Around-about storms continued to threaten. The air was crisp but uncertain. Everybody must turn to and help erect store-houses to shelter the supplies. The Kansas Volunteers should arrive at any moment; but they did not, for they were lost and snowed in and starving, far to the north.

However, in the midst of the anxiety and the impatience General Sheridan arrived. With his escort he appeared in the afternoon of November 21. He brought in 350 men: a company of the Tenth Regular Cavalry; the “Sandy” Forsyth scouts who had fought at the Arikaree, now under Lieutenant Lewis Pepoon; two companies of the Kansas Volunteers who had been sent ahead of the regiment to Fort Dodge; twelve Osage Indian scouts, and ten Kansas Indian scouts. Lieutenant Thomas Lebo of the Tenth Cavalry was in command of the escort.

Everybody was glad to see General Sheridan come. With “Little Phil” on the scene, the campaign would start right up. General Custer had gone enthusiastically galloping to meet him and ride in with him, and discuss the situation.

Most interesting of the new arrivals were the Osages. They hated the Cheyennes, Comanches, Kiowas, and all these raiding Indians who pillaged them as well as the whites; through the Civil War the Osages had acted as Union scouts, on the plains.

The chief in the squad was a tall straight old man named Cha-pa-jen-kan, or Little Beaver. Another chief was old Wen-tsi-kee or Hard Rope, rather fat and reported to be very wise. Of the warriors Koom-la-Manche or the Trotter was the most famous, as a fast runner and a fine shot.

The Osages had “made medicine” for the warpath at Fort Hays; the Kaws had made their medicine on the way down. They all were armed with the new breech-loading Springfield rifles; and were paid seventy-five dollars a month and expenses. To show how they could shoot, that evening the Osages on their war-ponies galloped past a log of wood, firing at it; and every shot struck.

The Sheridan column reported terrible weather, on their march down from Fort Hays. One blizzard after another had assailed them; the plains were covered with snow; the Arkansas River at Fort Dodge was thick with floating ice.

This very evening the winter descended upon Camp Supply also. The snow began to fall heavily; but standing out in the storm the Seventh Cavalry band lustily serenaded the Sheridan headquarters. The Seventh were proud of their band. Odell said that it was the best in the army. It could play as well on horseback as afoot. Wherever the troopers went, the band went too. General Custer was fond of music and believed that it did the regiment good.

General Custer was in consultation with General Sheridan that evening; and in the morning was it soon known that the Seventh Cavalry would not wait for the Kansas Volunteers, but would start at once against the Indians. The General Sheridan column, in coming down from the Arkansas, had struck a fresh trail of an Indian war party heading north, on a raid. The Seventh Cavalry were to follow this trail backward, so that it would lead them to the village.

Ned heard his general reading the orders over to Adjutant Moylan. They sounded just like Sheridan, as they said:

The snow was still falling fast; but nobody cared, and least of all General Custer. He had told General Sheridan that he would be ready to move out in twenty-four hours; and so he was. By night the wagon-train of supplies for thirty days had been made up. Only a few tents were allowed; the baggage was stripped down to blankets and overcoats.

Reveille was at three o’clock; into the snow and the dark tumbled out the troopers of the Seventh; and at stables and mess and even at roll-call sundry jokes passed about. Everybody was uncomfortable, but nobody was complaining.

The sentries were knee-deep in the snow; the horses shivered; the cooks had hard work to cook the breakfasts.

“How’s this for a winter campaign?” demanded Adjutant Moylan, trudging almost over his cavalry boots, to the headquarters tent.

“Fine! Fine!” declared General Custer, peering out. “Just what we want.”

“Well, we’ve got it, then,” assured the adjutant, snow-covered.

So they were off, willy-nilly, thought Ned.

It was just daylight when at the word from the adjutant he blew “Boots and Saddles.” The notes not only set the cavalry into action, but seemed to awaken all the camp; for tents were thrown open and officers and men of the infantry and the volunteers poked out their heads. The general went galloping across to the tent of General Sheridan.

“Is that you, Custer? What do you think about the storm?” The words of General Sheridan issued muffled but plain, into the driving flakes.

“Just the thing, general,” answered so buoyantly “Old Curly.” “We can move but the Indians can’t. I’d ask nothing better than a week of this.”

“Good-by, old fellow. Take care of yourself,” called from the door of his tent Lieutenant Taylor, an aide, as General Custer galloped back. Wrapped in a huge buffalo-robe, Lieutenant Taylor looked like a chief.

The general waved at him.

“To horse,” sounded Ned.

The troopers, misty in the storm, stood ready.

“Prepare to mount!” was shouted the order. “Mount! By fours—right! For-r’d—march!”

All along the line of tents hands waved and voices called, for good-by and good luck, as in column of fours out at a walk rode the Seventh Cavalry, eleven companies, 800 men, bound against the storm and the Indians. Bravely blared the band, playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

General Custer wore a round wolf-fur cap with ear-tabs, fur mittens, and on his feet great buffalo-hide over-shoes with the hair inside. That was trapper style. His double-breasted cavalry overcoat kept his body warm. The whole command was dressed after any fashion that would be comfortable. California Joe was rigged as customary in his old slouch hat tied down scoop-shape, on his hands were enormous buffalo-hide mittens, on his feet hide shoes like the general’s. The Osages, who were taken, sat stiffly with their buffalo robes projecting above their heads, behind. Hard Rope shivered and shook, and murmured plaintively.

“What’s he saying?” queried the general, of the interpreter.

“He says it’s bad for an old man to be alone in cold weather, and he will capture a Cheyenne squaw to keep his back warm,” explained the interpreter.

But the scouts were soon out of hearing and out of sight. They were supposed to take the advance, so as to read sign and guide the column to the next camping place, fifteen miles. After them trailed the long column of snow-covered troopers and horses, with the baggage wagons toiling at the rear. Behind the wagons rode a troop as guard.

The scouts knew where the trail of the hostile war party had been crossed, but the snow concealed it and all landmarks. And still the snow fell, until when after the fifteen miles march (which required all day) the column went into camp the chill white mantle was eighteen inches thick.

“How is it, Joe? Cleared off, hasn’t it?” invited the general, as on a short tour of inspection in the gray of the next morning he encountered that worthy.

“Yep, trav’lin’s good overhead to-day, good mornin’, gen’ral,” answered the ready Joe. “An’ I’ve got an infarnal chronical cough that’s been nigh scuttlin’ me this two days, an’ I’ve bin thinkin’ that I cotched the glanders, an’ they might as well shoot a fellow to onct as to have that botherin’ him.”

“Sorry, Joe,” laughed the general.

The march was south, up the valley of Wolf Creek. Patches of willows and timber were full of deer and elk and buffalo that had been driven there by the storm. Maida and Blucher the general’s stag-hounds had great fun chasing them; and the column secured plenty of meat.

Now the march left the valley of the Wolf, and crossed to the valley of the Canadian, a day’s march southward. Beyond the Canadian lay the country of the Washita River, where, everybody believed, were the winter villages of the hostile Indians. The Cheyennes, the Kiowas, the Comanches, the Apaches—there might they be found, snugly encamped until the call of spring.

This was the third day. The Yellow Hair and his cavalry were sixty miles into the Indian’s own country, where white cavalry never before had been. Around-about stretched the snowy wilderness of plains and water-course. It was time that some trace of the Indians be found. On a scout up along the Canadian was sent the gallant Major Joel Elliot, who never did things by halves. He was given three troops. He was to travel light, without wagons, but with one hundred rounds of carbine ammunition to the man, one day’s rations, and horse forage. If an Indian trail was discovered, he was to pursue at once, and to send back a courier with the news. With soldiers and scouts, both red and white, west along the snowy banks of the Canadian, from whose red soil the wind had blown the snow, rode Major Elliot.

California Joe had found a ford, and aiming for the Washita, through the floating ice of the swift current crossed the horses and the wagons. Helping, the men must wade waist-deep. This was cold, mean work, but it was done in three hours.

The high round Antelope Hills loomed ahead. These were the landmarks of the march and Little Beaver and Hard Rope and their followers had struck them exactly. Up the further slope of the Canadian Valley toiled the hooded, heavy army wagons.

Major Elliot had been gone three hours or more.

From a little knoll the general had been surveying and directing, while Ned sat his horse beside him, and Adjutant Moylan bustled hither-thither. The rear guard finally had crossed, below. For this they were waiting.

“All right,” remarked the general, shortly, to Ned. “Sound to horse.” And—“No! Wait!” he thundered. “Here comes somebody.”

He pointed, and leveled his glasses. Down from the north was approaching at steady gallop a figure black against the white background.

“It’s Corbin,” pronounced the general, gazing earnestly through his glass. His tanned face flushed high.

Yes, it was Corbin—Jack Corbin the scout who was a partner of California Joe. Evidently he bore important news, for he was urging his horse mercilessly. He arrived—his face frosty and his horse gasping through wide frosty nostrils. The general did not say a word, in query; none was needed, for Corbin spoke at once.

“We’ve struck the trail, about twelve miles north. Hundred and fifty Injuns, pointin’ southeast, for the Washita. Made within twenty-four hours.”

“Good!” ejaculated the general. “Where’s Elliot?”

“Follerin’.”

“Can you catch him, with a fresh horse?”

“Reckon I can.”

“Take that horse there,” directed the general.

Corbin was changing saddle in a jiffy.

“Tell Major Elliot to push the pursuit as rapidly as he can, and I’ll cut across country and join him. If the trail changes direction so that I may not strike it, he is to let me know. If I do not join him by eight o’clock tonight he is to halt and wait for me.”

Without a word away galloped Jack Corbin.

“Sound officers’ call, bugler,” bade the general, to Ned.

So busy had been the officers that apparently none had noted the arrival and departure of Jack. But now at the bugle notes they hastened up, curious to know the occasion. In his quick, sharp manner the general told them what had happened.

“Now, gentlemen, this is our chance,” he added. “We mustn’t neglect it, and we mustn’t let Major Elliot do all the fighting. We’ll cut loose. The wagons are to be left here, under guard of one officer and of ten men detailed from each company. Company commanders will make their own details. The officer of the day will remain in charge of the guard, and bring on the wagons, following our trail as fast as practicable. The pursuing column will be in light marching order. Never mind the weather. The Indians are of more importance. Commands will be limited to one hundred rounds of ammunition to the man, and such coffee, hard bread, forage and blankets as he can carry on the saddle. Tents and extra blankets to be left with the wagons. That is all, gentlemen.” And the general looked at his watch. “The advance will be sounded in twenty minutes. Adjutant, you will inform the officer of the day as to the arrangements.”

At once half a dozen voices spoke, in little chorus.

“That’s Hamilton! Oh, we ought to have Hamilton with us!”

The general smiled and shook his head.

“Somebody’s duty is with the wagon-train.”

Out scattered the officers, for time was indeed short, and the general never accepted excuses for delay. Young Captain Hamilton, as officer of the day in charge of the rear guard, which had just crossed, had been absent from the conference; now he came galloping, interrupting the general who had plunged into the preparations. The captain’s face was white and anxious. He saluted.

“Beg your pardon, general,” he blurted. “But do I understand that the officer of the day remains with the wagon-train?”

“Yes, captain.”

“But, general! I’m officer of the day!”

“I did not think of it at the time, Hamilton,” replied the general, frankly. “I simply gave the instructions, and I’m afraid they must be followed.”

“General!” exclaimed the captain. He was much distressed. Ned knew why, and appreciated. To stay behind, while the others fought, would be awful. “Then I must remain? Can’t I go, sir?”

“The wagon-train must be protected,” answered the general, kind but firm. “We’d like to have you with us, Hamilton. We need such men as you. But the train needs an officer, too; and this is soldier’s luck. Your duty is here.”

“It seems pretty hard that I’ve got to stay,” he murmured, dismayed. “There’s liable to be a big fight—and I won’t be on hand to lead my squadron.”

The general surveyed him, with eyes softening. Truly, the young captain, high-mettled and soldierly, made a sorry figure.

“I’ll tell you, Hamilton. If—if you can find an officer who by one reason or another feels convinced that he should stay rather than you, he may take your place. Otherwise, as officer of the day your duty is with the train.”

Captain Hamilton’s face lighted.

“Thank you, general! Thank you! I’ll go and see.” And whirling his horse, back he galloped, on this forlorn hope. Ned rather trusted that he would be successful.

Presently, here he came again. He was fairly shining, as he saluted.

“Lieutenant Mathey, sir! He has snow-blindness so he can scarcely see, and he would be of no use with the column. He has kindly consented to exchange with me. Shall I join my squadron, sir?”

“Very well, sir,” approved the general. And the glad Captain Louis Hamilton, grandson of Alexander Hamilton, went flying to his post.

In precisely due time the general looked at his watch. He vaulted into the saddle.

“All ready, Moylan,” he called. And, to Ned: “Sound the advance.”