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8. George At The Fort



"Colonel, that young fellow has had a very hard time of it," said George when Bob had closed the door behind him.

"I expected it," replied the officer carelessly. "It is a wonder to me that the deserters didn't kill him, for there were some hard characters among them and they were well armed."

This remark would seem to indicate that the colonel was a most unfeeling man, and that he did not set much if any value upon the life of a non-commissioned officer; but such was not really the case. When he was a subaltern his superiors had often assigned to him some very hazardous undertakings, and when he attained to a rank that entitled him to a command he sent others into danger and thought nothing of it. A soldier's first and last duty was to obey any orders he might receive, and if he lost his life while in the act of executing those orders, why, it was nothing more than might be expected.

"They did try to kill him," said George. "Didn't you notice that hole in the breast of his coat?"

"I did, and I thought it looked as though it had been made by a bullet."

"So it was. Bristow shot at him. He wanted to be revenged on Bob for telling you about those thirty men who tried to desert some time ago, and if he had been a little better marksman you would have been put to the trouble of appointing a new corporal in the place of as brave a boy as ever swung a sabre."

"Why, George," exclaimed the colonel, becoming interested, "you are quite enthusiastic. Do you know Corporal Owens?"

"Yes, sir. He is the one who pulled me out of the river on the night the old Sam Kendall was burned."

"Oh yes; you told me about that the first time you were here. Where did the corporal find Bristow and his party?"

George answered this question by giving the colonel a circumstantial account of the pursuit, as he had heard it from Bob's lips, and the manner in which he had gone to work to secure the deserters after he had discovered their place of refuge. His description of Bryant's arrest amused the officer, who declared that it was a very neat piece of strategy.

Having placed Bob's case in the most favorable light possible, George then went on to tell the colonel about Springer's unexpected visit to his ranche, and described in detail the intended movements of Fletcher and his band. The officer said he had done right in sending the cattle-thief to warn the commandant at Eagle Pass, and had no doubt that that officer would take measures to assist the civil authorities at Rio Grande City in protecting the jail and giving Fletcher and his men a warm reception when they came across the river; but, in order to explain what happened afterward, we must here say that he did nothing of the kind. Unfortunately for Springer, he was recognized by some ranchemen who happened to be hanging about the post, and in spite of his protestations he was arrested and turned over to the marshal, who locked him up. No attention whatever was paid to his warning, and so positive was the marshal that there was "something back of it" that he would not even permit the prisoner to tell his story.

The cattle-thief remained in jail until the next full moon, and then Fletcher and his men suddenly made their appearance, just as Springer said they would. As no precautions had been taken to guard the prison, the raiders had an easy victory, and before assistance could arrive from the Pass, Springer and the murderers of the cowboy had been released and Fletcher was safe across the river. Springer, of course, was much too sharp to tell how he came to be an inmate of the jail, and the boss cattle-thief, believing that he had been arrested while trying to carry out his instructions, treated him with the greatest consideration.

"What did you mean by saying that you would give me a taste of army-life by sending me out on a scout to-morrow?" asked George after he had finished his story. "Any raiding going on about here?"

"Well, yes. I am going to send Clinton out to punish a war-party of Kiowas if he can catch them. I am aware you are used to roughing it, but you know nothing about campaigning with troops, and I thought I would give you a chance to get your hand in before I call upon you to lead us across the river. Some young bucks belonging to Satanta's band, the most of them mere boys, have broken away from their agency and come down here in pursuit of scalps and fame. Among other outrages which they have committed, they jumped down on a poor fellow the other day, killed or scattered his herdsmen, drove off his stock and carried his two children into captivity. I should like to be the means of ridding the frontier of that villain, for he is dangerous. During a peace-council that was held at Fort Dodge some time ago, Satanta talked so glibly about his desire to cultivate friendly relations with us, and his unalterable determination to 'follow the white man's road' in future, that he really succeeded in making the commissioners believe that he was sincere in what he said. To encourage him in his good resolutions, the department commander and staff presented him with a uniform coat and sash and a brigadier-general's hat. How the wily old scoundrel must have laughed in his sleeve when he saw how completely he had bamboozled some of our best soldiers!"

"How long did he keep his promise?" asked George.

"About three weeks, and then he led an attack, dressed in his new uniform, against the fort in which the council was held. Oh, he's a good one! I know you didn't come here to fight Indians, but you'll have to hold yourself in readiness for anything that turns up."

"You will always find me around when you want me," replied George. "May I write a letter here?" he continued, seeing that the colonel picked up his pen and turned to his table to resume some writing in which he had been interrupted when Bob and the new scout came in to report.

"Certainly. There are pens, ink and paper; help yourself. There's the letter-box over there. The mail-carrier goes out to-morrow."

Before George could begin work on his letter the officer of the day came in. He shook hands with the new-comer, to whom he had been introduced on the occasion of the boy's first visit to the fort, and was told by the colonel to put the deserters into the guard-house, to show George where to stake out his horse and mule, and to see that he had somebody to help him bring in his pack-saddle.

The work of bringing in his luggage and taking care of his animals was soon performed, and then George came back and began his letter. It took him a long time to write it, for he wanted to make it one that would produce an impression upon the person to whom it was addressed. It was to Gus Robbins's father. It conveyed to that gentleman the information that although his son was alive and in fair bodily health, he had brought himself into serious trouble, having been detected in two attempts at desertion, and unless his friends at home interested themselves in his behalf he had a fair prospect of going to prison. If Mr. Robbins would move in the matter he could easily procure the culprit's discharge from the service, for he was a minor and had enlisted without his father's consent; but if there was anything done it must be done quickly, for it was probable that a court-martial would be convened in a very few days. Having sealed and addressed the letter, he bade the colonel good-night and went to bed, feeling satisfied that he had done all he could for the unfortunate Gus.

George slept soundly, as he always did, but the morning gun and the first notes of reveille awoke him. While he was making his toilet with his usual care and deliberation--as we have said, his long intercourse with river-dandies had made him very particular on this point--his friend, Bob Owens, and the men who occupied the quarters with him, were hurrying on their clothes in order to get into line in time to answer to their names at roll-call. While they were dressing they talked, and this was a portion of the conversation that took place between the corporal and one of the colonel's orderlies--the same one who had been on duty when Bob went in to report his arrival with the deserters. "I say, Owens," exclaimed the orderly, "who was that nobby young officer who came in with you last night? What is his name, and what rank does he hold? I know he is green, for he didn't know enough to put on a dress-coat before he went into the colonel's presence."

"His name is George Ackerman," answered Bob, "but he is not an officer; he's a scout."

"'A scout'!" repeated the orderly in a tone of contempt. "He is a pretty-looking scout, I must say. What does he know about life on the Plains?"

"He knows a good deal more about it than anybody in this room, for he was born right here in Texas," was the reply.

"Has he ever seen service?"

"No, but he knows what danger is, and he has been in some situations that you wouldn't care to be placed in. During long months of his life he lived in constant fear of a violent death."

"I don't doubt that he told you so, but I don't believe it, all the same," observed the orderly.

"I can't help that. I am personally acquainted with him, and you are not. I was with him when the steamer to which he belonged was burned on the Mississippi River, and came to Texas with him. He owns a big cattle-ranche a few miles from here, and has an income of about forty thousand dollars a year."

"Aha! that accounts for the milk in the cocoa-nut," exclaimed the orderly. "I know now why it was that the colonel met him in so friendly a manner. Even those stern old regulars soften in the presence of one who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, don't they?"

"But George Ackerman's money didn't get him the position he holds," said Bob quickly. "He has been a prisoner among the cattle-thieves on the other side of the river, and knows where they hang out. He is here to act as our guide when we pursue the raiders across the river."

"What did the cattle-thieves take him prisoner for?"

"Because they were promised twenty thousand dollars for it by George's guardian, who wanted to get him out of the way, so that his son could inherit George's property. But he managed to escape from them, went up North and became a pilot, and it was while he was serving in that capacity that I made his acquaintance."

"That's a very pretty story," remarked the orderly, "but doesn't it sound almost too much like a dime novel?"

"If you don't believe it ask Gus Robbins, if you get a chance to speak to him. He knows George, and has reason to be grateful to him too. Gus came down here to visit Ned Ackerman while the latter's father was acting as George's guardian, and got himself into trouble that would have ended seriously if George had not befriended him. It was through that same visit that Gus got into the army."

"Did you hear what the colonel said to him about a servant?" asked the orderly. "Whoever saw a scout with a servant? I never did, and neither did I ever before see a man holding that position treated with so much consideration by a post-commander. I can't account for it."

Bob could not account for it either, and so he attempted no explanation. We may tell the reader that there were two good reasons for it. In the first place, George was not a regular scout; he might, with more propriety, have been called a volunteer aide. It is true that he was sworn into the service, and that he was bound to do his duty faithfully "during the pleasure of the commanding officer" of Fort Lamoine, but he drew no pay from the government. He did not even ask that he should be fed while he lived at the fort, but stood ready to pay his share of the mess-bill. He had freely offered his services as guide to the troops because he, in common with every rancheman and farmer in that country, wanted the raiding-parties broken up, and he believed that he could do as much, if not more, toward accomplishing that object than any other single civilian. He was not obliged to wear a uniform (being sworn in, he had a right to wear it), but he had purchased it for the same reason that he had purchased the Mexican costume and the other clothing he had brought with him--because he believed it might some day be of use to him. We have already seen how one of his disguises came into play. If he had not brought with him that Mexican suit, it is hard to tell how Bryant would have been captured.

In the next place, the colonel was an old acquaintance and friend of George's father. He had often enjoyed Mr. Ackerman's hospitality, and he could say, with Zeke, that he had carried George in his arms when the latter was a "yelling baby not knee-high to a duck," and when he himself was nothing but a second lieutenant. Since that time a great many things had happened. Mr. Ackerman and his wife were dead, the second lieutenant had passed through a terrible war, had worn a major-general's shoulder-straps in the volunteer army and won a brevet colonelcy in the regulars, and George had grown almost to manhood. Neither of them knew of the presence of the other in that country until George, accompanied by Mr. Gilbert and a few other ranchemen, came to the fort to offer his services. The colonel knew the boy as soon as he heard his name, and it was on account of the respect and affection he cherished for the memory of his father that he extended so cordial a greeting to him; but, like all the other soldiers who had seen him, the colonel did not think that George was just the guide he wanted.

"I need somebody with age and experience, George," said he, "and you have neither. I know you can handle a herd of cattle and manage your ranche in good style, but I am not so certain of your ability to act as guide to my troops. I admire your pluck, and I should be glad to have you come here and live until you get tired of it; and in order to make it lawful for you to stay here, I will give you a position as forage-master."

"I am very much obliged to you, sir, but that is a berth I don't want," answered George. "I want to help put down those raiders."

"But just think of the responsibility that would rest upon you," protested the colonel. "A single blunder on your part might cripple me fearfully."

"You need have no fears on that score," said Mr. Gilbert. "George is good wherever you put him. He is acquainted with Fletcher, who is the most active of all the raiders who trouble us; he knows where he hangs out, and he is the only one on this side of the river who does. When it comes to trailing, he is at home there too. Can you look at a trail and tell how old it is and how many men or horses made it?"

No, the colonel couldn't do that. He always looked to his scouts for information on those points.

"George can do it," said Mr. Gilbert. "He has served his time under one of the best trailers in the country; and that is Zeke, his herdsman."

After a little more conversation the colonel, although not without many misgivings, accepted the offer of George's services; and he never had occasion to regret it. During the very first expedition that was sent out of the fort after he reported there for duty he showed what he was made of, and gave the colonel reason for placing almost unlimited confidence in his judgment. Acting as Bob Owens's counsellor, he enabled the latter to perform an exploit that made him the lion of the post.

Having dressed himself, George passed through the colonel's office and out through the hall to the parade. In the outer door was seated a man who was bent half double, with his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands. Hearing the sound of the boy's footsteps, he raised his head, revealing a countenance so haggard and sorrowful that George was startled at the sight of it. The man moved aside to allow him room to pass, and then covered his face with his hands again, and as George walked out he was sure he heard him utter a suppressed moan. The man was not a soldier, for he was dressed in citizen's clothes. He looked like a rancheman; and as George was a rancheman himself, he naturally felt some sympathy for the unknown sufferer. After hesitating a moment, weighing in his mind the propriety of the step he was about to take, he turned back and asked,

"What is the matter with you, sir? Are you ill?"

"'Ill'?" repeated the man, without looking up. "Worse than that--worse than that."

"Is there anything that I can do for you?" asked George. "You seem to be in great trouble."

As these words fell upon his ear the man straightened up, and, gazing at George with a pair of wild-looking eyes, said, in a voice that was rendered husky by some strong emotion,

"I am in trouble, partner, and although I do not think you can help me in any way, I feel grateful to you for your sympathy. I have been bounced by the hostiles and cleaned out--completely cleaned out."

"That is bad," returned George, who told himself that the man took his loss very much to heart. He knew a good many stock-raisers who had been "bounced" and "cleaned out," but he had never before seen one who seemed to be so utterly broken down by his misfortunes as this one did. The stranger's next words, however, explained it all.

"The loss of my ranche and stock I don't mind," said he; "that's nothing. But when one sees his two motherless boys carried off by the red fiends, while he is powerless to help them, it's pretty rough, it's pretty rough."

"Why, this must be the man the colonel told me about last night," said George to himself.

"I should not fear that the savages would raise their hands against the lives of the boys (they are too young to be put to torture, one being eight and the other ten years of age) if it were not for one thing," continued the bereaved father, jumping to his feet and pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. "I made a hard fight of it, and dropped a Kiowa for every year of my oldest boy's age. Of course the death of those warriors will have to be avenged by their relatives. Perhaps you don't know it, but that is Indian law."

"I do know it," interrupted George. "I couldn't have lived so close to these raiders, both Indians and Mexicans, nearly all my life without learning something about their ways, could I? I am a Texan, like yourself."

"You are? I took you for a Yankee soldier."

"There's where you made a mistake," replied George. "I was born in Miller county in this State, and I am here to act as guide to the troops when they cross the river in pursuit of the cattle-thieves."

"Good! Put it there!" exclaimed the man, extending his hand, while his face for the moment showed the pleasure he felt at the meeting. "My name is Wentworth; what is yours?"

George told him, and Mr. Wentworth said he had often heard the name, and in a roundabout way had learned something of the family history.

"I have heard of you too," said George. "You have often been obliged to run in order to save your life and stock, have you not?"

"Yes, and I have always succeeded in getting safely away; but there is a first time for everybody, and mine came three days ago. I was going on to say that I am afraid the savages will take vengeance on my helpless little boys for the braves I shot in the fight," continued Mr. Wentworth. "If they don't do that, they will probably hold them for ransom; but they might as well tomahawk the boys at once and put them out of their misery, for I haven't a horn nor a hoof nor a cent of money to give in exchange for them. I know I have seen them for the last time, but won't I make it hot for those who stole them?"

George could not say anything comforting. The sight of the strong man's overwhelming grief struck him dumb.

"I know some of the bucks who were in the fight," continued Mr. Wentworth, grinding his teeth and rubbing his hands nervously together. "They have often camped on my ranche when they came down here buffalo-hunting. I don't care what treaties our government may make with that tribe; there will be eternal war between me and them. No Kiowa shall ever cross my trail and live--no, not if I hang for it. I only wish that some of those peace commissioners--those lunatics who believe that an Indian is a human being and needs only kind treatment to make him peaceable and friendly--could stand in my boots this minute. I tell you, Ackerman, if one of them were here now I'd stand and see an Indian shoot him, and never lift a hand in his defence. I got in last night and told the colonel about it, and he said he would send out a couple of companies this morning with orders to overtake and punish them if possible; but he might as well save his men and horses, for it isn't possible. They have reached the Staked Plains by this time, and are safe from pursuit. This is a lovely government for a white man to live under, isn't it? It is too cowardly to protect us from the Mexicans, and too tender-hearted to hang an Indian for murder unless he happens to kill some one high in authority, like General Canby."

Mr. Wentworth seemed almost beside himself when he thought of his boys, who were now so many miles away from him, for then it was that he realized how powerless he was to help them. He went on in this strain until he had talked himself out of breath, and then he went back to his seat on the doorstep and covered his face with his hands.