 Hardly breathing until the sound of the man's 
 footsteps died away, he resumed his crawl, and 
 in a few minutes more found himself on the 
 edge of the gully. 
 
 He slid softly down, and approached one of 
 the horses, tied a little apart from the other ani- 
 mals. Fortunately for Clare, it was not an In- 
 dian pony, which might have been unruly, but 
 a well-broken horse, stolen from some white 
 settler. It had neither saddle nor bridle, but 
 Clare was used to riding bare-back. Leading 
 the animal slowly down the gully until he be- 
 lieved himself at a safe distance, he urged him 
 up the sloping bank to the plain above, mounted 
 him, and set off at a wild gallop. The events of 
 that strange ride seemed like a dream to Clare, 
 
CLARE'S RIDE 129 
 
 and he could hardly realize that he had done 
 the twenty miles, when the sharp challenge of 
 the sentry caused him to pull up his steaming 
 horse. 
 
 "Clare! You here alone at this time of the 
 night!" 
 
 It required but a dozen words to explain his 
 errand. The major in command of the detach- 
 ment was a thorough soldier, and in a very few 
 minutes two hundred stout troopers were in 
 their saddles, and, led by the major, beside 
 whom rode Clare on a fresh horse, they started 
 off at a sharp trot. 
 
 Clare was tortured by the dread that the re- 
 lief would arrive too late. Every now and then 
 he glanced anxiously at the eastern horizon for 
 signs of the coming dawn. 
 
 "Take it easy, Clare," said the major, in re- 
 sponse to the boy's request that the speed of the 
 squadron should be quickened. "Those rascals 
 won't attack till daybreak, and we shall get there 
 in time to catch them in the rear and do them up 
 nicely, never you fear." 
 
 And so they rode on over the silent prairie 
 under the large stars, with thumps of hoofs, 
 creaking of saddle-leathers, and jingle of bits 
 
130 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 and spurs. At last Clare's quick eye detected a 
 pale, milky glow low down in the eastern sky; 
 and now they were within a mile of the fort. 
 Making a detour to avoid the gully which Clare 
 had crossed, the detachment was halted under 
 cover of a slight rise of ground. 
 
 Brighter and brighter grew the glow in the 
 east, until the stern features of the men, drawn 
 up in two long lines, were visible in the gray 
 light. Suddenly the far-off whiplike crack of a 
 rifle came to their ears on the gentle morning 
 air, followed by a continuous rattle. The at- 
 tack had begun. 
 
 The major straightened himself in his saddle, 
 and drew his sabre with a clang. "Quick, 
 march!" 
 
 The men moved off steadily, increasing their 
 pace as they rode. Rounding the hillock, Clare 
 saw hundreds of dark figures rushing towards 
 the stockade, from the top of which sprang a 
 wavering fringe of fire. He heard the major 
 give an order in a loud, stern voice ; then he was 
 whirled onward in a mad confusion of rearing 
 horses, shouting men, crashing guns, and flash- 
 ing sabres. 
 
 He remembered nothing more distinctly until 
 
CLARETS RIDE 131 
 
 he heard some one crying, "Shoulder high!" 
 and found himself being borne through the gates 
 of the fort by a dozen cheering men, among 
 whom he recognized Sergeant Tom, with pow- 
 der-blackened face, waving his cap and yelling 
 like an Indian. 
 
 Later, when the enemy had been driven miles 
 over the prairie, and scattered in every direc- 
 tion, the men were drawn up in lines on the 
 parade-ground, and calling Clare to his side, the 
 major made an address which caused the boy to 
 turn very red, though it was not to be denied he 
 felt very proud, too. 
 
 After this. Sergeant Tom, stepping out of the 
 line, said : "Three cheers for Clare! Now, then, 
 with a will!" 
 
 The roar that went up shook the very colors 
 on the flag-staff, and rolled far and wide over 
 the prairie. Then the bugle sounded a lively 
 air, and the men dispersed to their quarters, and 
 Clare, his father, and the major went to break- 
 fast. 
 
 And this was Clare's famous ride. 
 
HOW HO-TO-OTO BECAME A 
 RECRUIT 
 
 The Tale of an Indian Soldier 
 
 TT was a cold, dismal day in early summer. 
 ^ The wind blew sharply from the north, the 
 sky was dark and cloudy, the ground wet from 
 the morning's sleet. Old Chief Troyka, driving 
 home from the mission church, buttoned his long 
 coat more tightly about him, and with a dis- 
 gusted "Ugh!" at such uncomfortable weather, 
 plied his whip vigorously over the backs of his 
 two rough-coated cayuses. The ponies, on feel- 
 ing the lash, looked, if possible, a little more un- 
 happy than an Indian pony usually looks, but 
 otherwise scorned to notice the indignity, and 
 steadfastly refrained from hastening the gait 
 they had themselves chosen. So Troyka, feeling 
 unequal to a contest with them just then, gave 
 another grunt of discontent, and settled back in 
 his seat beside his passive squaw. 
 
 132 
 
HO-TO-OTO BECOMES A RECRUIT 133 
 
 Wenatchee was not only passive, but was, in 
 spite of disagreeable weather and obstreperous 
 ponies, perfectly content. And why should she 
 not be? Was she not arrayed in a new green 
 woolen dress, with a tasteful blue shawl over it, 
 and a wonderful "store" hat with red feathers? 
 And wasn't she holding aloft a tremendous green 
 cotton umbrella — up for neither sun, rain, nor 
 snow? But, then, every one doesn't possess um- 
 brellas, and though Wenatchee was not unduly 
 proud, she did love to display her fine posses- 
 sions. And above all else, was she not seated in 
 the springy wagon by the side of her lordly hus- 
 band, instead of trudging along the road, as she 
 had done in days gone by? Indeed, Wenatchee 
 had nothing to complain of. Moreover, she had 
 not Troyka's main cause of discontent. She 
 knew well that neither weather nor ponies were 
 disturbing the old chief, nor were his thoughts 
 dwelling upon the sermon or the church they 
 had just left. She knew that they were hovering 
 angrily and painfully about the unpainted log 
 cabin next to the church — the gloomy "skookum- 
 house," in which at that moment his sister's son 
 Ho-to-oto was confined. 
 
134 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 It was only last week that old Holos-nin, a 
 neighbor of Troyka's, who bore the chief a last- 
 ing grudge because he had once caused his son 
 to be sent to the skookum-house for petty theft, 
 met Troyka on the road by the agency, and said : 
 
 ^'How ! Troyka ! A cattle-thief is worse than 
 a plough-thief, isn't he?" 
 
 "Much worse," replied Troyka, astonished. 
 
 "And gets a longer time in the skookum-house, 
 doesn't he?" 
 
 "Much longer. But you know, Holos-nin. 
 Why do you ask?" 
 
 "I Only wanted to remind you of it, so that 
 you wouldn't forget when you came to try your 
 sister's son Ho-to-oto for stealing my cattle — 
 three of them." 
 
 "Stealing your cattle? Ho-to-oto? What do 
 you mean, Holos-nin?" 
 
 "What I say. They've been stolen, and sold 
 to a butcher in Davenport?" 
 
 "Well, Ho-to-oto didn't do it." 
 
 "Who else did, then ; tell me? Who would do 
 it but Ho-to-oto, that good-for-nothing, lazy In- 
 dian, who spends his time wandering over the 
 plains while we are ploughing our land? We'll 
 see what the other judges think!" 
 
HO-TO-OTO BECOMES A RECRUIT 135 
 
 "They can think, and you can talk, Holos-nin ; 
 but it will take more than your word to put Ho- 
 to-oto in the skookum-house. It will take a wit- 
 ness." 
 
 So Troyka had answered in his indignation, 
 but his heart had been troubled, and when 
 Wenatchee had chimed in afterwards, with 
 abuse of Ho-to-oto for bringing disgrace on his 
 mother's brother, he had said nothing. 
 
 For Ho-to-oto was idle. He wouldn't go to 
 school, and he wouldn't work. Ploughing and 
 reading were alike distasteful to him. The wild 
 flowers grew on his barren, unbroken land, and 
 his ragged tepee fluttered in the wind in sight 
 of his neighbors' well-built houses. And be- 
 cause of these things the rest of the tribe had a 
 contempt for him. For they were a civilized, 
 thrifty, self-respecting group of Indians, who 
 tilled their own farms, raised their own crops, 
 sent their children to the mission school, and 
 drove to church every Sunday in their own 
 spring wagons and buck-boards. 
 
 And Troyka was the big man of the tribe: 
 the largest cattle-owner, the most prosperous 
 farmer, and one of the three judges, as well as 
 hereditary chief. 
 
136 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 And now this proud old man, who had always 
 respected himself and held his head so high, 
 was to suffer disgrace through his nephew; for 
 Holos-nin had found a witness, and the Indian 
 police had accordingly brought Ho-to-oto into 
 the agency the day before, and confined him in 
 the skookum-house to await his trial the follow- 
 ing Saturday. 
 
 Ho-to-oto had not stolen the cattle, for he was 
 honest, if he was idle, and at first he had laughed 
 at the accusation ; but when he heard there was 
 a witness against him, he grew troubled, for he 
 had spent the whole day wandering, gun in hand, 
 over the brown, barren plains that he loved, and 
 he had not seen an Indian who could testify 
 where he had been. 
 
 He wished now, for the first time in his life, 
 that he had stayed at home instead and ploughed 
 his land, where the scrubby "grease-wood" of 
 the prairie still grew. If he had only heeded 
 his uncle's advice, and sometimes worked a lit- 
 tle, instead of always following his own desires 
 and going hunting or fishing! 
 
 Fishing! Ho-to-oto strained his ears to hear 
 the roar and rush of the river below as it swept 
 along, swirling past the rocks, dashing up 
 
HO-TO-OTO BECOMES A RECRUIT 137 
 
 against the big cliffs, and tossing about the great 
 logs on their way down to the Columbia as 
 though they were mere bits of bark. When 
 could he stand on the rocks in mid-river again? 
 
 It didn't comfort him much in his imprison- 
 ment to know that his uncle, who was fond of 
 him and believed him innocent, would be one 
 of the judges. If the other two found him guil- 
 ty, the majority would rule, and he would have 
 to be punished. 
 
 And Ho-to-oto knew what the punishment 
 would be — a long imprisonment in the skookum- 
 house, shut away from the sunshine and the wide 
 sweep of the prairies; away from the foaming 
 water and the gleaming fish ; where he could not 
 feel the fresh air on his cheek or hear the wind 
 making strange sounds through the pines, or 
 roam at will over the hills. 
 
 Those were bitter thoughts to Ho-to-oto, yet 
 even they were forgotten in the one bitterest 
 thought of all — they would cut off his hair : his 
 long, straight, black hair, that hung in thick, 
 matted strands half-way to his waist, would be 
 shorn, and the short, stubby ends would tell of 
 his disgrace long after he would be out of prison. 
 
 The day of Ho-to-oto's trial dawned bright 
 
138 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 and fair. Early in the morning all the Indians 
 of the tribe came thronging into the agency. A 
 strange, picturesque-looking crowd they were, 
 the men with their long hair, and the squaws in 
 their many-colored clothes. Indeed, these latter 
 were wonderful to look upon, in skirts of every 
 hue, with bright red, green, or purple plaid 
 shawls and brilliant handkerchiefs, topped with 
 gay head-cloths or still gayer hats. 
 
 But the Indians were not the only ones who 
 were to be present at the trial. Over in the fort 
 across the river a young cavalry officer swung 
 himself on his horse and cantered swiftly down 
 the line, followed by a stiff, solemn-faced ser- 
 geant, also on horseback. He was bound for the 
 agency, under orders from his commander to 
 see if he could induce any of the Indians to enlist 
 as soldiers. 
 
 As the two men clattered down the long, steep 
 hill to the river, the Indians, having tied their 
 horses to the fence around the agency, passed 
 into the court-room. The three judges took their 
 seats on the platform at one end of the room, old 
 Troyka in the middle, and an lidian policeman 
 was sent to the skookum-house for the prisoner. 
 
 Ho-to-oto came and stood at the left of the 
 
HO-TO-OTO BECOMES A RECRUIT 139 
 
 judges, sunk in despair. Then, all being present, 
 old Holos-nin was ordered to tell his story. 
 Just as he commenced, the riders from the post 
 reached the bridge, and after stopping a mo- 
 ment to breathe their horses, began the ascent 
 on the other side. 
 
 When Holos-nin finished his long-winded ac- 
 count, Ho-to-oto was asked what he had to say. 
 In a hopeless tone the poor fellow told how he 
 had gone off that day far beyond Huckleberry 
 Mountain and the big swamp, and had not got- 
 ten back until ten at night. Now Huckleberry 
 Mountain was in exactly the opposite direction 
 from the little town where the cattle had been 
 taken to be sold, and no one could possibly get 
 to both places on the same day. So one of the 
 judges asked : 
 
 "Did any one see you going to Huckleberry 
 Mountain, Ho-to-oto? Have you a witness to 
 prove you were there?" 
 
 "A white man, a soldier, saw me," replied Ho- 
 to-oto, drearily. "He was hunting, too, and I 
 sold him four birds. I don't know who he was." 
 
 Several Indians in the room grunted con- 
 temptuously at this, and Holos-nin laughed. 
 
140 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "Have you a witness, Holos-nin?" next asked 
 the judge. 
 
 "Yes," replied the old Indian. "Here he is," 
 whereupon a young Indian in a brown coat 
 stepped forward and told how he had passed 
 Ho-to-oto driving the three cattle into Daven- 
 port. 
 
 The judges looked grave ; Troyka's heart was 
 troubled, and Holos-nin laughed again. He 
 thought Troyka wouldn't hold his head quite so 
 high after his sister's son was imprisoned. 
 
 At that moment there was a clatter in the 
 doorway; a young cavalry officer and a solemn- 
 faced sergeant came clanking into the room, ac- 
 companied by the Indian agent. 
 
 Ho-to-oto started forward, laughing himself 
 now. "There he is!" he exclaimed, pointing to 
 the new-comers. "There's my witness ! There's 
 the solider who bought my birds!" 
 
 "Hullo!" exclaimed the sergeant, who didn't 
 understand a word Ho-to-oto was saying. "Ex- 
 cuse me, sir, but that's a young chap who sold me 
 some birds a week or so ago. He seems to be 
 talking to me. What's it about, John?" 
 
 At this the Indian agent spoke up, and after 
 
HO-TO-OTO BECOMES A RECRUIT 141 
 
 translating what the agent had said, asked the 
 judges of what Ho-to-oto was accused. 
 
 Explanations followed amid much excite- 
 ment, and before long the brown-coated Indian, 
 who afterwards turned out to have been the thief 
 himself, was detained as prisoner in Ho-to-oto's 
 place, and Ho-to-oto was set free. 
 
 He didn't exult loudly; he simply walked out 
 of the court-room, and seated himself on a log 
 outside to think. 
 
 It had come home to him forcibly what a poor 
 opinion the tribe had of him, that no one had 
 volunteered a word in his behalf, and his heart 
 was very sore. 
 
 Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice that any 
 one had approached till he felt a tap on his 
 shoulder, and looking up saw the friendly face 
 of the young officer and the solemn sergeant, and 
 heard the agent ask him if he wouldn't like to 
 be a soldier. 
 
 And so it came to pass that one bright, sunny 
 day, two weeks later, old Troyka and Wenatchee 
 got into the spring wagon again, and drove down 
 to the bridge and up the steep hill to the post. 
 And there, out on the green parade-ground, in 
 all the glory of his uniform, was Ho-to-oto, 
 
142 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 marching and counter-marching, and bending 
 and kneeling, and pointing his gun this way and 
 that, in company with some half-dozen other 
 Indian recruits, under the command of the 
 young officer. 
 
 Troyka was immensely proud now of his 
 sister's son as he gazed at him in his trim blue 
 suit and important air. And as for Wenatchee, 
 her opinion of him completely changed at sight 
 of the brass buttons, and she chanted his praises 
 in her soft, guttural tones, as enthusiastically as 
 she had formerly abused him. 
 
 Ho-to-oto himself had learned a lesson, and 
 showed it by his determination that the army 
 should not suffer through any laziness of his. 
 His drill was a serious matter with him; his 
 uniform was even more serious; and as for his 
 short hair — ^well, it is one thing to have your 
 hair cut off because you are considered a thief, 
 and quite another to be shorn for glory's sake, to 
 mark you a soldier — a noble Indian recruit of 
 the United States army. 
 
"SCAPEGRACE" 
 ^A Story of a Great Railroad Strike 
 
 npHERE was one boy at Fort Ransom who 
 ^ was foolish enough to wish that there were 
 no such things as women in the world, and that 
 was Captain Grace's ten-year-old Tommy. 
 There weren't very many of them in Tommy's 
 own world, to be sure, and yet there seemed to 
 be so many from without "coming in and inter- 
 fering with a feller," as he expressed it. We 
 all know the old adage, "What is everybody's 
 business is nobody's business," but Tommy — on 
 the principle probably that it was a poor rule 
 that wouldn't work both ways — had long since 
 made up his mind that people read the thing 
 t'other side foremost, and, so far as he was con- 
 cerned, what was really nobody's business 
 seemed everybody's business. 
 
 It was nobody's business, for instance, that he 
 should like to wear a little beaded buckskin shirt 
 
 143 
 
144 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 that his father had made for him among the 
 Sioux Indians, but the mothers of other boys in 
 the garrison, boys who hadn't a Sioux hunting- 
 shirt, used to come to Captain Grace, or to Aunt 
 'Ria, and protest against his being allowed to 
 run wild in such heathenish garments. 
 
 It was nobody's business, thought Tommy, 
 that he should prefer to spend his holidays four 
 miles away from the fort, among the railway 
 men at the round-house, where all the locomo- 
 tives of the division were in turn "stabled" and 
 oiled and cleaned and fired ; but other boys were 
 not allowed to go, and, boy-like, upbraided their 
 mothers, who accordingly upbraided Aunt 'Ria. 
 It was nobody's business that his father gave 
 Tommy for his own purposes the stupendous 
 sum of twenty-five cents a week for spending- 
 money, stipulating only one thing — that not a 
 cent should ever go for cigarettes ; but there were 
 many good and devout women at the fort who 
 declared to Aunt 'Ria that this was simply 
 throwing money away, and snaring the young- 
 ster's path with temptation. "No boy of mine," 
 said more than one mamma, "shall ever be al- 
 lowed to carry about him the means of indulg- 
 ing vicious tastes." And no one was more de- 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 145 
 
 cided on this point than the chaplain's good wife, 
 whose own boy had been the means of making 
 Tommy acquainted with cigarettes the year be- 
 fore. 
 
 In fact, it was because of his refusal to con- 
 tribute more than one-fifth of his weekly allow- 
 ance to the fund for the Sunday-school Christ- 
 mas Tree that had led the lady superintendent to 
 refer to him as Scape Grace, instead of Tommy. 
 "Give a dog a bad name," said the adage, and 
 as with a dog so with a boy. Fort Ransom took 
 up the name with a zest which was born of a 
 propensity for teasing rather than any spirit of 
 unkindness, but it stuck, as often will the most 
 undeserved of names or reputations, and Tommy 
 Grace, through no real fault of his own, became 
 the scapegrace of the big garrison. 
 
 It was anything but fair to the little fellow. 
 He was just as square and^ honest and well-mean- 
 ing a boy as there was in the whole community. 
 Ransom was quite a large post, far out across 
 the wide, wind-swept prairies of the West, and 
 near the bustling railway town of Butteville — 
 generally named Butte for short. Here were 
 stationed during the year gone by the head- 
 quarters and eight companies of a regiment of 
 
146 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "regular" infantry, and one of these companies 
 was commanded by Captain Grace. Tommy's 
 lot might have been a very different one but for 
 a fact you have probably already surmised — 
 that he had lost his mother. Five years before, 
 w^hen he was a little bit of a chap, a severe and 
 sudden illness had swept her from their sight 
 almost before they could realize that she was in 
 danger. Tommy was too young to know what 
 he had lost, but the blow was a bitter one to his 
 soldier father. Not for long months did he re- 
 turn to the regiment after taking her to her far- 
 away Eastern home for burial, and when he did 
 the captain brought with him his sister, a 
 maiden lady of nearly his own age, the only 
 thing in the world he could think of as a partial 
 substitute for Tommy's mother. 
 
 Aunt 'Ria had no experience in taking care 
 of children, but she had all manner of theories 
 as to how they should be reared and managed. 
 As a result poor Tommy's early boyhood proved 
 to be a period of curiously varying experiments. 
 What was right and proper for him to do one 
 month was all wrong the next, and by the time 
 hewas ten years old his ideas of boy rights and 
 wrongs might have become hopelessly confused 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 147 
 
 but for his own propensity for taking the bit 
 in his teeth, and bolting for advice and comfort 
 to his father himself. 
 
 "Never mind v^hat the trouble is, Tommy-— 
 never mind v^hether the fault is yours or some- 
 body else's — never be afraid to come and tell 
 me the whole story just as 'straight' as you know 
 how. Let me be your best friend, and I'll do my 
 best; only remember, Tom, 'the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth.' I don't care 
 what mischief you can get into or wrong you can 
 do so long as you tell me all about it. Conceal- 
 ment is what I should fear most" 
 
 "Poor little chap!" he said to himself, "he 
 has no mother to go to and sob out his troubles. 
 Boys hate to cry before their fathers, especially 
 soldier boys. I can't be his playmate, for boys 
 must have boys for that, but I can be his friend, 
 please God ! and teach him to trust me and con- 
 fide in me, and if he does get into scrapes they 
 can't be any worse than mine were." 
 
 And so, despite his name. Tommy wasn't par- 
 ticularly miserable except when Aunt 'Ria was 
 lecturing, or "those other women" were telling 
 him about what he should be or shouldn't be 
 doing, "if you were my boy." Captain Grace 
 
148 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 had taught him to stand respectfully and listen 
 to it all in silence, "just as I do, Tommy, when 
 the colonel finds fault with something in Com- 
 pany B, or when I'm officer of the day." 
 
 "But he has a right to," blurted Tommy; "he's 
 commanding officer. Now Mrs. Croly and 
 Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Darling, they haven't any 
 business telling Aunt 'Ria or me I shouldn't 
 do this or that so long as you approve." 
 
 "Never mind, Tommy. Every woman thinks 
 she has," said the philosophic captain. "It does 
 them good. It does you no harm, and we have 
 lots of fun over it between ourselves. So never 
 be rude or disrespectful." 
 
 The division superintendent at Butte was a 
 man just the age of Captain Grace, and from 
 early boyhood the two had been close friends. 
 Even after their separation, when young Grace 
 was sent to West Point, they had kept up their 
 correspondence, and great was the captain's 
 pleasure when the regiment was ordered down 
 "out of the Sioux country" and stationed at Ran- 
 som, mainly because it brought him once more 
 into close relations with George Rollins, his old- 
 time school chum and his life-long friend. 
 
 Promotion in railroading is almost as slow 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 149 
 
 as it is in the army, and Mr. Rollins at forty 
 was only a division superintendent, but every 
 one connected with "the road" was well aware 
 that better things were in store for him. Rollins 
 was still a bachelor, and he took instantly to 
 Master Tommy, and for a whole year that little 
 man had been learning all the mysteries of the 
 round-house, the shops, the train-despatcher's 
 office, and "the road" generally, for while on 
 Saturdays, and even, it must be owned, on oc- 
 casional Sunday afternoons, the captain and his 
 old friend were chatting together over old times. 
 Master Tommy, perched in the cab of the 
 switch-engine under care of "Mike" Farrell, the 
 engineer, was streaming up and down the yards, 
 darting from track to track, shunting cars from 
 shop to station, from storehouse to elevator, mak- 
 ing up trains and pulling them hither and yon, 
 and all the time his eyes and ears were wide 
 open, and he was practically bent on "learning 
 the business." 
 
 Farrell taught him the purpose and use of 
 every lever, rod, stop-cock, and gauge about the 
 engine ; let him ring the bell, whistle for brakes 
 or switches ; even, after a while, let him stand on 
 the engineer's instead of the fireman's bench at 
 
150 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 the side of the cab, and with Farrell's brawny, 
 hairy fist to guide, seize the throttle-valve with 
 his own boy hand and start the engine, increase 
 the steam, and shut it off. He learned how to 
 make a ^'gentle" start without jerk or strain; he 
 learned how to reverse and ^^back," although he 
 had not strength enough to throw the great 
 geared lever that Farrell handled so easily. He 
 learned all the science of "firing," so far as it 
 could be taught on a switch engine, and later 
 Mr. Rollins handed him over to the engineer 
 of the great transcontinental express trains, and 
 bid Ned Weston, who ran No. 615, the biggest 
 and most powerful passenger locomotive on the 
 mountain division, take him on his Saturdays as 
 far west as Summit Siding, away up at the top 
 of the range, and there present him to "Hank" 
 Lee, whose engine. No. 525, made the daily 
 down-grade run with the East-bound mail — a 
 light, swift train — from Summit to Butte in 
 forty-seven minutes. That was a glorious run, 
 and Tommy loved to tell of it ; so much so, that 
 other boys, and lots of them, grew tired or envi- 
 ous, or both; and even while secretly wishing 
 that they knew the division superintendent, and 
 that he would give them "the run of the road" 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 151 
 
 as he did Tommy Grace, they feigned to scorn 
 the whole business, and to ridicule Tommy's 
 railway friends, and sneer at his aims and aspira- 
 tions — for Tommy had long since decided he did 
 not mean to be a soldier ; he was going to be a 
 locomotive engineer. 
 
 "If I were Scapegrace," said one of his best 
 friends among the boys, "I'd shake books en- 
 tirely and stick to the round-house ; he's learned 
 that lesson, anyhow." 
 
 "If I were Captain Grace," said the school- 
 master, "I should require Thomas to spend his 
 Saturdays studying what he has missed during 
 the week, instead of wasting time among those 
 railway hands." 
 
 "And if I had any influence with Captain 
 Grace — or if Miss Grace had, either — some- 
 thing would be done to redeem that poor little 
 fellow," said more than one of the army mothers 
 at Ransom. "Think of the danger he is run- 
 ning." 
 
 But Captain Grace was deaf to protests of 
 this nature. He listened to what was said with 
 his quiet smile, spent his hour with Tommy 
 every evening over the slate and books, satisfied 
 himself that what the boy did know he knew 
 
152 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 thoroughly and well, and almost every Saturday 
 rode into Butte with him, and was there to meet 
 him when No. 4 (the mail train) came clanging 
 into the station late in the afternoon. Tommy's 
 cinder-streaked, chubby, happy face smiling at 
 him from the cab. 
 
 "That boy's going to be a boss engineer one 
 of these days, captain," said Mr. Lee one lovely 
 May evening. "I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Rol- 
 lins would have to start him as a fireman before 
 he's fourteen. The road '11 be glad to get a boy as 
 bright as Tommy. He can handle this old lady 
 now most as well as my fireman here," and Hank 
 patted affectionately the massive steel connect- 
 ing-rod of his "driving-wheels." 
 
 But neither engineer, nor captain, nor Tom- 
 my dreamed how soon, how very soon, "the 
 road" and all Fort Ransom would devoutly 
 thank Heaven that Scapegrace had learned rail- 
 roading better than he had arithmetic. 
 
 Leaving only a small detachment to guard 
 the fort. Colonel Wallace, with the regiment, 
 early in June, had marched away westward from 
 Ransom, had crossed the mountain range, and 
 had joined a force of infantry and cavalry 
 massed in the valley of the Beaver, ninety miles 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 153 
 
 away. There they were to spend two months in 
 manoeuvres under command of a general officer, 
 and there, right after the Fourth of July, some 
 of the boys were to join their fathers in camp — 
 Tommy among them. 
 
 But late in June came tidings of serious 
 troubles among the railway men at the East; 
 then the news that a general strike was threat- 
 ened, and all of a sudden some mysterious order 
 was flashed along the wires even to Butte and 
 beyond, and that day not another wheel turned 
 on the mountain division. In vain Mr. Rollins 
 argued and pleaded with his men. They hon- 
 ored him — they had no "grievance" with their 
 employers — but one and all they were members 
 of some one of the several railway men's 
 "Unions," sworn to obey the orders of their re- 
 spective chiefs, even against those of their fore- 
 men or superintendents, and the firemen, switch- 
 men, and certain trainmen had received the sig- 
 nal to strike, and though in almost every case it 
 was done with misgiving and reluctance, strike 
 they did. 
 
 Then the engineers tried to run their engines 
 with new hands for firemen, even in some cases 
 tried to "fire" for themselves. Then committees 
 
154 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 came and warned the new-comers off, and such 
 as would not obey were promptly pulled off and 
 kicked out of the yards. The next who tried 
 were stoned and beaten. Then deputy marshals 
 were called to protect the newly employed, and 
 then came riot. It was bad enough at Butte, 
 where the station and yards were in the hands 
 of railway men alone, but it was infinitely worse 
 in great cities to the east, where all the criminal 
 classes, the mass of tramps, loafers, and vaga- 
 bonds promptly turned out. The next thing 
 known at Ransom a million dollars' worth of 
 railway property was being burned and de- 
 stroyed ; the police and the sheriffs were beaten, 
 and the President ordered the "regulars" to the 
 scene. 
 
 Never will the boys of Fort Ransom forget 
 the evening of the 2d of July, when the despatch 
 was received that Colonel Wallace, with his 
 eight companies, on a special train, had started 
 from Beaver Station, and would pass through 
 Butte, eastward bound, at ten o'clock that very 
 night if nothing interfered. There was a mili- 
 tary telegraph line running from Ransom 
 through Bear's Paw Gap, miles north of the rail- 
 way, and so on through the mountains to the out- 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 155 
 
 lying forts in the Beaver Valley. That, as yet, 
 at leasts the strikers had not cut; but, all too soon, 
 they learned, through friends and sympathizers 
 among the railway telegraphers, that Mr. Rol- 
 lins had been able to make up a train ; and with 
 old No. 615 in the lead, big Ned Weston at the 
 throttle-valve, two of Uncle Sam's bluecoats for 
 firemen, and Captain Grace with six of his men 
 to back Mr. Rollins on the engine and tender, 
 and with the whole train bristling with bayonets, 
 Colonel Wallace and his regiment were coming 
 for all they were worth, bound to carry out their 
 orders if they had to cut their way through 
 Butte. 
 
 It was the nervous schoolmaster himself who 
 rushed out to the fort, and drove the women and 
 children wild with fear and excitement over the 
 next news — that the strikers had armed them- 
 selves, and that, with the hangers-on and the un- 
 employed about the town and the great array 
 from the repair-shops, a thousand determined 
 men had gathered, and meant to assault the 
 troop train — "if, indeed," said he, "it ever gets 
 as far as Butte. If a possible thing, wire to Sum- 
 mit siding and warn them." And wire the 
 quartermaster did, only to get reply: "Too late. 
 
156 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Troop train passed through at nine o'clock. 
 Should be at Butte now." 
 
 "Oh, if we only had Scapegrace with us now!" 
 was the wail of one poor wife and mother, "Is 
 there no way of warning? He knew every bit of 
 the track to the west. He should have ridden 
 out and done something." All the other boys 
 were safe at home within the fort gates, but not 
 since evening gun-fire had Tommy been seen. 
 "He took his pony, ma'am, and galloped away to 
 Butte like mad just before sundown," was all 
 the quatermaster sergeant could tell Aunt 'Ria, 
 before he himself mounted and rode away after 
 the quartermaster in the vain hope that it might 
 not yet be too late to "do something." 
 
 Down in the bottom of his heart the quarter- 
 master had no dread of any serious trouble once 
 the troop train got to Butte. Old Wallace knew 
 very well how to handle mobs, big or little; but 
 that long stretch of lonely, unprotected track 
 through the foot-hills to the west, that wooden 
 trestle, that Howe truss-bridge over Four-mile 
 Creek, suppose the strikers were to get there 
 first, and wreck them in front of that heavy train 
 thundering down grade. There was the rub! 
 
 And Scapegrace had not had his eyes and ears 
 
\ "SCAPEGRACE" 157 
 
 open for six long months for nothing. No 
 sooner had he heard the talk at Ransom of how 
 a special train was to come on and break the 
 blockade than he bethought him of stories he 
 had heard in cab and caboose, in switchman's 
 shanty and carsmith's shop, and never did that 
 piebald pony split the wind as he did on Tom- 
 my's dash for town. Leaving him panting and 
 astonished at the corral, his little master, well- 
 nigh breathless himself, made his rapid way to 
 the depot. The platforms were crowded with 
 rough, sullen, angry men. Somebody was mak- 
 ing a speech, and urging the crowd to stand to- 
 gether now, and sweep the bloody-handed sol- 
 diers from the face of the earth if ever they 
 strove to pass the spot; and then some frantic, 
 half-drunken fellow shrieked: "They'll never 
 see this side of Four-mile Runl" And Tommy, 
 wild with anxiety, sought in vain for some fa- 
 miliar, friendly face, for some one to tell what 
 had been done or advise what he should do. All 
 in vain. Engineers had been driven from the 
 yards and forbidden to return. The striking 
 firemen, appalled most of them by the propor- 
 tions assumed by the riot, seemed to have slunk 
 away. These wild, riotous, half-drunken men 
 
158 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 were total strangers. Perhaps it was lucky that 
 they knew him no better than he knew them, or 
 he might not have slipped, trembling, away, as 
 he was enabled to a moment later, his boy heart 
 fluttering up into his throat, for the fearful 
 words he heard had stricken him with terror. 
 
 '^I tell you 'twarn't no use to burn the bridge 
 ahead of 'em. They'd only ford the creek, 
 march into town, and make up a train here, an' 
 we hadn't the men to stop 'em. There was only 
 just one thing to do — to set them switch signals 
 ^All right, come ahead,' and wreck the whole 
 outfit as it reached the bridge." 
 
 Ten minutes later, his young heart bounding 
 like his pony's hoofs. Scapegrace was galloping 
 westward over the broad prairie, leaving Butte 
 a mile behind, and Ransom farther still beyond. 
 Already darkness was settling over the foot-hills 
 of the range; already lights were popping up 
 here and there from outlying ranch or farm- 
 house. Behind him the electric globes were 
 gleaming high over the bustling town, but Tom- 
 my had no time to look back. Half a mile to 
 the southward he could see dim lights, like will- 
 o'-the-wisps dancing along what he knew to be 
 the railway embankment, and ahead of him, 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 159 
 
 dark, gloomy, vague, and silent, lay the broad 
 valley through which turned and twisted the 
 stream. A roaring mountain torrent at times, 
 it was only "bank full" now. There was a low 
 wooden bridge two hundred yards north of the 
 railway trestle; there was a good ford a 
 quarter of a mile above that, but if by any chance 
 these were guarded by the strikers — and Tom 
 had heard how they held them long years before 
 in the great railway strike of 77 — then he and 
 Dot would either have to push a full mile farther 
 up stream or find some unguarded point and 
 swim for it. In his right hand he carried a 
 lantern, borrowed at the corral — taken, rather, 
 without a by-your-leave to anybody — for only a 
 Mexican packer was there as he unhitched his 
 pony. In his pocket were his matches, and on 
 his lips a prayer for aid and guidance and pro- 
 tection. 
 
 Beyond all doubt those twinkling lights far 
 to the left and front meant that the strikers were 
 already at the trestle and the truss. Beyond all 
 doubt the only thing for him to do was to pass 
 around them to the north, and speed far and 
 fast up the winding ravines among the foot-hills 
 until — a sure, safe distance beyond all chance of 
 
160 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 interference — he could light his lantern when 
 the great blazing eye of No. 615 came peering 
 forth from the black mouth of the tunnel, and 
 then he would leap on the track and signal the 
 engineer to stop. 
 
 Not three miles from town, and already Dot 
 was panting and protesting. Not yet quarter 
 past nine, but black darkness was settling down 
 over distant peak and neighboring prairie. 
 
 One mile farther and he would reach the 
 bridge, but long before coming to the stream he 
 must pull up and go cautiously and listen. How 
 dreadfully near those dim, wicked lights looked 
 at the southwest — away down in the lowlands! 
 Something told him what they meant. All that 
 ground was overflowed in the spring. The truss- 
 bridge and the trestle carried the track along 
 full twenty feet above the July level of the 
 stream, and, just as they said at the depot, these 
 villians out here were sawing slanting cuts 
 through the sturdy beams — the uprights of the 
 trestle — and the weight of the massive engine 
 would do the rest. On, Dot! — on! Even now 
 old 615 must be roaring through the rock cuts 
 east of Summit. Tommy could even seem to 
 see his friend the engineer standing there with 
 
"SCAPEGRACE" 161 
 
 firm-set face staring straight ahead through the 
 cab window, his right hand on the reversing- 
 lever, his left on the air-brake cock, the throttle- 
 valve shut tight, and not an ounce of steam on, 
 for with smoking wheels the great train was 
 shooting curve after curve down the east face 
 of the grand mountain spur, held back from 
 headlong rush to destruction only by the grip 
 of the brakes on the polished steel of the tires. 
 And soon they would plunge into the tunnel 
 through Ute Tower, and then come sweeping 
 forth in long, graceful curve around Red Bluffs, 
 and then, then Ned's left would shift from air- 
 brake to throttle, and one would close and the 
 other open, and 615 would begin again to throb 
 and puff and pant, and, with unhampered 
 wheels, the long train would leap to the race 
 once more, with Four-mile Creek and switch 
 and siding, and beyond them the big truss and 
 trestle only two level miles ahead. 
 
 Heavens! Here was Four-mile Creek now, 
 foaming along almost parallel with his road, 
 and there, not two hundred yards ahead, lay the 
 low uncovered wooden bridge over which he 
 must pass unseen, or else ford or swim. Many 
 a time, with exultant heart, high aloft, had he 
 
162 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 gone skimming over that dimly outlined trestle 
 and under that net-work of beams and stringers 
 just visible against the southern stars. Many a 
 time had he and Dot ridden over the humble 
 crossing that seemed to span only from rock to 
 rock — a fragile bridge that was swept away 
 every spring, only to be gathered up and put to- 
 gether by the ranchmen every June, but on the 
 trestle twinkled wreckers' lights. On the low 
 bridge ahead gleamed a lantern that told him 
 the enemy was there. Dot almost slid upon his 
 haunches in astonishment at the sudden check, 
 and then whirled madly about in answer to his 
 rider's driving heel and tugging rein. Spring- 
 ing up from the roadside a few yards ahead, a 
 dark form loomed suddenly into sight, and a 
 hoarse voice shouted : "Who's that?" 
 
 But Scapegrace never stopped to answer. 
 With his head turned homeward Dot took new 
 heart, and flew back along the lonely road full 
 three hundred yards before he felt the pressure 
 of leg and rein that turned him northward. In- 
 dignantly he shook his mane, but obediently 
 sped away. Over the springy bunch-grass he 
 was laboring now, panting hard, and wonder- 
 ing what on earth could make his little master 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 163 
 
 SO unmerciful, and presently there were sounds 
 as of distant shouting, at which Tommy urged 
 the more, and bent low over the pommel, and 
 then Dot found himself circling westward again, 
 but far above the point where first they reached 
 the bank of the stream, and soon he heard it roar- 
 ing over its rocky bed and straight ahead of 
 them. Another moment and he would have 
 swerved, for here they were upon the very verge, 
 but both Tommy's heels came driving hard 
 against his astonished ribs, and Tommy's knees 
 were gripping him like a living vise. One in- 
 stant he faltered at the brink and then plunged 
 helplessly in, yielding to the master hand and 
 will. ''On, Dot! — on!" was Tommy's constant 
 cry. And so, stumbling, plunging, going down 
 once on his knees, and burying his nose deep in, 
 the gallant piebald obeyed, and at last, with 
 dripping flanks, clambered safely out on the 
 westward side. One short minute for a breath- 
 ing spell, then on they went again. Four min- 
 utes more, and the dim lights at the bridge, half 
 a mile to the south, were square to the left; six 
 minutes, and they were well behind; ten min- 
 utes, and Tom and Dot, wearily, heavily now, 
 were lumbering up a long ravine, dark and 
 
164 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 drear and lonely, but the brave heart of the lit- 
 tle fellow never faltered; he v^ould reach that 
 level mile over the ^^bench" in front of Red 
 Bluff, and stop the headlong rush of old 615, 
 no matter what lying switch lights might say, no 
 matter what drink-maddened strikers might do. 
 
 Already he was drawing near the track again. 
 Glancing over his left shoulder he could see that 
 only one light was gleaming now near the bridge 
 — the faint green disk at the switch. Their 
 cowardly work complete, the gang had doused 
 their lanterns, and now were lurking in the 
 shadows well away, yet lingering, fascinated, to 
 watch the result. On, Dot! — on/ It must be 
 that the train is near. Scapegrace strained his 
 ears to listen, but Dot's panting drowned all 
 other sounds. At last, just ahead now, dimly 
 seen against the southern sky, a straight lance- 
 like staff stood pointing to the zenith — a tele- 
 graph pole, and there, farther east, another. 
 The track at last — at last! and not an instant too 
 soon. Even as he prodded Dot to one last ef- 
 fort, far to the west, among the hills, a dull roar 
 as of distant thunder fell upon his ears. The 
 train! the train! already at the Tower Tunnel. 
 
 In mad haste now he threw himself from the 
 
"SCAPEGRACE" 165 
 
 saddle, leaving Dot with bowed head and heav- 
 ing flanks to look after himself. In mad haste 
 he scrambled up the low embankment, grasping 
 his precious lantern. In mad haste he fumbled 
 for his matches, thanking God with all his 
 boyish heart that the night wind had not risen. 
 Another minute, and crack! a bright flame shot 
 from the iron rail — another, and a feeble glim- 
 mer sprang from the wick. Another, and with 
 increasing roar and rumble the bowels of the 
 earth seemed to open slowly half a mile to the 
 west, and a white light, growing every instant 
 brighter and broader, came streaming around 
 the base of Red Bluff, and then a brilliant gleam- 
 ing eye seemed suddenly to focus on the track. 
 Two threads of glistening steel, nearly five feet 
 apart where he stood, seemed to meet almost 
 immediately under it; the rails began to creep 
 and quiver, the ground to tremble, and with his 
 little heart away up in his throat Tommy lifted 
 high his lantern — high as he could reach — then 
 lowered and raised — lowered and raised, 
 straight up and down — square in the middle 
 of the track, and, bearing down on him at full 
 speed, his mighty engine throbbing under him 
 instinct with life, big Ned Weston, peering 
 
166 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 from his cab window just as Tommy pictured 
 him, saw and understood. Shriek went the 
 whistle, slap went the throttle-valve flat against 
 the boiler, snap went the air-brake, every clamp 
 gripping its wheel on the instant like a vise. 
 Out from the 'scape-valve, with mighty hiss and 
 roar, rushed the pent-up steam, and all of a sud- 
 den the big train began to bump and grind along 
 the rails. Black heads popped out of the open 
 windows, and little by little old 61S's flying 
 wheels slowed down and came to a stand, and 
 Ned Weston's foremost guards springing from 
 the pilot, ran ahead, a tall captain bounding 
 after them, and a little freckle-faced, breathless 
 boy stumbled forward into their arms, sobbing 
 out: "The bridge." 
 
 Four hours later, in another train, without a 
 man injured or missing. Colonel Wallace and 
 his command pushed ahead from Butte. Mean- 
 time, however, they had marched into town wth 
 half a dozen prisoners, picked up near the ruined 
 trestle, had hammered some riotous heads rather 
 hard, and had had a chance to tell to many a 
 wife and mother who had hurried into town for 
 one glimpse of her own particular soldier the 
 
" SCAPEGRACE " 167 
 
 Story of their escape. ^'Goodness gracious!" 
 said Fort Ransom, "who would have thought of 
 that in Scapegrace?" 
 
 But it was the old colonel who picked the lit- 
 tle fellow up and held him close to his heart one 
 minute before they started on again, then, with 
 glistening eyes, returned him to his silent father, 
 and grasped the latter's hand. ^'Say, rather, 
 who would have thought of that but Scape- 
 grace !" was the way old Wallace put it. 
 
THE SURRENDER OF COCHISE 
 A Gallant Messenger of Peace 
 
 T WAS about to tell General S. S. Sumner a 
 "^ story about a brave boy who became war 
 chief of the Crow Indians, when he told me a 
 more interesting tale. We were talking about 
 courage and gallant men, and General Sumner 
 said that a very brave Indian once told him that 
 General O. O. Howard was the bravest man he 
 ever saw. 
 
 The circumstances were these. Down in Ari- 
 zona and in New Mexico, in 1872, the terrible 
 Apache Indians had been committing frequent 
 and bloody crimes, robbing and murdering 
 white settlers, and fighting our soldiers. One 
 band of these unruly redskins was, at the time 
 of this story, hidden away in the Dragoon 
 Mountains, under the command of a fierce and 
 stalwart chief named Cochise. General How- 
 ard was in that corner of our country on an 
 
 168 
 
THE SURRENDER OF COCHISE 169 
 
 errand of peace! He was visiting the various 
 savage tribes, and trying to reason with their 
 chiefs, in order that they could be brought to 
 see that it would be better for them to stop fight- 
 ing and go on reservations. That seems a 
 strange errand for a soldier, and especially for 
 such a valiant fighter as General Howard, who, 
 before that, had lost an arm for his country, and 
 won fame on more than one battle-field. 
 
 Strange as it was, that was what General 
 Howard was doing — going from tribe to tribe 
 in plain citizen's clothes, and trying to reason 
 with the wildest Indians on the continent. A 
 motley crowd followed him, and he brought to- 
 gether husbands and wives and children, who 
 had been separated in the fighting and retreating 
 and chasing of the Indians by the troops. He 
 was kind and gentle, and was beloved by those 
 who came in his way. And he had a great deal 
 of success in quieting some tribes and putting 
 them on reservations where they might live 
 peacefully. 
 
 It was said to be impossible to find the great 
 chief Cochise, who was hidden away in the 
 mountains. To tell the truth, nobody else had 
 any desire to see him, for he was notorious as a 
 
170 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 fierce foe of the white people, a turbulent leader 
 of a murderous band of "Apache devils," as his 
 Indians were well called. It was not only hard 
 to see Cochise, but it was as much as any white 
 man's life was worth to be seen by him. He had 
 been massacring the settlers, and was hiding 
 from the punishment he deserved, and getting 
 ready to make more mischief. But General 
 Howard wished particularly to meet him, and 
 when he heard that a man named Jefferds knew 
 the way to Cochise's hiding-place, the general 
 employed the man to take him there. 
 
 Jefferds was a man who served as a guide and 
 as a scout for our soldiers, and knew that coun- 
 try well. He agreed to take the general, and 
 off they went across mountains and plains and 
 other mountains, and finally to a third range 
 called the Dragoon Mountains. When they 
 neared the desperate Indian's hiding-place, 
 Jefferds said that the general had too many peo- 
 ple in his train ; for a lot of Indians were troop- 
 ing along with the white men to join their tribes, 
 and some were squaws and children belonging 
 to Cochise's band. Jefferds said that if Cochise 
 saw so many people he would fight them. The 
 general asked how many it would do to go with, 
 
THE SURRENDER OF COCHISE 171 
 
 and yet not alarm the suspicious chief. Finally, 
 it was agreed that the general, his companion. 
 Captain Joseph A. Sladen, Jefferds, and two 
 Indians, making five in all, should form the 
 party. The others were then left behind, and 
 the five rode on — to death, as some of them 
 thought. 
 
 Captain Sladen asked the general if he did 
 not realize his danger. He asked whether the 
 general was not aware that he was almost certain 
 to be killed. General Howard replied by quot- 
 ing the Bible. He recited a verse which says 
 that if we lose a life for our Saviour's sake, we 
 shall have an eternal life given to us. Captain 
 Sladen rode on in silence. It seemed wonderful 
 that General Howard should ride straight into 
 that Indian trap, where Indians were hidden 
 behind the rocks, and where a white man's life 
 was not worth a fig. And yet he wore no uni- 
 form, and carried no weapon except a tiny pen- 
 knife. 
 
 Straight into Cochise's stronghold went the 
 general and his men. It was a fort made by 
 nature: a place of forty acres in extent, walled 
 all around by great rocks, and with only one 
 opening in the wall for any one to get in or out. 
 
172 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 There were hundreds of Apaches in there — at 
 least three hundred, if I remember rightly. 
 They all surrounded the white men, who were 
 made to understand that they were prisoners. 
 Worse yet, they were told that Cochise was go- 
 ing to make up his mind during the day whether 
 to kill them or no. Cochise did not show him- 
 self. The general and his companions had all 
 that day and all that night in which to think of 
 what they had done, and what were their chances 
 of ever seeing their homes again. Escape was 
 utterly impossible. At night they spread 
 blankets on the ground under some trees and 
 slept. How many of those who read this would 
 have slept that night under those circumstances? 
 But these men got a good night's rest. 
 
 On the next day Cochise made his appear- 
 ance. He heard through an interpreter who 
 General Howard was, and that he came to make 
 peace. 
 
 '^I want peace myself," said Cochise. The 
 tall, muscular Indian spoke only Spanish and 
 Apache. He was a very large, fine-looking 
 man, and seemed a giant among the Apaches. 
 
 ^^If you want peace," said General Howard, 
 "we can soon arrange it." He talked no non- 
 
THE SURRENDER OF COCHISE 173 
 
 sense about "the Great White Father at Wash- 
 ington." He simply said : "There are two par- 
 ties of white men. One is now in power. That 
 party wants peace with the Indians. The Presi- 
 dent of the United States sent me to see you." 
 
 When it was agreed that Cochise and his 
 warriors and squaws should go down from the 
 mountains and live upon a reservation which 
 the general agreed to give them, near Apache 
 Pass, the wily chief shook his head. 
 
 "When I go with you the soldiers will shoot 
 my people," he said. 
 
 "But I will order them not to," said General 
 Howard. "I will send Captain Sladen." 
 
 "They will not care what he says," said the 
 chief, "but they will obey you. You go and 
 order them to leave us alone. Leave Captain 
 Sladen here. My women will take good care of 
 him." 
 
 So the general went and left the captain in 
 that terrible trap. Then it was that the general 
 saw General Sumner, then lieutenant-colonel, 
 and arranged for a meeting between Cochise and 
 the officers in command of the troops that were 
 stationed out there. Even then Colonel Sumner 
 doubted the intentions of Cochise. The Apaches 
 
174 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 are a treacherous lot, and have not taught the 
 white men to trust them. Colonel Sumner 
 would not have been surprised if the redmen 
 had massacred all the officers when they had a 
 chance. But the colonel admits that General 
 Howard seemed unconscious of any danger. He 
 was honestly trying to bring about peace, and he 
 seemed to think of nothing but peace. In this 
 case his faith was justified, for Cochise went 
 upon a reservation, and remained "a good In- 
 dian" until he died, but many another man who 
 has trusted other Apaches has died for doing so. 
 
 Cochise had a wise head on his shoulders. "I 
 notice," he said, "the more white men I kill, the 
 faster they come, and the more there are of them. 
 It is no use to fight them. I will do as they tell 
 me." 
 
 Long afterwards he told Colonel Sumner how 
 surprised he was to see General Howard ride 
 into his stronghold. "Me think I am a brave 
 man," he said, "but General Howard the brav- 
 est man me ever saw." 
 
 On the other hand, if the reader should ever 
 ask the general about his adventures, he would 
 smile and say : 
 
THE SURRENDER OF COCHISE 175 
 
 "Oh, I knew Cochise was not going to kill 
 men when I hunted him out. The little children 
 came and lay on my blanket, and played around 
 me when I was a prisoner there. They would 
 not have been allowed to do so if I was to have 
 been killed." 
 
WITH CAPRON AT EL CANEY 
 
 A Day of Real Battle 
 
 (\^ the night of June 31, 1898, I lay down 
 ^^ to sleep with the very comfortable feeling 
 that my hopes, cherished through many tedious 
 days of hardship, were at last to be realized. 
 For my blanket was spread, along with the 
 blanket of another long-suffering correspondent, 
 on a knob of a hill overlooking El Caney, a 
 small village in southeastern Cuba, and we all 
 knew that El Caney was to be stormed by our 
 troops in the morning. The prospect of seeing 
 a battle was enough to make up for all the diffi- 
 culties and privations, necessary or unnecessary, 
 which we had endured, and we were not dis- 
 comforted even by the thought of stray bullets, 
 which often find correspondents as satisfactory 
 billets as they do soldiers. We dreamed of our 
 names in heroic head-lines in the daily papers, 
 of deeds of might and valor, of captured stand- 
 
 176 
 
WITH CAPRON AT EL CANEY 177 
 
 ards, of flying Spanish soldiers — and we were 
 quite happy. We changed our opinion, later, 
 by the way, about those "flying Spanish sol- 
 diers."* 
 
 The hill upon which we were bivouacked was 
 to be occupied by Captain Capron's battery of 
 field-artillery, according to the plans for the ac- 
 tion of the morrow. It is about a mile and a 
 half to the south of the village. The guns had 
 not yet been put in position, but they were con- 
 cealed in some woods, just beyond the brow of 
 the hill. We could hear the horses every now 
 and then crackling the twigs of the underbrush 
 
 *Brigadier-General Vara del Rey, the Spanish general in com- 
 mand at El Caney, offered the most stubborn resistance which 
 the Americans encountered in the whole Santiago campaign. His 
 force of only a little over 500 men held their ground almost 
 all day, and the Americans killed and wounded numbered 438. 
 General Lawton's total force in the afternoon was 226 officers 
 and 4913 men. The Spaniards had been told by their officers that 
 the Americans would give no quarter. In spite of some aid 
 from the gallant Captain Capron's small field-battery, this en- 
 gagement was practically an attack by infantry upon a strongly 
 fortified, well-armed enemy, which is always costly. Of the 
 Spanish force it is estimated that not over forty escaped. The 
 others were killed, wounded, or taken prisoners. General del 
 Rey was shot while rallying his men in the streets of the village of 
 El Caney. a short distance behind the fort. No more gallant of- 
 ficer fought on the Spanish side, and if he had been in supreme 
 command at Santiago our victory would have been more diffi- 
 cult. A superb eighteenth-century bronze cannon has been 
 mounted on a high pedestal within the battered walls of the 
 stone fort at El Caney as a memorial of the action and a monu- 
 ment to the dead. — ^Editor. 
 
178 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 as they lay down to rest. Indeed, this was al- 
 most the only sound which broke the stillness 
 of the night. In cautious silence Captain Ca- 
 pron, his lieutenants, my companion, and I ate 
 our cold hardtack and bacon — fires had been for- 
 bidden — and turned in for sleep, after sentinels 
 had been carefully posted to guard against sur- 
 prise by Spanish scouting parties. Every pre- 
 caution was observed to prevent the enemy from 
 obtaining a knowledge of our whereabouts. 
 
 For protection from the heavy tropical dew 
 we had spread our blankets under the boughs of 
 a gigantic mango-tree. Sleeping under a man- 
 go-tree is like sleeping on a bed of tennis-balls. 
 But we were too worn out to make much of an 
 effort to clear the ground of the fruit which 
 thickly covered it, and having done our best to 
 adjust our bodies to the situation, we were just 
 dozing off to sleep when the land-crabs arrived 
 on the scene. With these pleasant creatures we 
 were forced to fight a pitched battle in order to 
 drive them away, and as my eyes were finally 
 closing for the night I heard what was evidently 
 a brisk skirmish with the land-crabs going on 
 where the privates were dreaming — or trying to. 
 
 It may have been hard to get to sleep that 
 
WITH CAPRON AT EL CANEY 179 
 
 night, but it was an easy matter to wake up the 
 next morning. At the very first glimmering of 
 dawn the camp is all astir. The privates roll 
 and stow away the blankets and equipment, and 
 the guns are slowly wheeled into position. Am- 
 munition-boxes are made ready and unscrewed. 
 OlfBcers set to work with delicate range- 
 finders, determining and recording the ranges 
 of various landmarks along the lines to be 
 attacked. A squad of men goes out in front, 
 cutting away the shrubs and small trees which 
 might obstruct or confuse our fire. As the sun 
 gets up, the older hands in command begin to 
 roll up sleeves and *^lighten ship." To our rear 
 we can see the columns of the First Regular 
 Infantry taking up their position to act as our 
 support in case of need. Clearly, this battery 
 is intended to do business. 
 
 As the light grows, we look curiously at the 
 country to the north. The little town, with its 
 small, white block-house, looks almost patheti- 
 cally helpless when we consider that it is sur- 
 rounded by nearly 5000 men. Occassionally one 
 can catch glimpses of soldiers among the houses 
 and about the block-house, but, for the most part, 
 there are no signs of life there whatever. To 
 
180 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 the right and left our troops are stringing out 
 through the woods. The various regiments take 
 their positions without confusion or delay. Gen- 
 eral Lawton knows what he is going to do, and 
 how he is going to do it. And he is too old and 
 too good a fighter to go into action without a 
 thorough knowledge of his fighting-ground. 
 About the only reconnoitring done at all in the 
 Santiago campaign was done around El Caney 
 — and done by General Lawton himself. 
 
 As a vantage-point of observation, the hill 
 on which we stood could not have been better 
 chosen, affording a clear view of the valley in 
 front and of the sweep of rising ground on either 
 side. "The play is going to begin," said another 
 correspondent to me, "and we've got front-row 
 seats in the gallery." Besides being in the gal- 
 lery, we were posted next to the man who was 
 about to ring the bell to raise the curtain ; for it 
 had been ordered that the first gun from Captain 
 Capron's battery was to be the signal for the 
 battle to begin. 
 
 The men around the cannon are standing at 
 attention ; every piece has been shotted, and we 
 all are in a quiver of expectation. Then the 
 command rings out: "Number three, make 
 
WITH CAPRON AT EL CANEY 181 
 
 ready! Fire!" The gun boomed in response, 
 our first shell whistled its way towards the 
 block-house, and a roll of smoke from our anti- 
 quated black powder drifted through the trees. 
 Captain Capron has called "Time!" and the 
 game has commenced. 
 
 Now our infantry begins firing all along the 
 line. The musketry fire sounds like a half- 
 dozen gigantic corn-poppers. There is no ad- 
 vance apparent from our gallery — no inspiring 
 charges, such as we had read about. The 
 Spaniards, from behind the stone walls of El 
 Caney, are keeping up a rattling, spitting fire. 
 All of Capron's guns are now in operation, and 
 the sulphurous, thick smoke hangs about us so 
 that we can scarcely see. Some one says that 
 a shell has exploded inside the block-house, and 
 we cheer at this, and hope for a breeze to blow 
 away the smoke so that we can make out what 
 has been done. About ten o'clock the wounded 
 begin to come back from the firing-line — limp, 
 sagging, swaying figures, struggling to the sur- 
 geons. "It's hot down there," shouts one man, 
 whom two others are carrying; "all-fired hot, 
 and there ain't no Spanish runnin' yet, either." 
 
 By this time we had pretty well filled the 
 
182 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 block-house with holes, and Captain Capron 
 gave orders to train the guns on the houses in 
 the village. Each one of these houses was a 
 miniature fort, and it would have been impos- 
 isble, without great loss, to have taken El Caney 
 by assault until most of these houses had been 
 battered down by our shells. So the gunners 
 changed their aim, and the red tiles began to fly 
 from the roofs. 
 
 It was nearly noon. The Spanish fire was 
 as brisk and determined as ever, and, with the 
 exception of the crumbling block-house, noth- 
 ing had been apparently done to weaken it. We 
 found out afterwards that we should have taken 
 El Caney in one hour, according to headquar- 
 ters' calculations. 
 
 But now through the tall, thick, hot grass in 
 the valley we can see lines of men crawling 
 slowly towards the village. 'Our firing-line is 
 closing in ; but it is an advance so different from 
 the charges and rushes we have had pictured for 
 us in war histories that we in the gallery hardly 
 realize what is going on. Most of the time our 
 men seem merely to be wriggling on the ground. 
 Sometimes a squad stands up, makes a dash at 
 a little rise of ground where there is thicker 
 
WITH CAPRON AT EL CANEY 183 
 
 tover, and we have just time to feel the thrill of 
 ra charge, when they drop again out of sight in 
 • the brush. But all the time they are going for- 
 ward, and all the time the remorseless crackle of 
 rifles is kept up without intermission. 
 
 It was easy to tell the whereabouts of the Sec- 
 ond Massachusetts, both on account of the 
 peculiar thick report which their old-fashioned 
 rifles made, and because of the white smoke that 
 rose after every volley. An old private in the 
 Twenty-fourth (colored) Infantry said of the 
 Massachusetts militia: "Yes, sah, they're sure 
 'nough nervy, but I ruther have a lot o' snow- 
 balls than them old muskets. It's murder to 
 send them boys out those — jes murder." 
 
 And now the creeping blue lines have such a 
 close grip on the yellow town that orders come to 
 Capron to "cease firing," lest a "tumbler" drop 
 in a company of our own men. One regiment, 
 :we can see, is within two hundred yards of the 
 block-house. The soldiers are wading through 
 the grass as if in deep water against a current, 
 with bent bodies and out-stretched arms. El 
 Caney and the Spanish pits about it flash and 
 snap with rifle fire. How slowly our men go! 
 They seem almost to be standing still ; and yet 
 
184 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 the distance is growing less. Another regiment 
 comes to their support. The crawling, crouching 
 van is stopped by a fence — one of the barbed- 
 wire devices of the Spaniards. Here they seem 
 to halt for hours — really it is only a few seconds 
 — and then we hear a faint, a very faint, cheer- 
 ing, and they break into a run up the steep slope 
 and swarm up over the block-house, and we have 
 planted our flag in the snarling, fiery little 
 village ! 
 
 In the mean time Capron's battery had been 
 ordered to a new position, but before well es- 
 tablished there the town was ours, and my first 
 battle was over. We had seen all that there was 
 to see, and had experienced, to some extent, all 
 the trials of warfare. During the last movement 
 of the battery we had been under fire, and had 
 been through a corner of the infantry battle- 
 field where the dead and wounded were lying 
 in pitiful plenty. And yet our real troubles were 
 only beginning. A courier had come from El 
 Pozo, and had told of the bloody confusion at 
 San Juan, and of the urgent need of re-enforce- 
 ments and of artillery. 
 
 Tired and worn out as we were, having fought 
 all day and slept but little the night before, we 
 
WITH CAPRON AT EL CANEY 185 
 
 set out in the afternoon upon the Santiago road. 
 The First Infantry, in columns of fours, was at 
 the head, and behind them came Capron's bat- 
 tery. The long line made an impressive sight 
 against the background of deep green foliage. 
 I remember particularly the picture of the men 
 silhouetted against the sky when they were 
 crossing an old stone bridge which spanned a 
 sluggish stream in the valley. But I doubt if 
 the picture made such an impression on me at the 
 time as did the water of the brook, muddy and 
 warm though it was. It was the first water we 
 had drunk all day, and the weary, thirsty men 
 tumbled over one another in their eagerness to 
 fill their canteens. 
 
 At eight o'clock a halt was made, and the men 
 lit fires along the roadside to cook the first meal 
 they had made since morning. But it was not 
 much of a supper. We were all more or less 
 uneasy, as nobody seemed to know where we 
 were going or where the enemy was. Every 
 now and then the most alarming rumors would 
 be passed down the road — that General Lawton 
 had been shot, that the Spaniards had beaten 
 our men at San Juan, or that our bivouac along 
 the roadside was covered by a battery of Spanish 
 
186 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 machine-guns on the slopes above. The men 
 with the battery tried to sleep, wrapping them- 
 selves in blankets, but although we did our best 
 and were nearly worn out with fatigue, it was 
 quite impossible. 
 
 It was three o'clock in the morning that an 
 aide came galloping by with orders for the com- 
 mand to go back on the road over which we had 
 plodded so laboriously the day before, and 
 >vhich now turned out, it was said, to lead 
 squarely into the face of a Spanish battery. So, 
 in the damp darkness, we wearily retraced our 
 steps. It was very dismal business. The road 
 was slippery wth mud. Men and horses were 
 completely fagged. Many had not slept for 
 forty-eight hours. We had been through what 
 to most of us was our first battle ; all were hungry 
 and exhausted. 
 
 Our countermarch was thus made. At day- 
 break rations were distributed, and the men were 
 given a much-needed rest while breakfast was 
 cooking. Then new orders were issued, and 
 once more we fell in and marched towards the 
 west, upon the right road at last for El Pozo, 
 San Juan, and — Santiago. 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 
 
 A Prisoner and a Rescue 
 
 I 
 
 "^r EAR midnight of a late October day, many 
 -^^ years ago, a lieutenant of infantry was sit- 
 ting by a camp-table in his quarters at Fort 
 Whipple, Arizona, reading a magazine. The 
 walls of the room were formed of vertical pine 
 logs, and the floor and ceiling of pine planks, 
 all, logs and planks, lending a piny flavor to the 
 room's atmosphere. 
 
 The mail from the Pacific coast, due once in 
 two weeks, had failed to arrive a few days be- 
 fore, and a searching party sent to look for it 
 had found the mutilated body of the cavalry ex- 
 pressman lying beside the trail in a deep gulch, 
 and the mail matter torn and scattered over a 
 broad space. 
 
 The dead soldier was brought in for burial, 
 and the fragments of letters and papers gathered 
 
 187 
 
188 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 and taken to the quartermaster's office. Officers 
 and men spent many hours in identifying and 
 matching the soiled and ragged pieces. The 
 lieutenant had worked diligently from noon till 
 evening in making two magazines and half a 
 dozen letters legible. 
 
 The fragments of each leaf were pasted on 
 nearly transparent paper, the printed matter be- 
 coming fairly visible through its fibres. They 
 were sorry-looking pages, however, at best. 
 Many bits were gone, compelling the reader to 
 supply by imagination scenes and incidents lost 
 in the sage-brush and grease-wood bordering the 
 La Paz trail. 
 
 The young officer occupied a leather-backed 
 cross-legged camp-chair, which rose high above 
 his reclining head, with his legs stretched across 
 the bottom of a stool towards a generous fire of 
 pine knots, which filled the room with a flood 
 of light and drove out the autumnal chill. In 
 this comfortable attitude, engrossed in a popu- 
 lar serial, he had passed away the first half of 
 the night. He was just beginning a new chap- 
 ter when he became aware of the distant and 
 rapid clatter of a horse's feet. The sound came 
 distinctly through the loop-holes in the outer 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 189 
 
 wall of the room — loop-holes made for rifles and 
 left open for ventilation. Dropping his book 
 upon the table, he rose and listened intently to 
 the hoof-beats. Some one was riding from the 
 direction of Prescott, evidently in great haste; 
 and as this was a country of alarms, the officer 
 surmised that the rider was coming to the fort. 
 The cadence of the gallop showed that the 
 animal was a pony, and that he was being hard 
 pressed. 
 
 A brief halt at the post of sentinel Number 
 One and the galloping was resumed, the sound 
 growing plainer, and showing that the rider 
 had turned up the hill and was nearing the great 
 gates now closed for the night. Presently the 
 clatter of hoofs ceased, and the rapid breathing 
 of a horse could be distinctly heard. The rider's 
 feet came solidly to the earth, and an instant 
 afterwards impatient fingers could be heard 
 groping along the bark-covered logs in search 
 of the secret postern — a gate made by sawing 
 off a log close to the ground and attaching 
 hinges to its inner side — usually left ajar except 
 in time of danger. Then the impatient and dis- 
 couraged voice of a boy exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, why can't I find the gate!" 
 
190 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 "Seventh log to the right of the big gates! 
 Push hard!" called the officer. 
 
 The immediate creak of hinges and rapid 
 footsteps showed the rider had entered the fort 
 and was approaching the room. The door 
 swung suddenly open, and a handsome boy of 
 about thirteen years entered, hatless, clothing 
 soiled and torn, with bleeding face and hands. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Randolph, the Indians! the In- 
 dians ! They have attacked our ranch, and Aunt 
 Martha is dead!" he exclaimed, as he sank ex- 
 hausted on the stool. 
 
 "Attacked the ranch! When?" 
 
 "About four o'clock." 
 
 "How many?" 
 
 "Don't know. Seemed as if there was a hun- 
 dred." 
 
 "But, Willie, you are wounded. Let me — " 
 
 "Never mind me — it's only a scratch. Send 
 the soldiers, or Brenda and all the rest will be 
 killed!" 
 
 "How did you get away from the ranch? 
 But wait; I'll go for Captain Bayard and the 
 surgeon, and then you can tell us all about it 
 and save time." 
 
 Mr. Randolph had not far to go within the 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 191 
 
 narrow limits of the stockade. The officers 
 sought were asleep ; but to his vigorous and ex- 
 cited summons they promptly arose, and in a 
 few minutes were in his room, the surgeon bear- 
 ing a small case of instruments. 
 
 Upon examination Willie's "scratch" was 
 found to consist of a fracture of the radius of 
 the left arm, made by a bullet, and a flesh- 
 wound in the cheek, made by an arrow. Neither 
 was a dangerous injury if properly treated. 
 While Doctor Colton dressed the wounds the 
 boy told his story. 
 
 Before he had gone far Captain Bayard asked 
 Lieutenant Randolph to call the post adjutant, 
 arid upon the appearance of that official gave 
 orders for a sergeant, two corporals, and twenty- 
 two men to be got in readiness for immediate 
 mounted service with rations for five days. 
 
 The fort was garrisoned by infantry only, a 
 command containing many good riders, how- 
 ever, who were frequently mounted in an emer- 
 gency requiring speed and short service. For 
 this purpose a number of horses were kept by 
 the quartermaster. 
 
 The command of the detachment was given 
 to Lieutenant Randolph, and he at once sent a 
 
192 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 man to Prescott in advance, to secure the serv- 
 ices of Paul Weaver and George Cooler, two 
 accomplished scouts and hunters. They were 
 asked to be in readiness to join the column when 
 it should pass through the plaza. 
 
 Half an hour after the arrival of the wounded 
 boy the men were in the saddle and on the way 
 to Cholla Valley by way of the mountain 
 trail. As they passed through Prescott — at that 
 time a mere hamlet of rude log cabins — they 
 found the veteran Weaver and the youthful 
 Cooler, mounted on sturdy broncos, awaiting 
 their arrival. 
 
 II 
 
 The family to whose rescue the detachment 
 was going had travelled one year before from 
 Fort Wingate, New Mexico, to Prescott, Ari- 
 zona, under escort of the soldiers now forming 
 the Fort Whipple garrison. When Captain 
 Bayard's command reached Wingate from the 
 Rio Grande he found them awaiting its arrival, 
 that they might make the journey under mili- 
 tary protection. The name of the family was 
 Arnold, and it consisted of a father and mother 
 and three daughters, and a nephew and niece. 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 193 
 
 The daughters were aged, respectively, twenty, 
 eighteen, and sixteen, and the nephew and niece 
 thirteen and fifteen. 
 
 Mn Arnold waited upon Lieutenant Ran- 
 dolph, the acting quartermaster of the com- 
 mand, the evening before the march was re- 
 sumed, and handed him a note from Captain 
 Bayard, directing him to afford the bearer and 
 his family all possible assistance on the march, 
 and to see that their wagons were assigned a 
 place in the train and their property guarded. 
 The quartermaster's train consisted of eighty 
 wagons and five hundred mules. There was also 
 a commissary herd of three hundred oxen and 
 a flock of eight hundred sheep. 
 
 At the first halt after leaving Fort Wingate 
 Lieutenant Randolph called upon the Arnolds, 
 and found the father, mother, and daughters 
 gathered about a fire busy in the preparation of 
 supper. Mr. Arnold was making a temporary 
 table of the tailboard of a wagon and two water- 
 kegs. He was a tall, well-proportioned man of 
 dark complexion and regular features, with 
 black, unkempt hair and restless eyes. He was 
 clothed in faded and stained butternut flannel, 
 consisting of a loose frock and wide trousers, 
 
194 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 the legs of the trousers tucked into the tops of 
 road-worn boots. His hat was a broad-brimmed 
 drab felt, battered and frayed. Mrs. Arnold 
 sat on a stool, superintending the work of the 
 family, her elbows upon her knees, holding a 
 long-stemmed cob-pipe to her lips with her left 
 hand, removing it at the end of each inspiration 
 to emit the smoke, which curled slowly above 
 her thin upper lip and thin aquiline nose, and 
 replacing it for the next whiff. She was a tall, 
 angular, high-shouldered, and flat-chested wo- 
 man, dark from exposure to wind, sun, and rain, 
 her hair brown in the neck, but many shades 
 lighter on the top of her head. Her eyes were 
 of an expressionless gray. A brown calico of 
 scant pattern clung in lank folds to her thin and 
 bony figure. 
 
 The three daughters were younger and less- 
 faded types of their mother. Each was clad in 
 a narrow-skirted calico dress, and each was 
 stockingless and shoeless. Mother and daugh- 
 ters were dull, slow of speech, and ignorant. 
 
 The lieutenant stopped long enough to give 
 some directions as to the observance of camp 
 rules, the order of marching, how to prepare for 
 waterless and woodless camping-places, what to 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 195 
 
 do in case of attack, etc., and was about to turn 
 away, when a clear, boyish voice called from 
 the rear of a cedar-bush. 
 
 "Oh, lieutenant, may I speak to you a mo- 
 ment?" 
 
 Turning his horse in the direction of the voice 
 the officer saw a boy approaching, switching a 
 handsome riding-whip in his hand, a boy that 
 made a good impression at once. In fact, the 
 quality, modulation, and evident refinement of 
 the voice had prepared Randolph before he 
 turned for seeing just the bright, handsome lad 
 that had now come up. 
 
 He was apparently about thirteen years old, 
 neatly attired in a blue blouse and gray trousers, 
 with russet-leather leggings and a waist-belt of 
 the same material, from which hung a neat re- 
 volver and small pouch. A light felt hat sat on 
 a well-shaped head, around which clustered 
 closely cropped brown hair that showed a de- 
 cided inclination to curl. Two honest blue eyes 
 set in a bright and intelligent face looked smil- 
 ingly up to the officer as he advanced. 
 
 "Yes," replied the lieutenant; "what do you 
 wish?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know that you can help us, sir, 
 
196 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 but my sister's pony has lost a shoe, and we don't 
 know whether we had better pull off the other 
 three or let her wear them." 
 
 "Replace the lost one." 
 
 "That's not so easy, sir, with no spare shoes, 
 and no blacksmith this side of Wingate." 
 
 "Have you never travelled with a government 
 train before?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "How do you suppose we shoe these five hun- 
 dred mules that are drawing our wagons and 
 constantly dropping shoes?" 
 
 "Then you really have a blacksmith! But 
 that will do us no good. Brenda and I do not 
 belong to the government." 
 
 "But a part of the government belongs to 
 you," replied Randolph. "Where is the 
 pony?" 
 
 "Over there behind the cedars. Brenda is 
 giving her some sugar and corn-bread," an- 
 swered the lad, pointing with his whip in the 
 direction indicated. 
 
 "Get the pony and come with me, and we will 
 see if ^Uncle Sam' cannot spare a shoe for a 
 niece's saddle-horse." 
 
 Returning thanks, the boy ran back joyfully. 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 197 
 
 'and soon returned leading a beautiful brown 
 pony and accompanied by a young girl. The 
 j boy said : "Brenda, this is the quartermaster who 
 is going to have Gypsy shod." 
 , The girl bowed, and as the lieutenant sprang 
 from his saddle, instinctively doing homage to 
 American girlhood, she extended her hand, say- 
 ing: "I suppose we must consider that brother 
 has introduced us." 
 
 "Yes, if ^Quartermaster' was my name," re- 
 plied the lieutenant; "but I think you will find 
 it more convenient during our long march to 
 , know my name." And he handed the girl a leaf 
 from his memorandum-pad upon which he had 
 written it. "One does not carry a card-case on 
 a frontier march, you know. May I know your 
 name?" 
 
 "It is Arnold," replied the girl. 
 
 "Not children of Mr. Arnold? — he told me 
 he had three daughters only," and Randolph 
 glanced from the neatly and well-dressed boy 
 and girl before him to the three ill-clad, bare- 
 footed girls at the camp-fire. 
 
 "No; we are a nephew and niece," Brenda 
 answered. "If you will lend me your pencil 
 
198 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 and paper, I will exchange frontier-cards with 
 you." 
 
 The pad was returned to the lieutenant with 
 the names Brenda Arnold and William Duncan 
 Arnold upon it. 
 
 The contrast between the two sets of cousins 
 was something more than one of dress. The 
 young girl before the officer was decidedly at- 
 tractive in person, as well as refined in speech 
 and manner. How she could be even remotely 
 related to the Arnold daughters at the camp-fire 
 was difficult to comprehend. She was a blonde, 
 with abundant tresses of flaxen hair held in a 
 leash of blue ribbon, and a delicate complexion 
 which the journey had tanned and sprinkled 
 with abundant freckles, giving promise of rare 
 beauty with added years and less -exposure to 
 sun and wind. The boy was a self-reliant little 
 fellow, who exhibited a refined brotherly cour- 
 tesy towards his sister, a reflection of good home 
 training. 
 
 The Arnold history, incidentally gathered by 
 Randolph during a month's march, was briefly 
 this : Brenda and William were the children of 
 Mr. Arnold's only brother, and had been reared 
 in a large inland city of New York. Their 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 199 
 
 father and mother had recently perished in a 
 railway accident, and the children had been sent 
 to the paternal uncle in Colorado, who was be- 
 lieved, as he had always represented himself, to 
 be in affluent circumstances. There were rela- 
 tives on the mother's side, but they were scat- 
 tered, two of her brothers being in Europe at 
 the time of the accident. Brenda and Willie 
 had reached their Western uncle just as he was 
 starting on one of his periodical moves — this 
 time to Arizona. 
 
 The different social status of the families of 
 the two brothers was unusual but not impossible 
 in our country. One of the brothers was ambi- 
 tious, of steady habits, and possessed of a recep- 
 tive mind; the other was idle, impatient of re- 
 straint, with a disinclination to protracted effort 
 of any kind. One had worked his way through 
 college, had entered a profession, and married 
 well. The other had drifted through States and 
 Territories — a rolling stone that gathered no 
 moss — and had married the daughter of a no- 
 madic Missourian. 
 
 The pony Gypsy was shod by the soldier 
 blacksmith, and the boy William who led her 
 to the travelling forge was informed that the 
 
200 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 train contained representatives of many useful 
 trades, and that he and his relative v^ere wel- 
 come to any services the command could render. 
 
 On the daily marches it was the custom of 
 Lieutenant Randolph to ride in the rear or be- 
 side the wagons. The infantry marched out 
 briskly every morning, never getting far in ad- 
 vance ; but it was rarely seen again by the rear- 
 guard till the next camping-place was reached. 
 
 The wagons of the Arnold family travelled 
 between the guard and the government wagons. 
 They consisted of two large canvas-covered 
 "prairie-schooners," drawn by three pairs of 
 oxen each, beside which four cows, four horses, 
 and four dogs were usually grouped. The 
 father and the eldest daughter drove the ox- 
 teams; the mother, the two remaining daugh- 
 ters, and Brenda rode the ponies. William 
 walked, or rode in a wagon, except when one 
 of the cousins, his aunt, or Brenda chose the 
 wagon and let him have a horse. 
 
 As soon as Lieutenant Randolph noticed that 
 the boy was dependent upon the charity of 
 others for a ride, he made him happy by giving 
 him an order on the chief wagonmaster for a 
 spare mule with saddle, bridle, and spurs. Ac- 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 201 
 
 cordingly he appeared one morning mounted on 
 a little buff-colored mule with zebra strips on 
 shoulders, hips, and knees, and accompanied the 
 lieutenant during the day's march. The follow- 
 ing day Brenda joined her brother, and for the 
 rest of the journey the two usually rode with 
 Lieutenant Randolph. 
 
 The route abounded with game, and in sec- 
 tions where the column was secure from Indian 
 attack the lieutenant taught the boy and girl the 
 use of rifle and pistol with fair success. The 
 instruction began in camp, where they were 
 taught the mechanism of their arms and target 
 practice. 
 
 Brenda soon overcame her natural timidity 
 for firearms, and became a successful rival of 
 her brother when shooting at inanimate objects ; 
 but pity for birds and beasts prevented her from 
 being a successful sportswoman. 
 
 The niece always acted as applicant when- 
 ever the Arnold family desired a favor from 
 their military escort. One day, when the train 
 had pulled out of camp, the two young attend- 
 ants did not join their friend as usual. He did 
 not give the circumstance serious thought, sup- 
 posing their absence was caused by some domes- 
 
202 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 tic accident or delay; and not doubting but he 
 would presently hear the clatter of the pony's 
 and mule's hoofs as Brenda and her brother 
 hastened to overtake him, the lieutenant con- 
 tinued to ride on. 
 
 He had gone nearly a mile when a corporal 
 of the guard ran after him, and reported that 
 the Arnolds had not hitched up, and were still 
 in camp. Halting the train and guard, Ran- 
 dolph went back and found Brenda sitting by 
 the roadside in tears. 
 
 "What is the matter, Miss Arnold?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, it is something this time," she sobbed, 
 "that I think even you cannot remedy." 
 
 "Then you think I can generally remedy 
 things ? Thank you." 
 
 "You have always helped us so far; but I do 
 not see how you can now." 
 
 "What is the trouble, please?" 
 
 "Our poor oxen have worn their hoofs 
 through to the quick. They have been obliged 
 to travel much faster and longer distances, in 
 order to keep up with the military train, than 
 they ever did before. And the gravel has worn 
 out their hoofs. We must remain behind.' 
 
 >j 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 203 
 
 "Perhaps things are not so bad as you think. 
 Let us go and see," said the lieutenant. 
 
 "But we must go slower, Mr. Randolph, or 
 the feet will not heal. Uncle says so. And if 
 we drop behind the soldiers, who will protect 
 us from the Indians?" 
 
 Rising dejectedly, and by no means inspired 
 by hope, Brenda led the way to the Arnold 
 camping-place, where the officer found the 
 father and mother on their knees beside an ox, 
 engaged in binding rawhide "boots" to the ani- 
 mal's feet. These boots were squares cut from a 
 fresh hide procured from the last ox slaughtered 
 by the soldiers. The foot of the ox being set 
 in the centre, the square was gathered about the 
 ankle and fastened with a thong of buckskin. 
 
 "Are all your cattle in this condition, Mr. 
 Arnold?" asked Randolph. 
 
 "Only one other's 's bad 's this ; but all of 'em's 
 bad." 
 
 "That, certainly, is a very bad-looking foot. 
 I don't see how you kept up with cattle in that 
 condition." 
 
 "Had to, or git left." 
 
 "That's where you make a mistake. We 
 could not leave you behind in any case. You 
 
204 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 must go with us, somehow, for you would not 
 last a day in this region if we left you behind." 
 
 "I didn't think 'twould be any use to say any- 
 thin','' said Mr. Arnold. "You seem t' have all 
 you can haul now." 
 
 "We have three hundred head of oxen in Dur 
 commissary herd that used to belong to a 
 freighter. We can exchange with you. A beef 
 is a beef." 
 
 "Thank you, lieutenant. I didn't think you 
 could do it." 
 
 "That's easy enough. Turn your cattle into 
 our herd and catch up a new lot. When we get 
 to Prescott you can have your old teams if you 
 want them." 
 
 "Thank you, again. I shall want them. They 
 know my ways and I know theirs." 
 
 "Here, Willie 1" the officer called to the boy. 
 "Bring up your zebra and take a note for me 
 to Captain Bayard." 
 
 A note was written and despatched to the com- 
 manding officer, detailing the circumstances 
 causing the halt, and the action taken by the 
 writer to enable the immigrants to go on. Half 
 an hour later the prairie-schooners were again 
 on the road, and joy reigned in the Arnold 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 205 
 
 hearts. Frequent changes of draught animals 
 were afterwards made, until the close of the 
 march, when Mr. Arnold's stock was gathered 
 from the drove and returned to him in fine con- 
 dition. 
 
 When the soldiers arrived at Fort Whipple, 
 or rather the site of that work — for they built 
 it after their arrival — the Arnolds made their 
 home for a short time in Prescott, and then re- 
 moved to a section of land which they took up 
 in Cholla Valley, ten miles to the west by the 
 mountain trail, and twenty-five by the only prac- 
 ticable wagon-road. This place was selected for 
 a residence because its distance from Prescott 
 and its situation at the junction of the bridle- 
 path and wagon-road made it an excellent site 
 for a wayside inn. 
 
 Parties from the fort frequently passed the 
 Arnold ranch during the stages of selection, 
 building, and cultivation, and the officers took 
 much interest in inspecting the arrangements for 
 comfort, and the devices for making a defence 
 against possible Indian attack. The house and 
 stables were built of pine logs, squared and laid 
 up horizontally, the windows fitted with thick 
 shutters, and the doorways made to resist forci- 
 
206 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 ble entrance. Loop-holes for firearms were 
 made in the walls and temporarily filled with 
 mud. 
 
 In case the house became untenable an in- 
 genious earthwork was constructed twenty yards 
 from it, which could be entered by means of a 
 subterranean passage from the cellar. This 
 miniature fort was in the form of a circular pit 
 sunk four feet into the ground and covered by 
 a nearly flat roof, the edges or eaves of which 
 were but a foot and a half above the surface of 
 the earth. In the space between the surface and 
 the eaves were loop-holes. The roof was of 
 heavy pine timber, closely joined, sloping up- 
 wards slightly from circumference to centre, 
 and covered by two feet of tamped earth. To 
 obtain water a second covered way led from the 
 earthwork to a spring fifty yards distant, its outer 
 entrance being concealed in a rock nook 
 shrouded in a thick clump of willows. 
 
 This history of the Arnolds explains the 
 tragedy which brought Willie to the fort. While 
 his arm was being set and wounds dressed, and 
 preparations being made for the expedition, he 
 told the officers all that had happened at Cholla 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 207 
 
 Valley on the day of the attack up to the time 
 of his departure. 
 
 A party of forty-one Apaches had appeared 
 in the vicinity of the ranch near the close of the 
 afternoon, and had spent an hour or more in 
 reconnoitring the valley and its approaches. 
 Apparently satisfied that they v^ould not be in- 
 terrupted in their attack by outside parties, they 
 began operations by collecting the cattle and 
 horses, and placing them in charge of two of 
 their number near the spring. 
 
 Next they fired one of the out-buildings, and 
 under cover of the smoke gained entrance to a 
 second which stood less than one hundred feet 
 from the north side of the house. Knocking the 
 mud and chips from between the logs here and 
 there, they were enabled to open fire upon the 
 settlers at short range. 
 
 With the first appearance of the Indians, Mr. 
 Arnold, assisted by two travellers who had ar- 
 rived that afternoon from Date Creek on their 
 way to Prescott, closed the windows and door- 
 ways with heavy puncheon shutters, removed 
 the stops from the loop-holes, directed the girls 
 to carry provisions and property into the earth- 
 
208 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 work, got the arms and ammunition ready, and 
 patiently awaited further demonstrations. 
 
 The available defensive forqe consisted of 
 every member of the family and the two 
 strangers. The mother and daughters had been 
 taught the use of firearms by the husband and 
 father, and Willie and Brenda by Lieutenant 
 Randolph. In an emergency like the one being 
 narrated, where death and mutilation were sure 
 to follow capture, the girls were nerved to do 
 all that could be expected of boys of their ages. 
 
 Until the Apaches gaine'd possession of the 
 second out-building few shots had been ex- 
 changed, and the besieged closely watched their 
 movements from the loop-holes. It was while 
 doing this that a bullet pierced the brain of 
 Mrs. Arnold, and she fell dead in the midst of 
 her family. Had the two travellers not been 
 present, the demoralization which followed the 
 death of the mother might have enabled the 
 savages to reach the doors and gain an entrance ; 
 but while the family was plunged in its first 
 grief, the strangers stood at the loop-holes and 
 held the assailants in check. 
 
 The body of Mrs. Arnold was borne to the 
 cellar by the sorrowing husband, accompanied 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 209 
 
 by the weeping children. The firing became 
 desultory and without apparent eflfect. Bullet 
 and arrow could not pierce the thick walls of 
 the log house. Only through the loop-holes 
 could a missile enter, and by rare good-fortune 
 none of the defenders, after the first casualty, 
 chanced to be in line when one did. 
 
 The family again assembled in defence of 
 their home and lives, the grave necessity of 
 keeping off the impending danger banishing 
 thoughts of their bereavement, in a measure. An 
 ominous silence on the part of the Indians was 
 broken at last by the swish of a blazing arrow 
 to the roof. Mr. Arnold rushed to the garret, 
 and with the butt of his rifle broke a hole in the 
 covering and flung the little torch to the ground. 
 
 But another and another followed, and in 
 spite of desperate and vigilant action the pine 
 shingles burst into flames ia several places. At 
 this juncture, Willie, whose station was on the 
 south side of the house, and who had for some 
 time been looking through a loop-hole in that 
 direction, approached Mr. Arnold and said : 
 
 "Uncle Amos, I see Gypsy grazing near the 
 spring, close by the willows, and the two In- 
 dians there keep well this way, watching the 
 
210 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 fight. If you will allow me, I will creep 
 through the passage, mount, and ride to the fort 
 for the soldiers." 
 
 Mr. Arnold took a long look through the 
 aperture and replied: '^God bless you, William; 
 I think there's a good chance of your doin' it. 
 If Brenda's willin', you may try it." 
 
 Brenda's reply to the proposition was to throw 
 her arms about her brother's neck, kiss him, and 
 without a word go back to her station. The lad 
 silently took leave of his uncle and cousins, and 
 dropped into the cellar. Passing into the earth- 
 work he took a bridle and saddle, buckled on a 
 pair of spurs, and crept through the passage to 
 the spring. Standing in the screen of willows 
 he parted the bushes cautiously on the side 
 towards the Indians, and saw them, over a hun- 
 dred yards distant, standing with their backs 
 towards him, watching the house, the roof of 
 which was now a roaring leaping mass of flame. 
 
 Closing the boughs again, Willie opened them 
 in an opposite direction, and crept softly up to 
 Gypsy, holding out his hand to her. The docile 
 pony raised her head, and, coming forward, 
 placed her nose in his palm, submitting to be 
 bridled and saddled without objection or noise. 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 211 
 
 Leaping into the saddle, the boy drove his 
 spurs into the bronco's flanks, and was oflf at a 
 furious gallop in the direction of Whipple. 
 Startled by the hoof-beats the Apaches looked 
 back and began running diagonally across the 
 field to try to intercept the boy before he turned 
 into the direct trail. Arrow after arrow and 
 one bullet sped after him, one of the former 
 grazing his cheek, and the latter fracturing his 
 arm. 
 
 It was dusk when Willie began his ride, and 
 it grew rapidly dark as he hurried along the 
 bridle-path. Neither he nor the pony had been 
 over this route before. Twice they got off the 
 trail, and long and miserable hours were spent 
 in regaining it; but the fort was reached at last, 
 and the alarm given. 
 
 Ill 
 
 With twenty-eight men, including the two 
 scouts and post surgeon. Lieutenant Randolph 
 left Prescott for Cholla Valley. The night was 
 moonless, but the myriad stars shone brilliantly 
 through the rare atmosphere of that Western 
 region, lighting the trail and making it easy to 
 follow. It was a narrow pathway, with but few 
 
212 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 places where two horsemen could ride abreast, 
 so conversation was almost impossible, and few 
 words, except those of command, were spoken; 
 nor were the men in a mood to talk. All were 
 more or less excited and impatient, and wher- 
 ever the road would permit urged their horses 
 into a run. 
 
 The trail climbed and descended rugged 
 steeps, crossed smooth intervals, skirted the 
 edges of precipices, wound along the borders of 
 dry creeks, and threaded forests and clumps of 
 sage-brush and grease-wood. Throughout the 
 ride the imaginations of officers and men were 
 depicting the scenes they feared were being en- 
 acted in the valley, or which might take place 
 if they failed to arrive in time to prevent. 
 
 It is needless to say, perhaps, that the one per- 
 son about whom the thoughts of the men com- 
 posing the rescuing party centred was the gentle, 
 bright, and pretty Brenda. She had been a 
 conspicuous figure and a daily companion on a 
 march of over four weeks' duration, and they 
 had frequently met her since their arrival and 
 location at the post. Her uniform courtesy and 
 fine appreciation of the slightest service rend- 
 ered her had won the esteem and respect of every 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 213 
 
 soldier in the command. To think of her falling 
 into the hands of the merciless Apaches was al- 
 most maddening. 
 
 On and on rode the column, the men giving 
 their panting steeds no more rest than the nature 
 of the road and the success of the expedition 
 required. At last they reached the spur of the 
 range behind which lay Cholla Valley. They 
 skirted it, and with anxious eyes sought through 
 the darkness the place where the ranch buildings 
 should be. All was silence. No report of fire- 
 arms or whoop of savages disturbed the quiet of 
 the valley. 
 
 Ascending a swell in the surface of the ground 
 they saw that all the buildings had disappeared, 
 nothing meeting their anxious gaze but beds of 
 lurid coals, occasionally fanned into a red glow 
 by the intermittent night breeze. But there was 
 the impregnable earthwork — the family must be 
 in that! Randolph dashed swiftly forward, 
 eagerly followed by his men. The earthwork 
 was destroyed — nothing but a circular pit re- 
 maining, in the bottom of which glowed the em- 
 bers of the fallen roof timbers. 
 
 A search for the slain was at once begun and 
 continued for a long time. Every square rod 
 
214 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 of the valley for a mile was hunted over without 
 result, and the party gathered once more about 
 the two cellars in which the coals still glowed. 
 
 "It was in the cellar of the house that the boy 
 said the body of his aunt was laid, was it not?" 
 asked Doctor Colton. 
 
 "Yes," replied Lieutenant Randolph. 
 
 "Then, if all were killed after he left — shot 
 from time to time — ^would not their remains be 
 likely to be beside hers?" 
 
 "Not beside hers, I think. The last stand 
 must have been made in the fort." 
 
 "Then the bodies must be under that circular 
 bed of coal, Randolph, if they died here." 
 
 "Probably, doctor. It's an uncanny thing to 
 do, but we must stir the coals and see. If all 
 have perished, our duty ends here for the pres- 
 ent; if they are living, we must find them. Ser- 
 geant Rafiferty, have some fence rails brought 
 and examine this pit." 
 
 In a few moments a half-dozen rails were be- 
 ing thrust down into the coals, their ends burst- 
 ing into flame as they searched the fiery depths. 
 Nothing was brought up. 
 
 "Randolph, didn't the boy say something 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 215 
 
 about a covered way from this cellar to the 
 spring?" asked the surgeon. 
 
 "That is so, doctor ; they must be in that. Can 
 you see any sign of an opening?" 
 
 "Nothing positive. Behind those wagon-tires 
 there seems to be a natural slope of earth." 
 
 "Tip the tires over, sergeant," said the lieu- 
 tenant, and presently a number of tires, from 
 which the fire had burned the wheels, fell into 
 the coals, disclosing a recently filled aperture. 
 
 "Looks as if the end of a passage had been 
 filled, doesn^t it?" said the doctor. 
 
 "It certainly does," answered the lieutenant. 
 "Let us go down to the spring and examine." 
 
 The two officers and several of the men went 
 to the spring. When they arrived there, Ran- 
 dolph and the doctor broke a way through the 
 thick-set willows into an irregular mass of small 
 bowlders. Climbing over these they found 
 themselves at the mouth of the passage, a little 
 over five feet high and three feet wide. 
 
 "This must be the covered way," said the lieu- 
 tenant. Placing his head within the entrance 
 he called : "Oh, Mr. Arnold — ^we are here ; your 
 friends from Fort Whipple!" 
 
 "Thank Heaven!" in a man's tones came clear- 
 
216 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 ly through the entrance, accompanied by a sud- 
 den outburst of sobs in girlish voices. 
 
 "We'll be there directly," spoke another man's 
 voice — that of a stranger. 
 
 Then followed the sound of steps, accom- 
 panied by voices, sounding at the entrance, as a 
 voice spoken in a long tube appears to be ut- 
 tered at the listener's end. Some time elapsed 
 before those who seemed so near appeared ; but 
 at last there emerged from the passage Mr. 
 Arnold, two strange men, and three girls — but 
 no Brenda. 
 
 "Where's Brenda, Mr. Arnold?" asked Ran- 
 dolph. 
 
 "Heaven knows. She gave herself up to the 
 Apaches." 
 
 "Gave herself up to the Apaches! What do 
 you mean?" 
 
 "That's precisely what she did, lieutenant," 
 said one of the strangers, adding: "My name is 
 Bartlett, from Hassayampa, and this is my 
 friend Gray, from La Paz. We were on our 
 way to Prescott, and stopped here for dinner. 
 But about the girl Brenda; she took it into her 
 head, after we got into the little fort, that unless 
 
o 
 
 pi 
 o 
 
 
''k^ ♦f 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 217 
 
 some one could create a diversion to mislead the 
 ' devils w^e'd all lose our scalps." 
 
 "That beautiful young girl! Give herself up 
 to certain torture and death? Why did you al- 
 low it?" 
 
 "Wasn't consulted — surprised us. I hope, 
 lieutenant, you will not think so hard of me and 
 my friend as to believe we'd allowed it if we had 
 suspected what the plucky miss meant to do." 
 
 "Tell me all the circumstances, Mr. Bartlett," 
 said the lieutenant. 
 
 The party moved slowly along the path from 
 the spring to the fires, and as they walked Mr. 
 Arnold and the travellers gave an account of 
 all that had happened after Willie left for Fort 
 Whipple. 
 
 The burning arrows sent to the pitch-pine roof 
 became so numerous that the besieged found it 
 impossible to prevent the flames from catching 
 in several places. The boy was hardly out of 
 sight before the house became untenable, and 
 the defenders were obliged to retire to the fort 
 
 When the house was consumed and its tim- 
 bers had fallen into the cellar, a mass of burn- 
 ing brands, the space about the earthwork was 
 clear, and the rifles at its loop-holes kept the 
 
218 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Indians close within the building they had oc- 
 cupied since the attack began. Not one dared 
 to show himself to the unerring marksmen who 
 watched their every movement. 
 
 For a long time silence reigned in the out- 
 building. Not a shot came from its chinks, and 
 the vociferous yells were still. But for the pres- 
 ence of their ponies and the two sentinels near 
 the spring the defenders might have supposed 
 the Indians had gone away. The whites, how- 
 ever, felt sure that plans were being matured 
 which meant disaster to them. 
 
 At last these plans were revealed in a con- 
 stant and rapid flight of arrows directed at a 
 point between two loop-holes — a point which 
 could not be reached by the besieged — and 
 where, if a considerable collection of burning 
 brands could be heaped against the logs between 
 the earth and eaves, the pine walls and rafters 
 must take fire. Walls and roof were too solid 
 to be cut away, and water could not reach the 
 outside. 
 
 The defenders held a consultation, and de- 
 cided that in the event of the fire getting control 
 of the fort they should retire into the covered 
 way, block up the entrance with earth, and re- 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 219 
 
 main there until help should arrive. It was 
 thought that the Indians would suppose all had 
 perished in the flames. 
 
 "But they know we came here by an under- 
 ground passage from the house," said Brenda. 
 "Will they not suspect that we have entered an- 
 other passage if we all disappear?" 
 
 "Perhaps they may," answered Mr. Arnold. 
 "I had not thought of that. WeUl have t' take 
 our chances." 
 
 "If one of us was to appear to escape from 
 here and join them," continued the girl, "I think 
 they would suppose the others had perished and 
 make no search." 
 
 "That may be true, but I'll take my chances 
 here," said Mr. Gray. 
 
 "So will I," said his companion. "A fellow 
 wouldn't last a minute outside this fort. I pre- 
 fer smothering here to the death those devils 
 would give me." 
 
 Time passed on, and it soon became evident 
 to the besieged that the outer wall was on fire. 
 It was shown by the black smoke which 
 wreathed in at the loop-holes on the northern 
 side, and drew in long lines to loop-holes on the 
 
220 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 southern, and the fresh outbreak of whoops in 
 which there was a note of exultation. 
 
 The sun had gone down and darkness was 
 creeping over the valley when the first tongue of 
 flame licked through a crevice in the roof and 
 showed that the fire had gained a foothold. Soon 
 a hole appeared close to the eaves, which grad- 
 ually enlarged towards the centre of the roof 
 and along the surface of the earth. With 
 blankets the fire was beaten out on the sides, but 
 it crept insidiously along between the timber 
 and the earth covering. 
 
 In making the roof, branches of pine had been 
 spread over the timber, and the branches in turn 
 covered with a thick layer of straw to prevent 
 the earth from filtering between the logs. This 
 material was as dry as tinder, and held and car- 
 ried the fire. 
 
 The men stood at the loop-holes and com- 
 pelled the savages to remain under cover of the 
 out-building, while the four girls exerted them- 
 selves to keep the fire from showing inside. De- 
 lay until help could arrive was what all strug- 
 gled to gain. But the increasing heat and smoke 
 showed the defenders at last that they could no 
 longer put off retiring to the covered way. 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 221 
 
 The word was given and all entered it, and 
 the men, with shovels, began to close the en- 
 trance. When it was a little more than half 
 closed, the hole in the roof had become trian- 
 gular in shape, resembling the space between 
 two spokes and a felloe of a wheel. On the earth 
 or felloe side of the triangle there was no fire; 
 but the other sides were burning fiercely. 
 
 Making a sudden dash, and before any one 
 could realize her intention, Brenda leaped past 
 the shovellers, sprang over the embankment they 
 were throwing up, and by the aid of a bench 
 sprang up the four-foot wall through the flame- 
 wreathed aperture and disappeared, her cloth- 
 ing apparently in a blaze. The war-whoops 
 immediately ceased. 
 
 No attempt at pursuit or rescue was made. 
 The Arnolds and their friends felt that it would 
 be useless, and only result in the death of the 
 pursuers. The work of closing the passage was 
 resumed and completed, and all sat down in the 
 darkness to await the slow passage of time and 
 the possible arrival of the soldiers. 
 
 None of the party felt sure that Willie had 
 succeeded in leaving the valley, believing, as 
 they did, that his chances of passing the Apache 
 
222 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 pickets were few and desperate. They had more 
 confidence in the supposition that Brenda's act 
 would cause the Indians to believe all but the 
 girl had perished, and lead them to depart at 
 once with their booty. 
 
 After listening to the story of the Arnolds, 
 Lieutenant Randolph concluded that Brenda 
 had fallen a victim to the cruelty of the Apaches, 
 and that a search would reveal her body 
 mutilated and disfigured by her captors. A 
 rapid and excited search was at once begun. 
 Far and wide, over the plain, through the ra- 
 vines, and into the foot-hills rode the soldiers, 
 leaving no part of the country for two miles 
 around unsearched ; but not a trace of the miss- 
 ing girl was discovered. 
 
 Once more the detachment gathered near the 
 ruins of the Arnold's home, and began prepara- 
 tions for returning to Whipple. The remains 
 of the dead mother were lifted from beneath the 
 charred timbers, and deposited in a grave pre- 
 pared near by. While the burial was taking 
 place, the two scouts. Weaver and Cooler, were 
 absent, looking for the Apache trail. Day was 
 dawning, and as it was probable when they re- 
 turned that the command would start, the officer 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 223 
 
 ordered the horses fed from the loose forage 
 scattered about, and the men to prepare their 
 breakfast. 
 
 The scouts returned as the men were dispers- 
 ing from their meal, and Cooler placed in the 
 lieutenant's hand a dainty lock of flaxen hair 
 wound around the middle with another lock. 
 
 "I found it," said the scout, ^^beside the ravine 
 yonder, a little more than two miles from here. 
 The young miss is alive and dropped it for a 
 sign. The redskins all left in that direction." 
 
 Whatever Brenda's three cousins may have 
 lacked in education and cultivation, they lacked 
 nothing in affection. They gathered about the 
 little tress, took it daintily in their palms, kissed 
 it again and again, and moistened it with tears. 
 Low sobs and endearing names for the brave 
 darling who had been willing to sacrifice her 
 life to preserve theirs fell from their lips. Poor, 
 rude frontier maids, they had shown an equal 
 bravery all through the defence, and proved 
 themselves to be worthy descendents of the race 
 that lived through the colonial struggles with the 
 Indians of the East. The three grief-stricken 
 girls gathered about Lieutenant Randolph, and, 
 
224 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 clinging to his arms, besought him to go to the 
 rescue of their cousin. 
 
 "Yes, yes, girls," he replied, "everything shall 
 be done that possibly can be done. We will start 
 at once, and I hope to bring her back to you. 
 Mr. Arnold," he continued, "I will leave you a 
 luncheon for the road, and you must try to make 
 the distance to Prescott on foot." 
 
 "Yes, sir, we can cover the ground easy ; thank 
 you." 
 
 "I would leave you some of the men as escort, 
 but in such an expedition I shall need more than 
 I have." 
 
 "That's all right, Mr. Randolph. If I had a 
 horse I'd go with you. There'll be no Apaches 
 round this place for many days," and his eyes 
 ran sadly over the ruins of his home, resting 
 finally on the grave of his wife. 
 
 Yes, Brenda was alive, and a prisoner of the 
 Apaches, spared by them, as children sometimes 
 are after such raids, for adoption. It was plain- 
 ly the duty of soldiers to rescue her from the 
 cruel fate of a continued life with her captors. 
 
 IV 
 
 After a delay sufficiently long to allow the 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 225 
 
 scouts and their broncos to breakfast, the party 
 mounted and turned to the west. Lieutenant 
 Randolph asked Weaver to ride by his side, and 
 questioned him about the country before them. 
 
 "I suppose you are familiar with this part 
 of the country, Paul?" 
 
 "Ought t' be ; been here off and on since I was 
 twenty." 
 
 "Have the Indians a camping-place near 
 here?" 
 
 "Yes ; they spend a part of every year in this 
 section, gatherin' mescal. From the direction 
 they've took, I b'lieve they're goin' to Santy 
 Maree Creek." 
 
 "That flows into Bill Williams Fork, doesn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes; and 't has a northern and southern 
 branch. One of the favorite campin'-places of 
 the tribe is on the southern branch." 
 
 "How far is it from Cholla Valley?" 
 
 "Fifty miles." 
 
 "Easy to approach?" 
 
 "Good ridin' all the way, 'cept a bit of bowl- 
 der country on a divide." 
 
 "Is the camp open to attack?" 
 
 "Wide open after you get into the valley. 
 
226 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 There's a water-fall, or, rather, a piece of rips 
 there that '11 drown the noise of our comin'." 
 
 "Isn't it strange that Indians should camp in 
 such a place?" 
 
 "They are Mescalero Apaches, and the mescal 
 grows thick round there. Besides, there's no 
 other place on the stream combinin' grazin' and 
 waterin', and they've never been hunted into that 
 region yet." 
 
 "Well, Paul, we'll try to hunt them there now 
 if we have good luck." 
 
 The lieutenant urged the men on as fast as 
 possible, taking care not to exhaust the horses 
 and unfit them for a long pursuit. The soldiers 
 were animated by a strong desire to punish the 
 Indians for their treatment of the family in the 
 valley, and were excited by the fear that the 
 gentle girl in their hands might fall a victim to 
 some barbaric cruelty before they could be over- 
 taken, so that the animals were constantly urged 
 close to the powers of endurance. There was 
 not much talking. Every pulse was throbbing 
 with a desire to get within rifle-range of the 
 savages. 
 
 There is no doubt but the Indian has been 
 grossly abused, defrauded, and cheated since the 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 227 
 
 white man first made his acquaintance. The 
 scenes depicted in this story were the result of 
 centuries of error and wrong on the part of 
 Spaniards and, after them, Americans. Few 
 army men are inclined to dispute this. The 
 cruelty of the American Indian is the cruelty of 
 every savage people, white or red, since time be- 
 gan. When on the warpath, to the savage mind 
 it seems proper that no cruelty should be spared 
 his victim. Whatever opinions, however, the 
 soldier may entertain of the national method of 
 conducting Indian affairs, it becomes his duty to 
 secure peace by war when the resentful savage 
 begins hostilities. 
 
 War with the Apaches, the result of gold- 
 hunting and land encroachments upon their 
 reservations, had been going on for several years 
 when the attack upon the Cholla Valley ranch 
 occurred. The detachment now in pursuit of 
 a band of the tribe entertained the natural re- 
 sentment of a generous foe for a cruel and re- 
 lentless one, and a personal acquaintance and 
 warm, friendly interest in the family that had 
 suffered animated the men with a strong resolu- 
 tion to administer severe punishment for what 
 had been done in the valley. 
 
228 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Near the middle of the forenoon, as the sol- 
 diers were riding up a canon, on each side of 
 which rose rugged sandstone precipices, they 
 came to a fork in the trail and the canon. The 
 track parted, and, judging from the footprints, 
 most of the captured stock had passed to the 
 right. Weaver said the right-hand path led to 
 the northern branch of the Santa Maria, and 
 the left to the southern branch. 
 
 The detachment halted perplexed. To divide 
 the party of twenty-eight in order to follow both 
 trails would be attended by much danger. To 
 take the whole number over a wrong trail and 
 not rescue Brenda was a course to be dreaded. 
 Lieutenant Randolph called the scouts to him 
 for consultation. 
 
 "Don't you think," he asked, "that it is prob- 
 able a girl who was thoughtful enough to drop 
 a sign to show she was alive and a captive would 
 be likely to give us a hint which trail she was 
 taken over from this point?" 
 
 "That's prob'ble, leftenant," replied Weaver. 
 
 "If you'll hold the boys here a bit, George and 
 I will ride up the two trails a piece and look for 
 signs." 
 
 "Go quite a distance, too. She might not get 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 229 
 
 an opportunity to drop anything for some time 
 after leaving the fork." 
 
 "That's true," said Cooler; "the redskins 
 would be watching her very sharply. Which 
 way will you go, Paul?" 
 
 "Let the leftenant say," answered the old 
 scout, tightening his belt and readjusting his 
 equipments for a longer ride. 
 
 "All ready, then," said Randolph. "You take 
 the right. Weaver, and George the left. While 
 you are gone we'll turn out the stock." 
 
 The scouts departed, and a few moments later 
 the horses of the command were cropping the 
 rich grass of the narrow valley, sentinels were 
 posted to watch them and look for the return of 
 the guides, and the rest of the men threw them- 
 selves upon the turf to wait. 
 
 An hour passed away, when Weaver was seen 
 returning from the northern trail. As he ap- 
 proached he held something above his head. 
 Directing the horses to be got ready, the officer 
 walked forward to meet him, and received from 
 his hand a small bow of blue ribbon, which he 
 at once recognized to be the property of Brenda. 
 
 It now appeared certain the girl captive had 
 been taken over the road to the right; so, with- 
 
230 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 out waiting for the return of Cooler, the men 
 were ordered into their saddles, and the detach- 
 ment started over the northern trail. It had not 
 gone far, however, when a man in the rear called 
 to the lieutenant. Looking back he saw the 
 young scout galloping rapidly forward and 
 beckoning them back. 
 
 A halt was ordered, and Cooler rode up to 
 the commander and placed in his hand a lock of 
 flaxen hair bound with a thread of the same. 
 Placed by the other they were twin tresses, ex- 
 cept that the last was slightly singed by fire. 
 
 Tears glistened on the eyelids of some of the 
 bronzed veterans at the sight of the tiny lock of 
 hair, and the accompanying reflection that the 
 party had barely escaped taking the wrong trail. 
 
 "God bless the darlint," said grizzled Ser- 
 geant Rafferty, "there's not a redskin can bate 
 her with ther thricks. We'll bring her back to 
 the post, b'yes, or 'U go hard with usl" 
 
 The sergeant's remarks were subscribed to by 
 many hearty exclamations on the part of his 
 fellow-soldiers. It was evident that the Apaches 
 had expected to be pursued and had dropped 
 the ribbon to mislead; and that Brenda, noticing 
 the fork in the road and the division in the In- 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 231 
 
 dian force, and foreseeing the perplexity her 
 friends would be in, had dropped her sign to 
 set them right as soon as opportunity offered. 
 
 The lieutenant asked the guides if it was not 
 probable the Apaches had a watch set on the 
 overlooking heights to see which road his party 
 took at this point. 
 
 ^^Sart'inly, leftenant, sart'inly," answered 
 Weaver ; "they're watching us sharp just now." 
 
 "Then we had better continue on the northern 
 trail awhile and mislead them, you think?" 
 
 "My very thought. That's the best thing to 
 do. We needn't reach their camp until after 
 midnight, and we might 's well spend the time 
 misleadin' 'em." 
 
 "Yes; and it'll be better to reach them near 
 morning, too," added Cooler. 
 
 "Then we will go on as we began for some 
 time longer," replied the lieutenant; and the 
 soldiers again moved at a brisk canter over the 
 northern trail. An hour afterwards a halt was 
 made in a grassy nook, the horses turned out to 
 graze until dusk, when the route was retraced 
 to the fork, and the march resumed over the 
 southern branch. 
 
 Night overtook the pursuers on a high ridge 
 
232 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 covered with loose, rounded bowlders, over 
 which it was necessary to slowly lead the horses 
 with some clatter, and many bruises to man and 
 beast. The rough road lasted until a consider- 
 able descent was made on the western side, end- 
 ing on the edge of a grassy valley. 
 
 At this point. Weaver advised that the horses 
 should be left, and the command proceed on 
 foot; for if the Indians were in camp at the 
 rapids it would be impossible to approach 
 mounted without alarming them; while if on 
 foot, the noise of the rushing water would cover 
 the sound of all movements. 
 
 Six men were sent back to a narrow defile to 
 prevent the attacking party from being surprised 
 by the Indians who had taken the northern trail, 
 should they attempt to rejoin their friends at the 
 rapids. Randolph determined, on the recom- 
 mendation of the scouts, to defer making an at- 
 tack until after three o'clock, for at that time 
 the enemy would be feeling quite secure from 
 pursuit and be in their deepest sleep. 
 
 The horses were picketed, guards posted, and 
 lunch distributed, and all not on duty lay down 
 to wait. Time dragged slowly. About one 
 o'clock a noise on the opposite side of the creek 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 233 
 
 attracted attention, and Cooler crept away in the 
 darkness to ascertain its cause. In half an hour 
 he returned with the information that the In- 
 dians who had taken the northern trail had re- 
 joined their friends and turned their animals in- 
 to the general herd. Upon learning this, the 
 lieutenant sent a messenger to call in the six men 
 sent to guard the narrow defile, and shortly after- 
 wards they joined their waiting comrades. 
 
 An hour later Weaver announced the time to 
 start. Leaving but one man to look after the 
 horses the rest slipped down the slope into the 
 river-bottom, taking care not to rattle arms and 
 accoutrements, and began a slow advance along 
 the narrow pathway, the borders of which were 
 lined with the spiked vegetation of the country. 
 
 Going on for some time, Randolph judged 
 from the sound of flowing water that they were 
 nearing the camp. He halted and sent the two 
 scouts to reconnoitre. They did so, and returned 
 with the information that the camp was close at 
 hand, and contained thirteen mat and skin 
 covered tents or huts, and that the stolen stock 
 and Indian ponies were grazing on a flat just 
 beyond. No guards were visible. 
 
 The flat about the camp was covered with 
 
234 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Spanish-bayonet, soapweed, and cacti, with here 
 and there a variety of palmetto which attains a 
 height of about twenty-five feet, the trunks 
 shaggy with a fringe of dead spines left by each 
 year's growth. Cooler suggested that at a given 
 signal the trunks of two of these trees should be 
 set on fire to light up the camp, and enable the 
 soldiers to pick off the Apaches as they left their 
 shelter when the attack began. He also pro- 
 posed a yell, saying: "If you outyell 'em, lieu- 
 tenant, you can outfight 'em." 
 
 Although the lieutenant doubted whether 
 twenty-three white throats could make as much 
 noise as half a dozen red ones, he consented to 
 the proposition. He sent four men to the flat 
 upon which the ponies and cattle were grazing, 
 with orders to place themselves between the 
 animals and the creek, and when the firing began 
 drive them back along the trail into the hills. 
 
 When these instructions had been given. Doc- 
 tor Colton asked Randolph if the firing would 
 be directed into the tents. 
 
 "That is what I was thinking of," replied the 
 lieutenant. 
 
 "Of course Brenda is in one of them," said 
 the doctor. 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 235 
 
 "Yes; and if we shoot into them indiscrimi- 
 nately we are as likely to hit her as any one." 
 
 "Can you think of any other way of locating 
 her?" 
 
 "No; I am at a dead loss. We will try 
 Cooler's plan of yelling, and perhaps that will 
 bring them out." 
 
 He searched for Sergeant Rafferty, and 
 directed him to forbid any one to fire until or- 
 ders were given to do so. 
 
 Orders were passed and dispositions so made 
 that one-half the force was placed on each flank 
 of the camp. All movements were made at a 
 considerable distance from the place to be at- 
 tacked, and the utmost care taken to make no 
 noise that would alarm the sleeping foe. Once 
 on the flanks, the men were to creep up slowly 
 and stealthily to effective rifle range. When the 
 trunks of the palmettos were lighted all were to 
 yell as diabolically as possible, and fire at every 
 Indian that showed himself. 
 
 The front of the camp was towards the creek, 
 which flowed over bowlders and pebbles with 
 considerable rush and roar. The ofl[icer ex- 
 
236 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 pected the Indians in their flight would make a 
 dash for the stream, and attempt to pass through 
 the shoal rapids to the wooded bluffs beyond. 
 
 The soldiers were told to screen themselves 
 behind yuccas or the Spanish-bayonet, emole, 
 and cacti. The lieutenant, accompanied by Paul 
 Weaver, selected a clump on the northern side, 
 from which he could observe the front of the 
 tents. Sergeant Rafferty with George Cooler 
 was on the opposite flank, and the lighting of 
 a tree on the officer's side was to be the signal 
 for one to be lighted on the other, and for the 
 yelling to begin. 
 
 All was done as planned. The flash of one 
 match was followed promptly by the flash of 
 another. Two flames burst forth and climbed 
 rapidly the shaggy palmettos, making the whole 
 locality as bright as day. At the same instant 
 the imitation war-whoop burst from vigorous 
 lungs and throats. 
 
 Every one held his rifle to shoot the escaping 
 Apaches; but not a redskin showed his head. 
 The soldiers yelled and yelled, practising every 
 variation ingenuity could invent in the vain at- 
 tempts to make their tame white-man utterances 
 resemble the blood-curdling, hair-raising, heart- 
 jumping shrieks of their Indian foes, now so 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 237 
 
 Strangely silent. Not a savage responded vocally 
 or otherwise. 
 
 But for the presence of the captive girl the 
 attack would have begun by riddling the thinly 
 covered shelters with bullets at low range. Th^ 
 Indians evidently understood that they were 
 secure from injury as long as they kept out of 
 sight. 
 
 The two burning trees had gone out, and two 
 others had been lighted. It began to appear 
 evident that if something was not done to bring 
 out the foe, the supply of towering torches 
 would be exhausted and nothing accomplished. 
 In darkness the advantage might be on the side 
 of the red men. 
 
 The surgeon, who reclined near the lieuten- 
 ant, asked: ^^Do you think any of those fellows 
 understand English?" 
 
 '^Guess not; their neighbors are the Mexicans, 
 and some of them know Spanish. You know 
 we always employ a Mexican as interpreter 
 when we talk with them." 
 
 *^Then why not speak to Brenda in English, 
 and ask her to try to show us where she is. The 
 Apaches will not understand — ^will think you 
 are talking to your men." 
 
 ^^Thank you, doctor, that's an excellent idea." 
 
238 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 A soldier was sent along both flanks with or- 
 ders for all yelling to cease, and for perfect quiet 
 to be maintained. Then, acting upon the sur- 
 geon's suggestion, Randolph called in a clear, 
 loud voice : 
 
 ^^Brenda, we are here, your friends from the 
 fort. Your relatives are safe. Try and make a 
 signal by which we can tell where you are. Take 
 plenty of time, and do nothing to endanger your 
 life!" 
 
 A long silence succeeded, during which two 
 more palms were consumed, and the officer was 
 beginning to fear that he would be obliged to 
 offer terms to the Indians, leaving them unhurt, 
 if they would yield up the captive and the stolen 
 stock. 
 
 But before the lieutenant had fully considered 
 this alternative Cooler approached from the rear 
 and said : ^'Lieutenant, I've been creepin' along 
 behind the wiggies, and I saw somethin' looks 
 like a white hand stickin' out from under the 
 edge of the tenth from the left." 
 
 ''Show it to me," said the officer. "I'll ac- 
 company you." 
 
 Making a detour to the rear the two crept up 
 to the back of the tent indicated, pausing at a 
 distance of twenty feet from it. It was too dark 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 239 
 
 to make out anything definite. A narrow white 
 object was visible beneath the lower edge; that 
 was all. 
 
 Cooler was sent back a short distance to light 
 a palm, and as the flames crept swiftly up the 
 trunk the officer saw by the flaring light a small, 
 white hand, holding in its fingers the loose tresses 
 of Brenda's hair. The question was settled. The 
 captive girl was in the fourth tent from the right 
 of the line. 
 
 Waiting until the fire went out, the two 
 worked their way well to the rear. 
 
 ^^Go back, George," said Randolph, "to your 
 flank, and tell Sergeant RaflFerty to move his 
 men to a point from which he can cover the rear 
 of the camp, and open fire on all the tents except 
 the tenth from the left and the fourth from the 
 right. The rest of us will attend to those who 
 run." 
 
 "All right, sir, we'll soon make it lively for 
 the rascals." 
 
 "Light up some more trees when you are all 
 ready." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 The lieutenant crept slowly back to his own 
 flank and ordered a disposition of his party so 
 as to command the space in front of the line of 
 
240 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 tents. In another instant the flames were ascend- 
 ing the two tree trunks, and the rapid crackling 
 of rifles broke the early morning stillness. With 
 the first scream of a bullet through the flimsy 
 shelters the Indians leaped out and dashed for 
 the river. Few fell. Rapid zigzags and the 
 swinging of blankets and arms as they ran con- 
 fused the aim of the soldiers. In less than five 
 minutes the last Apache was out of sight, and 
 the firing had ceased. 
 
 Concealment was no longer a necessary pre^ 
 caution, and the soldiers thronged the space 
 before the tents. Walking to the hut from which 
 he had seen the hand and tresses thrust out, the 
 lieutenant called: ^^Brendal" There was no 
 response or sound. Looking into the entrance, 
 he saw in the dim light of the awakening day 
 the figure of a girl lying on her back, her feet 
 extended towards him, and her head touching 
 the rear wall. The right arm lay along her side, 
 and the left was thrown above her head, the 
 fingers still holding her hair. 
 
 A terrible fear seized the young officer. He 
 again called the girl by name, and receiving no 
 answer went in, and, with nervous fingers, 
 lighted a match and stooped beside her. He 
 saw a rill of blood threading its way across the 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 241 
 
 earthen floor from her left side. He shouted for 
 Doctor Colton, and the surgeon hurried in. 
 From his instrument-case he took a small lan- 
 tern, and, lighting it, fell upon his knees beside 
 the prostrate girl. 
 
 During the following few moments, while the 
 skilled fingers of the firm-nerved surgeon were 
 cutting away clothing to expose the nature of the 
 wound, the lieutenant's thoughts found time to 
 wander away to the girl's brother Willie, who 
 had been left at the fort in spite of repeated re- 
 quests to be allowed to accompany the detach- 
 ment. He thought what a sad message it would 
 be his province to bear to the lad if this dear 
 sister should die by savage hands. 
 
 The lieutenant entertained little hope that the 
 pretty girl could live. He looked upon her as 
 already claimed by death. She who had made 
 a long and weary march pleasant by her vivacity 
 and intelligence was to die in this wretched hole. 
 
 But the skilful fingers of the young surgeon 
 were continuing the search for some evidence 
 that the savage stab was not fatal, and his mind 
 was busy with means for preserving life should 
 there be a chance. The officer watched, and 
 assisted now and then when asked ; waited with 
 
242 BOY^S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Strained patience for a word upon which to base 
 a hope. 
 
 At last the doctor dropped the hand whose 
 pulse he had been long searching, and said: 
 ^^She is alive, and that is about all. You see her 
 hands, arms, and neck are badly scorched by the 
 dash she made through. the fire at the ranch. 
 Then this wicked stab has paralyzed her. She 
 has bled considerably, too. But she lives. Press 
 your finger on this artery." 
 
 "Can she be made to live, doctor?" 
 
 "The knife did not touch a vital part; but it 
 may have done irreparable injury. I can tell 
 more presently." 
 
 Nothing more was said, except in the way of 
 direction, for a long time, the surgeon working 
 slowly and skilfully at the wound. At last, re- 
 arranging her clothing and replacing his instru- 
 ments in their case, he said: "If I had the girl 
 in the post hospital, or in a civilized dwelling 
 with a good nurse, I think she might recover." 
 
 "Can't we give her the proper attendance 
 here, doctor?" asked Randolph. 
 
 "I fear not. She ought to have a woman's 
 gentle care, for one thing, and some remedies 
 and appliances I haven't here for such a deli- 
 cate case. It is the long distance between here 
 
ON AN ARIZONA TRAIL 243 
 
 and the fort that makes the outlook hopeless. 
 She cannot survive the journey." 
 
 "Then we will remain here," said the lieu- 
 tenant, with decision. "Write out a list of what 
 you want, and I will send Cooler to the fort for 
 tents and supplies, a camp woman, Willie, and 
 the elder Arnold girl." 
 
 "Randolph, you are inspired!" exclaimed the 
 doctor. "We will save this girl. I'll have my 
 order ready in a few moments, and then we will 
 make Brenda comfortable. You and I can man- 
 age until a better nurse arrives." 
 
 A letter was written to Captain Bayard, the 
 surgeon's memoranda enclosed, and a quarter 
 of an hour afterwards Cooler was flying over 
 the sixty miles to Fort Whipple. Three days 
 later a pack-train arrived with the laundress, 
 Willie and Mary Arnold, and with the stores 
 and supplies necessary for setting up a sick 
 camp. The wounded girl mended rapidly from 
 the start. 
 
 On the fourth day succeeding the rescue Ran- 
 dolph returned to the fort with all but Sergeant 
 RaflPerty and ten privates of the detachment, who 
 were left as a guard to the surgeon, his patient, 
 I and her attendants. The recaptured stock and 
 captured Indian ponies were brought in, and 
 
244 BOY'S BOOK OF THE ARMY 
 
 Mr. Arnold was made even so far as oxen and 
 horses went. He made no attempt, however, to 
 return to Cholla Valley, but took an early oppor- 
 tunity to sell out his claim and everything be- 
 longing to it. 
 
 At the end of a fortnight Brenda had so far 
 recovered as to warrant Doctor Colton in per- 
 mitting her removal to Whipple. An ambu- 
 lance was driven to the bowlder-covered ridge 
 mentioned in a previous chapter, and she was 
 borne upon a stretcher by the soldiers to where 
 it stood in waiting. All went well, and on the 
 second day after leaving the Santa Maria the 
 invalid was comfortably settled at the fort. 
 
 In time Brenda fully recovered, and Gypsy 
 and the handsomest pony captured from the 
 Apaches were in almost daily requisition to take 
 the young people on long rides about the fort 
 and town. Letters were sent by Captain Bayard 
 to their maternal relatives, and just before 
 Christmas an uncle arrived at the fort and took 
 charge of his nephew and niece, taking them and 
 their ponies to his home in the East. 
 
 THE END. 
 
h 
 
YB8 i I 
 
 Jv.^'O 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY