Fort Hays was eighty miles west from Fort Harker, and Fort Harker was ninety miles west from Fort Riley; so that now Fort Riley was one hundred and seventy miles distant. Not much of a fort was Hays either, composed, like Harker, of quarters and stables built of logs roughly faced. It was located on the south side of the crooked Big Creek, which between high clay banks flowed down to the Smoky Hill Fork River, fifteen miles south. On the north side of the creek, and up stream a little way, was the new town of Hays City, waiting for the railroad.

Fort Hays was glad to see the column ride down, and pitch its tents nearby. Back from its first campaign was the Seventh Cavalry, and although it had not fired a shot, save the one by the picket, it had many tales to tell to the Fort Hays garrison.

Speedily up sprang like mushrooms the lines of dingy white army canvas. There was a great letter writing spell. Couriers were about to dash away with dispatches for General Hancock, and (what was of more importance) with word to Fort Riley. The general, as usual, had a regular journal to send. General Gibbs also hastened off; for in the accumulation of mail awaiting at Fort Hays were letters from Mrs. Custer and Mrs. Gibbs and other women left behind, stating that the negro infantry there had mutinied and were behaving badly. However, General Gibbs was the man to discipline them, and he really ought not to attempt field service, anyway.

Shortly after the Seventh had reared its tents, Scout Bill Cody came riding in, and dismounted at headquarters. The orderly ushered him into the tent, to see the general. When the general and Bill emerged together, the general beckoned to Ned.

“Mr. Cody has brought word, we think, of your sister. Cut Nose the Cheyenne chief is reported to be west of here, with a little white girl he has adopted. He took her with him into Monument Station, and calls her Silver Hair, the station men say.”

“Did they keep her, sir?” asked Ned, eagerly. Oh, what if——!

General Custer smiled only sadly, and shook his head.

“No, my boy. The station men could not do that.”

“Was your sister a small gal, not more than a child; right pretty, with flax hair?” demanded Scout Bill Cody, searching Ned out of wide steady eyes as piercing as Wild Bill’s themselves.

“Yes!” said Ned. “Her name is Mary. She’s eight years old.”

“Well,” remarked Scout Cody, preparing to mount his horse, “her name is Silver Hair now. Cut Nose has her. At least, he did have her. But she was being well treated, they say. He’d made a sort o’ pet of her, the old rascal. The station men tried to buy her from him; but he said no. I’ll keep on the lookout for her. Maybe we can get her.” And dignified of face, jaunty of poise, off rode Pony Bill Cody, on errand bound. Thereafter Ned saw him frequently. He seemed to rank with Wild Bill Hickok as an important figure at Fort Hays and Hays City.

“Then she’s gone again, is she?” faltered Ned, to the general. “Cut Nose still has her, has he, sir?”

“Very likely. Yes, he took her, my lad,” answered General Custer, gently. “But here,” he added, in abrupt fashion. “She’s being well treated, didn’t Cody say? She was dressed like an Indian princess. What do you think of that? That’s something for which to be thankful. Think of other captive girls and women—how they’ve suffered. And we’ll get her, if it requires all the Seventh Cavalry and the United States treasury. Brace up, boy.”

For Ned was crying.

In due time dispatches arrived from General Hancock, who was still on the Arkansas, trying to bring the principal chiefs in to council. When, at dress parade, Lieutenant Moylan as adjutant read to the assembled troops the announcements or orders of the day, “by direction of the commanding general” he included among them this special field order, issued from camp near the Arkansas:

At that, delivered in Adjutant Moylan’s loud voice, from the troops arose a cheer.

“Well, ’tis war now, if ’twasn’t before,” declared Sergeant Henderson, that evening, within hearing of Ned.

“Why so, Pete?” asked one of the other soldiers.

“’Cordin’ to Wild Bill, that village had $150,000 worth of stuff in it; an’ d’ye suppose the Injuns’ll stand for the destruction of it all? Now they’ll claim we started the war, an’ we claim they started it, an’ what the end’ll be, nobody can say.”

“In my opinion,” said Sergeant Kennedy, “General Hancock ought never to have let that village-full get away from him. They played with him, and held him off, and then they gave him the slip.”

“You’re right,” agreed Henderson. “An’ now we’re up agin it, with the Injuns loose in three hundred miles square o’ territory, an’ we chasin’ ’em. An’ won’t there be a great howl, from the agents an’ the traders an’ the contractors, because the war is spoilin’ their business.”

“Those traders and contractors are responsible for much of this trouble, just the same,” asserted the lawyer “rooky” (who now was a veteran). “They do not deliver the agency goods in quality and quantity up to grade.”

“That’s true,” nodded Odell. “Yez ought to see some o’ the stuff that gets through to the Injuns. Shoddy cotton for wool; shirts ye can stick your finger through, an’ suits o’ clothes that won’t hang together while the Injun puts ’em on an’ that the Government pays the contractor thirteen dollars for!”

“Yes,” said Sergeant Henderson. “An’ the first thing the Injun does with the pants is to cut out the seat. What do they want o’ suits o’ clothes, anyway—one suit a year! An’ the government thinks to trade ’em this way for their lands an’ game an’ all that, an’ lets ’em get cheated into the bargain.”

“Huh!” grunted another member of the circle. “They don’t fare any worse’n us fellows. Did you notice that bread served out to us to-night? Talk about hard-tack! Cook says the boxes show it was baked in ’61—six years ago! Even a mule won’t eat it.”

“Sure,” answered Odell. “And didn’t wan o’ the boxes o’ salt beef opened at the commissary contain a big stone, to make it weigh more!”

General Hancock passed through back from the south. Then followed another event. This was the arrival of the great General Sherman, who was commander of the whole Military Division of the Missouri, whereas General Hancock was commander only of the Department of the Missouri, in it. Of course everybody knew of General William Tecumseh Sherman, the man who had “marched to the sea.” And with General Sherman came, in the same ambulance from Fort Harker, the end of the railroad, Mrs. Custer and Miss Diana!

General Sherman proved to be just like his picture, which Ned had seen several times: a tall spare man, slightly stooped, with high forehead, and long severe face, crisp full beard of russet color, and blue eyes. “Brass mounted,” some of the soldiers called him; and the veterans referred to him affectionately as “Old Bill.” When he smiled he was very pleasant.

The post and the camp turned out in a review to do him honor. However, the best sight, to Ned, was the way in which, when the ambulance stopped at the tent and Eliza’s black face peered out all agrin, with a whoop the general rushed up and swung the happy Mrs. Custer to him. How they chattered!

The general busied himself making Mrs. Custer and the rest of the household comfortable in special new tents, on Big Creek, nearer the fort. For the Seventh Cavalry was ordered out again. Two companies were left at Hays; the six others, 350 men and twenty wagons, marched forth, into the north.

Wild Bill remained behind to carry forward dispatches when some were ready. Young Bill Cody was held to serve as scout for other cavalry. But when the Seventh started Ned witnessed riding ahead as guide, another young man, of fair complexion and handsome features and easy seat. His name was Comstock—Will Comstock. Ah, yes; and a splendid young scout he was, too, equal to the best; could speak Sioux and Cheyenne and some Arapaho, and talk the sign language, and knew every trail and water course. See that revolver he wears? Pearl-handled and silver-mounted! One of the finest revolvers on the plains. He thinks a heap of it, too, does Will Comstock.

Thus by ears and by eyes did Ned learn the character of the new guide.

The march was to be from Fort Hays and the valley of the Smoky Hill in central Kansas north across the broad plains country 250 miles to Fort McPherson on the Platte River in southwestern Nebraska. But although through the center of this country flowed down the Republican River, on whose upper waters 1000 hostile Sioux and Cheyennes were rumored to be lurking, without a fight the Seventh Cavalry arrived at Fort McPherson, named for General John McPherson, once commander of the Army of Tennessee.

Fort McPherson, in the Department of the Platte, was only a handful of cedar-log cabins, helping to guard the Overland Trail and the new Union Pacific Railroad, as in the south Fort Harker, Hays, and all guarded the Smoky Hill trail and the new Kansas Pacific Railroad. It was garrisoned by two troops of the Second Cavalry.

Ahead of the Seventh Cavalry had arrived, by railroad as far as McPherson, and thence by stage, General Sherman. He now was at Fort Sedgwick, west, near to Julesberg of northeastern Colorado Territory.

General Custer sent Lieutenant Moylan ahead into the post, with dispatches for General Sherman, and to get any dispatches that might be waiting. Lieutenant Moylan returned, meeting the column as it prepared to make temporary camp. The adjutant had word.

“Pawnee Killer and some of his Sioux are encamped about ten miles out, general,” he announced. “A post scout just brought in the news.”

“What are they doing?”

“Nothing, I understand. They arrived about the same time we did. They pretend to be peaceful.”

“We’d better find out, then,” declared the general. “What do you think, Comstock? Shall we try a conference?”

“Corral the whole outfit, gentlemen, while you have the chance, is my guess,” answered Scout Will Comstock.

“Well, I can’t adopt any harsh measures without orders,” replied the general. “We’ve got to encourage the Indians to be friendly.”

“All right,” said Comstock, rather gloomily. “I s’pose ’cordin’ to those thar peace people out East, soldiers an’ everybody ought to wait an’ let the Injuns shoot fust; an’ then if they miss, give ’em another try, so as to keep ’em amused!”

General Custer made no answer; but by the little smile under his tawny moustache he seemed to agree with Comstock’s disgusted opinion.

Word was sent to Pawnee Killer to come into camp, for a talk; and that afternoon in he came. But the talk amounted to nothing. Soon was it seen that the suave and crafty Sioux intended to find out what the soldiers were up to, and not to tell what he was up to. General Custer said to him that he must move his people in near to the forts, so that they would not be mistaken for hostiles. Pawnee Killer blandly replied that he would, as fast as he could. In order to please the visitors the general directed that they be given sugar and coffee; and they rode away again.

None of the men believed what Pawnee Killer had said; and some rather thought that the general had been foolish to treat him so well, and let him think that he was hoodwinking the white chief. Upon the arrival, again, of General Sherman, from Sedgwick, the Seventh was ordered south to the Forks of the Republican, to find Pawnee Killer’s village.

General Sherman rode with General Custer for fifteen miles, talking matters over with him. Ned, behind, could hear much of the conversation, and it showed matters to be considered serious. The Sioux of the north were sending warriors down to join with the Sioux and Cheyennes of the south; the Arapahos were uneasy, although Little Raven and Black Kettle were promising to hold them steady; a friendly band of BrulÉ or Burnt Thigh Sioux under Chief Spotted Tail had been forced to move from the Republican Forks north across the Platte at Julesberg—because, said Spotted Tail, his young warriors were getting excited; and down on the Arkansas, Satanta, wearing the major-general uniform that had been given him, had driven off the horse-herd from Fort Dodge itself! Stage stations had been burned on the Platte River route—yes, not far from Fort McPherson; and on the Smoky Hill route. Union Pacific and Kansas Pacific Railroad surveying parties had been attacked. On the Republican and other settled streams ranches had been pillaged. It looked as though a real Indian war was brewing.

By Eastern people the army on the plains was being much criticized. Some of these people depended upon the Indian trade for business; but some thought that the Indian was abused. It did not seem right to them that General Hancock had destroyed the village on Pawnee Fork. The Indians, said these people through the newspapers and in speeches, should be left to the control of the agencies. The soldiers wished only fighting.

However, General Sherman appeared to be little influenced by the criticisms of the Eastern peace party; although he did say, rather angrily:

“I tell you, Custer, there’ll be no peace on the plains until the Indians are so subdued that they can be controlled by constables instead of soldiers. Meantime the War Department ought to have complete charge of the tribes. Now while we’re doing the fighting at one end of the line to enforce our terms, the civil agents make a treaty at the other end, on different terms. Then the treaty is broken and the work must be done all over again. And if the agents and the traders are to be permitted to supply the savages with arms, in defiance of the orders of the military, I believe in withdrawing every soldier from the district and letting the civil authorities settle affairs. We have a hard enough task, without being called upon to face weapons furnished by our own government.”

All peaceful was that rolling plains country, during the four days’ march of seventy-five miles down to the Forks of the Republican. From the crest of each rise was to be seen the same vista before as behind: the grasses, the June flowers, the willows and cottonwoods, the sandstone uplifts, the long swells, with the only moving creatures the elk, the antelope, the buffalo, the black-tail deer, the wolf, rabbit and prairie dog.

The Forks of the Republican also seemed deserted; but who might tell here, as on the march, what Indian heads were peering from ravines, over hillocks, or through bushes, spying upon the horses, the wagons and the blue-bloused men.

North to Fort Sedgwick, seventy-five miles, were sent with dispatches for General Sherman, Major Joel Elliot and picked escort of ten men. South to Fort Wallace, eighty miles, was sent for supplies a wagon-train under command of Lieutenant (colonel, they called him) William Cook and Lieutenant Samuel Robbins. Major West was escort. By Colonel Cook went a letter to Mrs. Custer, telling her that she might come back with him, by way of Fort Wallace, to the camp.

Some of the men criticised this as not wise in the general, not safe for Mrs. Custer. Indians surely were about, and they would take big chances to make a white woman captive. Anybody who knew Mrs. Custer, also knew that she would come. Fire, water or savages would not stop her from trying to join the general. So there was dubious shaking of heads, when the news leaked out.

Yes, the Indians were watching. That was soon to be shown. However, calm and sweet was the twilight. Gradually the western glow faded, while busily grazed the horses and mules. The men lounged about, and contentedly smoked and chatted. To and fro paced the sentries. The stream rippled. Over it and over the wide prairie swooped low the night-hawks. Scarcely a coyote barked. Even the general’s dogs found nothing to do.

At dusk the animals were brought in close and tethered along the picket ropes. Stable guards were stationed for them. At half-past eight Ned blew the long sweet call of “Taps.” The notes floated musically over the wide expanse. Every light was extinguished; and amidst the loneliness the camp of the Seventh Cavalry, United States Army, lay down to sleep. The white tents glimmered; the horses and mules snorted; the sentinels paced their beats.

In his tent beside the adjutant’s Ned was wakened in a jump. It seemed that he had just fallen asleep—but the interior of the tent was gray; dawn was at hand. The smart crack of a carbine was echoing in his ears—and now he heard a sharp, excited voice:

“They’re here!” That was Lieutenant Custer, the general’s brother, rushing past, warning the general. He was officer of the day. And out rang a perfect volley of shots, and a great peal of shrill, savage whoops.

Grabbing bugle and belt Ned dived from his tent. He was in time to witness the front of the general’s tent burst open, like a paper bag, and General Custer come bolting through. The general wore a bright red flannel night-gown—but he carried in his hand his Spencer rifle. He was ready for business.

On ran the general, toward the spot of the firing and the shouting. He was no quicker than his men; they streamed from their tents, and clad in shirts and drawers, but bearing cartridge-belts and carbines, they rallied to the defence. Scarcely any orders were necessary, although Lieutenant Tom Custer and all the officers were there to give them. The voice of the general rose high, urging, commanding, cheering. His red flannel night-shirt flamed hither and thither; his long bright locks tossed like a mane; he wore no shoes or stockings. Ned saw him in a new guise: Old Curly, the fighting Chief with the Yellow Hair.

The carbines crackled, as in irregular line the troopers, lying or kneeling, rapidly fired. Beyond, in the thin morning, the Indians dashed swiftly back and forth. From the soldiers issued jeers and threats and challenges, as well as lead.

“I got one! I got one!” yelped the lawyer recruit. “No; I got two! There goes another off his horse!”

“Shut up!” growled Sergeant Henderson. “Do you think that every time you fire you knock over an Injun? They only hang on the far side of their horses, lad!”

That was so. At the discharges from the carbines whole squads of the scampering reds seemed to be swept from their saddles; when, no, there they were, again, upright, and gesturing derision! It was enough to fool any white man, fighting them for his first time. But many were the jokes leveled at the recruits, by the veterans in the firing-line.

However, the Indians didn’t succeed. There must have been two or three hundred of them, attacking, while about fifty tried for the camp horses. They had shot the picket. He was lying wounded. He would have been scalped if his comrades had not run out and dragged him in. After a few volleys from the Spencers of the soldiers the red enemy retreated. They could be seen gathered about a mile away, in council.