All the cavalry stationed at Fort Scott was in line. The “Sorrels,” the “Blacks,” the “Grays” and the “Bays”—so called from the color of the horses they rode—were there, eager for a move; and they all had their heavy overcoats on, and were equipped for a long and heavy march. The weather was as fine as anybody could ask for at that season of the year; the mornings were crisp and cold—just the time to put both horses and men in good trim for a headlong gallop; but everybody knew that by the time they got back again they would bring a blizzard with them.

Lieutenant Parker sat erect on his horse, with his eyes “straight to the front, striking the ground at a distance of fifteen yards;” but he had an eye out for Carl, the Trailer. Without turning his head he saw him rush into his room, and when he came out again he did not look much like the boy who had gone in a few moments before. He was bundled up all ready for a march. He saw him mount his horse—a sorry-looking old horse it was, too—ride around in the rear of the line, and take up a position a short distance behind his friend. The colonel exchanged a few words with the captain he was going to leave in command of the post, and then turned to the adjutant, who started off to put the column in motion. “Fours right!” he shouted; and in a few minutes the men were through the gate and threading their way across the prairie.

“I declare, you got a horse, didn’t you?” said the lieutenant, who, now that the line was fairly in motion, could talk all he wanted to. “Who’s is it? I hope the Indians will not get after us. If they do, you are gone up.”

“Where are we going—do you know?” asked Carl.

“I don’t know for certain, but from something I heard the colonel tell the adjutant I think we are going down to the Bad Lands,” answered Lieutenant Parker. “We are in pursuit of Big Foot, who became alarmed at the death of Sitting Bull and is running off to save himself.”

“If the Indians would just come in and behave themselves they would save lots of lives by it.”

The Bad Lands were quite a distance from Fort Scott—one hundred and ninety-two miles as the crow flies. In order to get upon the trail of Big Foot they were obliged to go across the Cheyenne reservation, through a section of South Dacota, which at that time was not given up to any Indians, and go the whole length of Pine Ridge reservation, before they would come up with him. How the general knew so soon that he was going to run away, was a mystery. Probably he knew something about Big Foot that others did not know, and had had his eye upon him for a long time. He feared Big Foot, with his little band of six hundred Sioux, more than he did the other Indians, and he thought that if he could get him to surrender the Sioux war would be brought to an end at once. But Big Foot had ninety miles the start of him, and those who have followed Indians while they were retreating from a foe know that he would travel night and day but that he would reach his destination before his pursuers did.

The Indians, when they go on the warpath, do not generally take much in the way of plunder to hinder their movements. Everything is thrown away except that which they actually need. Their squaws and children are mounted on fast horses, and they must keep up with the men or stand the chance of being captured. They even throw away their tepee poles, and that is something they do not often do. If they camp in a place where poles cannot be found they have to sleep out in the open air, and an Indian says that is not good for him. When they reach the Bad Lands they are comparatively safe. Nobody knows where those gullies and ravines lead to except the Indian; he knows where he can get water when he wants it, and he knows where the gullies afford the best purpose of resistance. It is no wonder that the Indians go there when they get into trouble. Carl knew all this, and was explaining it to the lieutenant as they rode along.

“We ought to have some guns along so as to get them out of those ravines,” said Parker.

“If we could get an enfilading fire on them——”

“Well, perhaps we shall pick up some guns as we go along,” said Carl. “But I know that it is useless to try them with small arms. Give an Indian five minutes’ start and you will never see him again. Just wait until you see the Bad Lands. There is not a tree or a bush on it, and how the Indians can live there beats me.”

At this moment the adjutant galloped up and interrupted their conversation.

“Preston, the colonel wants you out ahead,” said he.

“I don’t know whether I can show him the way or not,” said Carl, a little taken back by this order. “But I will have to go and try. Good-by, Parker. I’ll see you when we get into a fight with the Indians.”

Carl rode up and saluted the colonel, and was ordered to put himself on the trail and go ahead as fast as his pony could stand it. The trail was plain enough,—it had been made by the Indians while going to and from the Pine Ridge Agency,—and Carl at once put his pony into a trot and followed it up without any hesitation at all. The column was kept closed up all the while, and there was no talking allowed in the ranks. They kept on until they reached some willows that fringed the banks of a stream, and there the colonel announced that they would stop to allow their horses a few moments of rest and to wait for the wagons, which were lumbering along some distance in the rear. At the end of an hour, having eaten their dinner and smoked their pipes, the column mounted again and set off in pursuit of Big Foot.

“Well, Carl, what do you think of it?” asked the colonel, as he rode up beside the scout, who was going along in his usual trot. “Is this what you came to the fort for—to hunt Indians?”

“Yes, sir; but I think you had better hold up a bit,” answered Carl. “Your horses do not act as though they could stand it, and they will be pretty well played out to-night.”

“Why, your horse doesn’t seem to mind it a bit,” said the colonel.

“No, sir, because he is a mustang. Leave him at the stable lines for six months and he will go just the same as he does now; but your horses have not been used to this.”

The colonel thought it was about time that he was turning back to look at his animals, and he found that Carl was right when he spoke about the horses being “played out.” Half the horses were moving along with their heads down as if almost on the point of going to sleep, and it was only when their riders slyly punched them with their spurs that they began to take an interest in going ahead. The colonel spoke to his adjutant, and presently the column came down to a walk.

At night, just as the sun was setting, they came within sight of Big Foot’s camp. There was no one there, but everything bore evidence to a hurried departure by the original owners. Of course the column prepared for night by examining into things. The horses were staked out and placed under a guard; farther out there were other dismounted men who looked after the safety of the camp, and others went to work to prepare supper. Carl took care of his pony and then strolled about the camp to see what things had been left behind by the Indians. The camp reminded him of a town that had been burned by fire. The lodge poles were up in every direction, but the tepees themselves had disappeared. Counting them, and taking into consideration the fact that ten or twelve Indians occupied one lodge, he came to the conclusion that there were fully six hundred men and women in the whole camp. And half of them were armed and willing to fight; and, besides, he did not know how many more they would pick up on their way to the Bad Lands.

“Look at this,” said Parker, who had got through with his duties of the camp and came out to see what he could find. As he spoke he picked up a frying-pan which he had found in one of the tepees. “But I don’t see anything but cooking utensils. Where are the weapons?”

“The weapons are in the hands of the Indians and are well on their way to the Bad Lands by this time,” said Carl. “He does not need cooking utensils, but he does need weapons, as you may find out one of these days.”

The officers, one and all, searched the camp; but all they could find were articles of clothing, head-dresses, and things that the Indians could do without. Nothing in the shape of weapons could be found. At last there was a call to supper, and after that they sat about the fires and smoked. A good many of the soldiers had seen deserted camps before; and, in view of the hard ride that was coming on the morrow, they prepared for it by rolling themselves up in their blankets and going to sleep.

There was not a sound to disturb them during the night. At reveille the men all sprang up and were ready to face the duties of the day, whether it was to remain in the saddle or to fight Indians.

“I don’t forget what they did to Custer,” said a soldier who picketed his horse near Carl’s, “and I want to get a chance at them for that. I haven’t been in many fights since that happened, but when I have been in one, I didn’t take any prisoners. If we get into a fuss now before we come back, you may bet your bottom dollar that every one I shoot at stays there.”

“Do all the men feel that way?” asked Carl.

“Yes, sir, every one of them,” said the soldier earnestly. “A person who does not feel that way has got no business in the army.”

Carl looked at the soldier as he walked off with his horse. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and looked as though he might whip all the Indians who could get around him. He thought of what he said a few days afterward, when he saw him in a fight. He saw plenty of Indians drop before his aim, but he did not see him bring in any prisoners.

While the men were grooming their horses, which they did with little tufts of grass that came handy to them, the orderly sergeants called the roll without looking into any books; after which they reported to the adjutant, and the adjutant reported to the colonel. Very soon “Boots and saddles” was called, and in a few moments the column was on the march.

Carl took the lead, as he did on a former occasion, and about three o’clock in the afternoon they came within sight of a camp of soldiers. Colonel Forsyth was the commanding officer, and to him the report was made. He ordered the cavalry to take up their positions on the opposite ravine, so as to have the Indians surrounded when they came in to deliver up their arms.

“I have some trustworthy Indians out now, looking for some that got into the Bad Lands,” said Colonel Forsyth, “and I am looking for them to come in every day. When they come in we’ll disarm them, and then we would like to see them raise another fuss.”

“Say, Parker, look at that,” said Carl, as the cavalry moved on to its position. “We have some guns.”

“Where?” said the lieutenant, looking all around.

“Over there on the hill. When the Sioux come in they will be camped over there on the plain, and if they attempt any outbreak the guns will mow them down right and left.”

“They are Hotchkiss guns, too. We are not going to see any fight with the Indians. While the colonel was reporting, there was an officer told me that there is a whole body of troops in the Bad Lands; so the best thing they can do is to surrender.”

“This ravine is the only thing that bothers me,” said the colonel, as he rode to his position and gave the necessary orders for preparing camp. “Suppose those Indians come in here and object to giving up their arms. Don’t you see that they can take to the ravine and run out, and we could not stop them? Those guns there would shoot over the ravine and hurt some of us.”

And the colonel was right in his suspicions. Some of the Indians made use of that ravine to get back to the Bad Lands. The guns were moved up in time to cover the ravine, but some of the Sioux managed to get away, after all.