“It’s like this,” said Odell, after mess. “We’re bound to go. Those ’Rapahos and Cheyennes and Kiowas and ’Paches and Sioux out yon are ready to act mean again, and the army’ll have to calm ’em down. By their treaty o’ Sixty-foive didn’t they promise to keep away from the overland trails, and not camp by day or by night within ten miles o’ any of ’em, or visit any white settlement without permission beforehand? And what did they do? Only last summer they went on their murtherin’ raids, time after time, and the treaty not a year old yet. Didn’t they kill and rob right and lift through the settlements o’ the Saline and the Solomon, jist west o’ here, drivin’ the farmers out? And haven’t they been botherin’ the stage road up along the Smoky, and the southwest travel by the Santy Fee Trail, and threatenin’ the railroad advance?”

“They blame it on old Cut Nose and Pawnee Killer’s band of Dog Soldiers,” spoke somebody. “Those Dog Soldiers weren’t there to sign the treaty, and they say they aren’t bound by it.”

“Who are those Dog Soldiers, except the worst rascals out of all the tribes?” grunted Sergeant Henderson, who had fought Indians before the Sixties. “I know ’em.”

“Well, this country belonged to the Indians, first, didn’t it?” pursued a recruit. “We’re crossing it without asking ‘by your leave,’ and we’re settling in the midst of it and taking all we can get. I hear buffalo are scarcer than they used to be, too, since the whites opened up the country. That’s what the Indians depend on for a living—the buffalo.”

“Ah, now, mebbe you’re right, and I think myself the Injuns are treated a bit shabbily, at times,” responded Odell. “There are rascals on both sides. But what would ye do? Save back all this western country jist for the Injun to hunt on? Wan Injun needs about ten square mile o’ territory, and he laves it the same as he found it. The white man takes a half square mile—yes, and much less—and he stays with it and improves it; and twinty white men and their families can live in the space required by wan Injun jist for huntin’ whilst the women do the work.”

“As long as there’s a trail unfenced, when the grass greens in the spring and the willow and cottonwood buds swell, the Injun—and specially the young Injun—will grow uneasy,” quoth Sergeant Henderson. “Spring is war time, summer is visiting time, fall is hunt time. In winter the Injuns are glad to have the Government take care of ’em. We’re pushing two railroads through, whites are getting thicker, Injuns are being bossed by the Government and cheated by traders and crowded by settlers, and they see nothin’ for ’em but to clean the country out—if they can.”

Wild Bill had ridden at canter into the parade ground, and across to headquarters. At the veranda of the general’s house he pulled short, and swung to ground, as if he had been sent for. Then he entered.

When he came out, presently, he was riding away in a great hurry, when the sergeant hailed him, passing.

“What’s the news, Bill?”

“Sharpen your sabres,” spoke Wild Bill, briefly, without drawing rein.

He rode on, and turned into the stage road which led west, up the Smoky Hill River. Evidently he was carrying dispatches to Forts Harker and Hays, the new Seventh Cavalry posts that were guarding the further advance of the Kansas Pacific.

Wild Bill had spoken to the point, as always. He wasted no words. Before the afternoon drill, there had spread through the post like wildfire the word that the Seventh Cavalry must be prepared to take the field, equipped for service, within a fortnight.

This was great news. Old Fort Riley seethed with it. Now in these the days of early March there was a sudden increase of mounted drills long and hard; an effort at target practice with the stubby Spencer repeating carbines—proving that most of the men shot no better than they rode; shoeing of horses and tinkering of wagons at the fort smithy; and grinding of sabers on the post grind-stones.

Passing a grind-stone Ned noticed private Malloy busily engaged in applying the edge of an unusually long sabre. Malloy was the “striker” or officer’s handy-man on duty at the general’s house. He looked up at Ned, and, wiping the perspiration from his brow, grinned. So did the soldier who was turning for him.

“Do you recognize the big toad-sticker?” queried Malloy.

Ned doubtfully shook his head. Malloy obligingly handed it to him.

“Look at it an’ heft it. It’s the general’s. Thought mebbe you’d seen it hanging on his wall. ’Tis one captured in the War; an’ the noise of the grinding sort o’ reminded him he wanted it whetted up. ‘Malloy,’ said he, ‘polish that big scalping knife o’ mine along with the rest of ’em.’”

“Can you swing it?” bantered the other soldier.

Ned lifted the sabre and examined it. It was as long as he was tall; was far longer and heavier than regulation. On the bright blade were letters engraved:

Do not draw me without cause;
Do not sheathe me without honor.

What a sword! No, Ned could not swing it. He handed it back.

“That’s a real Damascus steel, they say,” informed Malloy’s helper.

“Is the general going to take it on the march?” asked Ned, expectantly.

“No, I reckon not,” answered Malloy; “but he would if he wanted to, I’ll wager—just as he wears his hair long an’ his tie red. He’s a great man for having his own way, is old Jack.”

“Headstrong, you might call him,” added the other man. “Like chasin’ a buffalo, alone and ’way off from his command, an’ not knowin’ but that Injuns are right over the next ridge.”

The yellow hair and quick voice of the general were everywhere, as with prompt eyes and mind he oversaw the post preparations. For now was it known that this was to be an important march, wherever it led; with infantry and artillery as well as cavalry, and with Major-General Winfield Scott Hancock himself accompanying. The purpose, it seemed, was to have a talk with the Indians, and to show them that the United States was ready with soldiers to protect the white people on the plains.

General Hancock was the commander of the Military Department of the Missouri. His headquarters were Fort Leavenworth, on the Missouri River at the eastern border of Kansas. From Fort Leavenworth were coming the artillery and most of the infantry. In all there would be about 1400 men, thought Odell.

The expedition gave to Fort Riley a war-like appearance. First the scouts began to collect. Wild Bill was there anyway; and came in, among others, a young scout named Cody—Bill Cody. He had been at Riley, off and on, before. With his flowing dark hair, his wide black eyes, his silky moustache and goatee and his buckskins and weapons, he looked indeed entitled to considerable respect.

“Do you know that man?” had asked Odell, of Ned.

“No.”

“He’s a good wan. He’s Pony Express Bill. That’s what they used to call him. Was the youngest pony express rider on the line. Faith, he rode when he wasn’t any older than you, my lad, carryin’ the mail across the plains. Now he ranks up with Wild Bill and the rist o’ the scouts. And they do say he’s the best buffalo hunter, white or red, west o’ Leavenworth.”

There also was a squat little Mexican, swart and pock-marked and very homely, whom everybody styled Romeo because his name was Romero. And at the last sauntered in a big-nosed bluish-eyed man, with much brick-red hair and whiskers mingling, whose title was California Joe.

California Joe never was seen without his greasy black slouch hat on his abundant hair, and his short, black briar pipe between his whiskered lips. Baggy trousers were tucked deep into dusty boots, and a venerable cavalry overcoat was draped over several layers of other garments. He rode a large mule, which he declared beat a horse “all hollow.” As he lounged about, he was ready to talk to anybody. By his numerous quaint remarks he plainly was an odd character.

The arrival of the troops from Fort Leavenworth brought a squad of Delaware Indians, as more scouts. They were from their reservation near to Fort Leavenworth. The chief was Fall Leaf, a well-built, fierce-looking old man, war chief of the Delaware tribe, and a great fighter. Of the train he grunted: “Heap good! Went whiz! Beat buffalo and pony.” Of the telegraph he said: “No understand, but heap good. Heap swift! Like arrow or bullet between wide places; but heap better.” His nephew General Jackson was another member of the squad. General Jackson was slender and small, but brave.

The troops who arrived by train from Fort Leavenworth were one battery of light artillery, and six companies of the Thirty-seventh Infantry, with a company of engineers, for laying bridges. They pitched their tents outside the post.

At the same time arrived also General Winfield Scott Hancock and his staff, including General Smith. General Hancock was the department commander in the field; but General Smith, as colonel of the Seventh Cavalry, commanded the march. A round-faced, heavy moustached, energetic man proved to be General Smith, who would fall to and do things himself in order to have them done right. He had made a great reputation in the late war.

All of the officers were glad to shake hands with General Custer, the youngest of the whole bevy except a few “tads” fresh from the Academy or just appointed from the civil life.

But among the most interesting of the new-comers was a little Indian boy who had been captured from the Cheyennes when, on Sand Creek, at Thanksgiving time, 1864, the Colorado volunteers attacked Black Kettle’s village of Cheyennes and Arapahos and shattered it. The Cheyennes and Arapahos claimed that the attack had been a massacre; and they had demanded that the whites return the little boy and his sister to them. Now General Hancock had brought the little boy along, to return him and thus show the Indians that the heart of the Great White Father at Washington was good toward them. The little boy had been taken care of in the East and spoke English, and except for his color was like any white boy.

“Sure, ’tis foolishness,” declared Odell, at mess. “The Injuns will only think the Government be afraid of ’em, and they’ll take the lad and do nothin’ in return. What of all the white captives they hold? What o’ Ned’s sister? Do ye see ’em returnin’ her?”

“Well, but wasn’t that Sand Creek fight a big mistake on the part of the soldiers?” asked the talkative recruit—who had been a lawyer before he enlisted. “As I understand, the charge was made on a friendly village that had hoisted the United States flag for protection.”

“This whole Injun question is a problem, anyhow,” quoth Odell. “If you treat ’em as you’d treat white men, they don’t understand, because they live by different rules. And if you treat ’em as red men, and fight fire with fire, then you have to do things that a white man ought not to do. At Sand Creek the white men took revenge jist as red men take revenge; and while it wasn’t exactly a civilized way to foight, nivertheless it gave the settlers peace for a time, b’gorry.”

Hearing this discussion gave Ned a great thought. What if General Custer would have the little Indian boy traded for Ned’s sister? What if! Perhaps that was the plan. But before he ventured to ask the general, he found out.

General Hancock was a fine large, very military man, with grayish mustache and short goatee; and he looked and acted as if he were indeed the one to behave so gallantly, as he did, in the Mexican War and at the battle of Chancellorsville in the Civil War. Ned had paused, to watch him and General Custer walking briskly and talking together, as they crossed the parade-ground. General Custer suddenly caught sight of Ned, standing, and with impulsive gesture waved him forward.

Ned squared his shoulders, in military step paced over, and intercepting the two officers put his heels together, pulled in his chin and his stomach, and saluted. They acknowledged the salute—General Hancock eyeing him keenly. Ned was glad to feel that he was neat and soldierly. So he waited.

“This is the lad whose sister is held by the Cheyennes,” was saying General Custer, “and concerning whom I addressed you the communication suggesting that the Government trade the Cheyenne boy for her.”

“I see,” replied General Hancock. “The War Department, as I was obliged to inform you, decided that such a course was unwise considering that the treaty agreement to return the boy was made without any proviso of such a nature. I’m sorry, my lad,” he proffered to Ned. “But we’ll try to get back your sister, just as soon as we can.”

Ned’s heart had leaped, only to fall again. He could not speak. General Custer must have read his disappointment, for he said, quickly:

“I understand you can blow the bugle pretty well now, boy.”

“Yes, sir. I think so, sir.”

“Know all the calls; every one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Garryowen?” The Custer blue eyes danced.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” continued General Custer, “you may report at post headquarters as headquarters bugler. But I require a good one. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir,” stammered Ned. His heart again thumped, his joy choked him, he knew that he was like a beet.

A bugler, selected in turn from the company buglers, always was on duty at headquarters as the orderly bugler; but Ned had been omitted, until he knew the calls perfectly. Now at last he was chosen; he was entitled to take his bedding to the orderly’s room at the headquarters building; he would stay there and sleep there, and would be near the general constantly, to blow calls for the post and to go on errands wherever the general or the adjutant might send him—or where Mrs. Custer, either, might want to send him. Some of the buglers liked this duty; some didn’t, though all liked a chance at the kitchen and Eliza’s cooking! But for Ned it wasn’t the cooking, especially: it was being there with General Custer.

Another company of the Thirty-seventh Infantry arrived, and also several companies of the Thirty-eighth Infantry, a colored regiment. They were a strange variety of soldiers; many of them right from plantations down south, and not yet disciplined to army life. They were to garrison the post while the Seventh Cavalry was absent!

Now at the close of March the expedition was ready to start. Cartridge boxes and belts were full, clothing repaired, horses shod, and according to the cavalry the infantrymen (who were called “doughboys”) all had their shoes resoled. Ned well knew that the general was outfitted better than anybody; for at headquarters he had seen Mrs. Custer flying busily about the house, gathering things to stow in the stout blue mess-chest bearing the letters “G. A. C., 7th Cav., U. S. A.”

In the little room which was his as orderly bugler or trumpeter Ned awoke early, full of eagerness. This was the day of the start, and he must do the starting. According to the trumpeter orders, written by the adjutant and tacked on the wall, and to the clock, “First Call” was not due for twenty minutes. So he must wait, until at the exact second he issued forth into the pink dawn, before the office, as it was called. Standing erect and soldierly at the foot of the steps, facing in all directions, he blew on his battered brass bugle from the quartermaster’s supplies the warning “First Call.”

In due time the company buglers began to gather, around the flag-pole; until as the sun rose it was time for the reveille. At word from the sergeant of the guard (who yawned) all put bugles to lips and sounded the initial note. “Boom!” belched the morning gun; up to the top of the pole sped the flag, floating out gloriously; and through the bright morning air pealed, from the buglers beneath it, the rollicking reveille:

At the same moment, from the infantry and artillery camp also pealed its reveille.

There was a brief pause; and next must be sounded the “Assembly.” Out from the barracks poured the men, buttoning coats and clapping on caps, to form their companies. The sergeants called the roll, and reported on the “present, absent, or accounted for.”

Smokes were wafting upward from the chimneys of company cooks, and of wives and servants in officers’ row, and soon Ned, now alone, from the parade-ground must sound “Mess”:

So, too, he sounded “Stables”:

And “Sick Call”:

However, there were few sick men, on this day when the Seventh Cavalry was to march.

The remainder of the garrison calls, such as guard-mount and fatigue, were assigned to the colored infantry bugler, for the infantry now succeeded to the routine at old Fort Riley. The cavalry had something better.

While on an errand to the general’s house, Ned heard the preparations there. Before the steps of the veranda stood the General’s horse Phil Sheridan. Within, the general was saying good-by to Mrs. Custer. Ned could hear him assuring the “old lady” (which was Mrs. Custer’s pet title, aside from Libbie) that it was to be a short campaign; that the Indians would be afraid to make trouble, and that he would be back very soon.

“Sho’ he will, Miss Libbie; he’ll be back ’foh we know it,” comforted Eliza. “Anyway, this campaignin’ on the plains ain’t wuss’n campaignin’ in Virginny. You know that, don’t you?”

Out came the general, clanking in his spurs and sabre. Not now was he wearing his buckskin coat; he was clad in the full fatigue uniform of a lieutenant-colonel of cavalry. He still wore his black slouch hat, with gold cord and tassel. His dogs raced before him, overjoyed at the prospect of a gallop. Evidently they were to go.

From headquarters issued Adjutant Moylan, ready to mount. Equipped with his own sabre and revolver, like any trumpeter, Ned stiffened to attention.

“Sound boots and saddles,” ordered the adjutant.

Ned put to his lips his bugle, and blew loud and clear the spirited bar of “Boots and Saddles.” Hither and thither scurried the soldiers, for the stables, to saddle and bridle; and it looked as if some of them had already done so. The teamsters clapped the final harness on their mules and led them at a trot for the traces.

General Custer, blue-eyed, golden-locked, bronze-faced, slender but wiry, stood on the veranda of his house, tugging at his gauntlets as he watched the bustle. Mrs. Custer stole out, with the pretty Diana (suspiciously red-eyed, Ned imagined) and pressed beside him. He placed his arm about her. From the door behind peered the black face, turbaned with a red bandanna, of Eliza.

“To horse,” bade the adjutant, of Ned.

Ned sounded “To Horse.” Out from the stables jostled the troopers, leading their horses to form the company lines.

The general stooped hastily and kissed Mrs. Custer. Down the steps he clanked, his slouch hat at a cavalier angle, his officer’s cloak, yellow lined, floating and beneath it showing his crimson tie. He took the reins from the negro boy and vaulted upon Phil Sheridan.

Adjutant Moylan mounted, and Ned swung aboard his special horse Buckie, at a trot to follow across the parade-ground.

The companies were formed and waiting, each man at the head of his horse. The infantry drums and bugles also had been sounding; all the tents had been struck, and the lines of blue and white were standing at a carry, in a “right dress.”

“Prepare to mount!” shouted General Custer, drawing sabre.

“Prepare to mount!” repeated the company commanders.

Every trooper turned, put left boot into stirrup, and hand upon mane and saddle, waited.

“Mount!”

With one motion the blue blouses upheaved, and were in the saddle. A few horses plunged, but they were held in line. The wagon teamsters were in their seats, their lines taut, their whips poised. On the steps or porches of all the officers’ quarters women were waving and trying to smile (and some were succeeding and some were not); outside the post could be heard the commands of the infantry and artillery officers.

“Sound the advance,” bade the general, curtly.

As Ned did so, he was answered by the bugles of the infantry, in similar call.

“Fours right—march!” The new band rode bravely to the front. Whirling his horse, the general, followed by his bugler, trotted briskly to take the lead. All the companies, forming fours, fell in one behind another, the swallow-tail cavalry guidons of white and red fluttering gaily in the breeze.

The new band blared in a tune. No “Garryowen” this time, but “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

It was a tune as inspiring as “Yankee Doodle,” but sweeter.

The expedition made a great sight. First rode a squad of the picked scouts—Delawares and white men—headed by Wild Bill clad in showy fringed buckskins. Scout “Pony Bill” Cody did not accompany. He was reserved to guide another detachment to Fort Hays.

After the line of scouts came the commanding officers and their staffs. General Hancock was only representing the department, to talk with the Indians, but he frequently dashed up and down the march, inspecting. He and General Smith made an active pair, prompt to criticize.

The infantry, long Springfield rifles at a slant over shoulder, canteens clinking at hips, with the artillery and the pontoon train rumbling behind, formed one column. A detachment of recruits from Fort Leavenworth, to be distributed among the Southwest posts, had joined only just in time. They were under young Lieutenant John A. Hannay of the Third Infantry.

The Seventh Cavalry, following their band, formed the other column. General Custer and his adjutant, Lieutenant Moylan, led; and close behind the general rode Ned, the orderly bugler. Behind Ned was the color guard—Sergeant Kennedy with the great silken Stars and Stripes, another sergeant with the broad blue, yellow-fringed standard of the Seventh Cavalry, and the two guards who completed the four.

The general staff, and the cavalry officers of course, and the artillery officers and most of the infantry officers were horseback; save old Major Gibbs, who was fleshy, and who had been badly wounded years before in an Indian fight. He rode in the ambulance. Young Lieutenant Hannay, with his recruits, must walk.

Glancing back from his saddle Ned thrilled in his heart as he saw the long blue columns, with flags large and small floating over, and the wagon train, the white hoods drawn each by six mules, filing after.

The cavalry seemed the least showy, for all the troopers were so loaded down with blanket rolls, and frying pan and tin cup, and canteen, and haversack stuffed with hardtack, and seven-shot carbine, and saber, and studded cartridge belt with butcher-knife thrust through it, and revolver holsters, and lariat and picket pin slung to saddle, that really the riders looked like traveling peddlers!

As for the other column—Odell and Sergeant Kennedy and such veteran cavalrymen had laughed among themselves, when they heard that Indians were to be chased with artillery and a pontoon train.