It was a long, long forced march. Wide and white lay the desolate desert beyond the Canadian, and through the foot of snow ploughed the eager column. Not a moving figure broke the white expanse; not a moving figure save the figures of California Joe and Romeo and Little Beaver and Hard Rope and the other scouts, as far in advance and on either side they rode seeking the Elliot trail. As the major, following the Indians, had been heading southeast, a course south ought to strike his tracks, soon or late.

Late it proved to be; for not until within an hour of sunset, and after a day’s ride without halt for food or drink, did the column see Little Beaver stop short, and with uplifted hand signal a trail.

Such had been Thanksgiving Day, Thursday, November 26, 1868.

By the tracks, Major Elliot was still upon the trail of the village-bound Indians. After reading the pony sign, Little Beaver and his Osages declared that the Indians had passed on their way this very morning. Much relieved, the general ordered a trot; and forward pressed the column, to overtake the major. Dusk descended. Before were visible the outlines of timber, along a stream in a little valley. The general sent ahead a squad of soldiers and scouts, to catch the major and tell him to halt, at wood and water, and to wait.

“Tell him not to make camp, but to be ready for a night march when I join him,” added the general.

As for the column, at last they were given an hour, for rest and for coffee, and to feed the horses.

The zealous Major Elliot had gone further than anybody had expected. Not until nine o’clock at night, and after another hard ride through snow and timber and darkness, finally was he found, waiting as ordered, by a stream with high banks.

“An hour for rest, again,” ordered the general, briefly. “Then the moon will be up and we can take the trail. There are to be no bugle calls or other noise. Sound carries far, in this country. The men may make fire for coffee, small ones down under the edges of the banks so that the flames will not show. Send the Osages to me. I want to talk with them.”

The Osages were certain that this was a branch of the Washita River, and that the Cheyennes and Kiowas and all had their village not far down stream. The trail seemed to be leading straight for it. But through the half-breed interpreter Little Beaver kept insisting that the soldiers stay here concealed in the timber until daylight, and then march upon the trail again.

General Custer snapped his fingers impatiently, and laughed.

“That is the Indian way of fighting,” he promptly said. “They hate to attack anybody concealed by the dark or by entrenchments. No, tell Little Beaver that we are going to fight white man’s way, and that we march in one hour, when the moon rises.”

This did not seem to satisfy the Osages, who murmured gutturally among themselves. Evidently, like Pawnee Killer, although for different reason, they did not regard any too highly the skill of the white chief, whom they called the Chief with the Long Yellow Hair.

The hour passed; the half moon rose; and one by one Captain Hamilton, Colonel Cook, Captain Yates, Captain Smith, Major Bell, and all the other company commanders reported to Adjutant Moylan that their detachments were ready for the march.

No bugles were sounded; but in column of fours the eight hundred horsemen rode in dim column down the course of the creek, following the Indian trail so plainly showing in the white snow.

Two of the Osages, Hard Rope and a warrior, led, three hundred yards in advance. They were on foot, the better to read sign; with long, silent moccasined tread they stole swiftly across the snow. They saw scalps, to be taken from their hated enemies the Cheyennes and the Kiowas.

After them rode in single file the white and red scouts, California Joe on his mule to the fore. His old Springfield musket lay in the hollow of his left arm; but for the once the reek of his pipe did not drift back. The orders forbade any smoking. Beside California Joe rode the general himself, to be on hand to catch the first word or signal. Close behind him rode Ned, trumpeter orderly.

At a quarter of a mile the column cautiously followed. Now and then one of the officers advanced at a trot, and whispered to the general, making suggestion or query; but even this did not break the silence. Ever the march continued, as if for hours and hours.

Suddenly California Joe pointed, significantly. The two Osages picking the trail had halted; at short command from the general Ned must fall out and tell Adjutant Moylan to halt the column also.

When he returned, at trot, the general was with the two Osages. One of them could speak a little English.

“What’s the matter?” asked the general.

“Me don’t know,” replied the Osage. “But me smell fire.”

Adjutant Moylan, Colonel Myers (who was an old plainsman) and Colonel Benteen, arrived; they all sniffed hard, as did Ned; but none of them could smell a trace of smoke.

“Humph!” grunted Colonel Myers. “He’s scared; that’s what ails him. You know, these Indians don’t favor this march, and they’re trying to find an excuse to stop.”

“Me smell fire,” insisted the Osage; and his companion nodded violently.

“Do you smell anything, Joe?” queried the general.

California Joe wagged his head slowly, as he inhaled through his frosted brick-red whiskers.

“No, I don’t, gen’ral. Nor Corbin neither. An’ we got first-class smellers, too, though jest at this moment they’re froze stiff.”

“Very well,” responded the general. “We’ll proceed. Tell the trailers to go slow, and keep their noses and eyes open.”

More than half a mile was covered; and again the Osages had halted. This time they were triumphant, and received the general with conscious dignity. The English-speaking Osage pointed before, to the left.

“Me told you so,” he uttered, in whisper.

Sure enough. In front, one hundred yards beside the trail, at the edge of the timber, was low gleam of a camp-fire almost dead. It was only a handful of embers, and still Ned could not smell it; but there it was. Truly, those Osages had good noses.

Although through the drifting clouds of winter the moon shone brightly upon the long column waiting in the snow, from the fire no movement was made. The Indians who had built the fire must be sleeping.

“Joe, you and Little Beaver take a few of your men and scout around that camp,” whispered the general. A quaver in his voice told of his excitement. “Find out all you can. We’ll wait here.”

To the snow swung California Joe and Jack Corbin and Little Beaver and all the Osages. With click of rifle-lock they stole forward, on circuit to enter the timber above the fire and thus spy upon it. Presently they disappeared. Sat tense every officer and every soldier, peering, keen to meet any vicious volley which surely would empty saddles. For the column was a fair mark.

Was the hard, cold march of three days to be a failure? Were the Indians already on the alert? See! Now, bending low, out from the edge of the timber issued an Osage. California Joe followed close. One after another the scouts all issued, approaching the fire. They reached it, they straightened up—apparently nothing happened, and a great sigh of relief swept through the tense column, where the companies sat at their intervals.

After prying about, and examining shrewdly, the scouts returned. California Joe reported.

“Tain’t no reg’lar camp-fire,” he uttered. “The party we’re trailin’ never made it, ’cordin’ to them Osages. It’s the work of Injun herders; boys, like as not, to warm ’em while they watched the ponies. Village ought to be within two or three miles, at most.”

That was good news. The general gave the word to advance again, but more cautiously than ever. And taking Ned, as orderly, with his usual impulsiveness he rode forward accompanying the two Osage guides who had done so well.

The trail had left the stream, to cut across a big bend. The guides kept just at the head of the general’s horse. Whenever they came to a rise, one would creep forward and peer over. Seeing that the coast was clear, he would signal for the others to come on. Breathless work was this, and Ned’s heart thumped so that he feared he would be ordered to stay where he was. Now from the crest of a long brushy divide the Osage, reconnoitering, had put his hand to his brow, peering from under it. He crouched lower, and came hastily back. Something had been sighted.

“What is it?” asked the general, eagerly.

“Heaps Injuns down there,” grunted gutturally the Osage, at the saddle flaps. And he pointed ahead.

Off from his horse swung the general; he signed to Ned, and leaving their mounts in charge of the other Osage, with the first one they also stole forward.

“Drop that sabre,” whispered the general to Ned, sternly. Ned unbuckled his belt and dropped it, with the dragging scabbard. He was making too much noise.

Low in the moonlight, peeping over the top of the ridge they scanned the valley before. About half a mile beyond, upon the snow which edged the timber skirting the icy stream was a large blackish mass, like a great mass of animals.

“Buffalo!” hazarded the general, after looking long and earnestly.

The Osage said not a word.

“Why do you think Indians?” whispered the general. “Maybe buffalo.”

The Osage shook his feathered head.

“No. Me heard dog bark,” he asserted, softly.

Again they listened. The freezing air was very quiet. Ned’s heart thumped; he wished that he need not breathe. Then, clear, through the night did sound the yappy bark of a dog, from the timber near the black mass.

“That’s right,” murmured the general. “Wait! Isn’t that a bell—a pony bell? Yes. Ponies those are. Buffalo aren’t in the habit of wearing bells in this country.”

He turned quickly, and took a step, to carry the news to the column. But he stopped short. The bell had ceased, no dog barked, but high and plaintive welled through the lonely waste the cry of a baby. Ned fairly started; it sounded so like home and fireside. Of course, the Indians had their babies.

“That’s tough,” muttered the general. “Those Indians have not spared our women and children—but I wish that village held only men.”

With Ned he hurried back to the scouts while the two Osages remained on lookout over the sleeping village.

“My compliments to the adjutant, and tell him to have all the officers join me here,” he directed, to Ned. And Ned carried the message.

Speedily the word was passed, and from along the column filled with rumors the officers promptly gathered in a circle about their colonel.

“The village is ahead, about three quarters of a mile, gentlemen,” spoke cautiously the general. “Remove your sabres, and come forward with me, as quietly as possible, and from the top of that rise yonder where the two Osages are I’ll show you the lay of the land.”

This they did, gladly. From the rise they reconnoitered, in a cautious knot. The pony herd was as plain as before; still ruled the lonely night; somewhere down there the Indian village slept. They believed that they could trace a collection of tipis.

After pointing and explaining, and receiving nods of understanding, the general as quietly withdrew. All followed.

Now a council of war must be held, where the sabres had been left. California Joe listened approvingly; Little Beaver and Hard Rope anxiously, trying to comprehend the white chief’s plan. The Osages had loosened their buffalo robes, as if prepared for instant action. But that was not the scheme.

The attack was to be made at dawn, as soon as there was light enough for aiming. The village was to be surrounded, first, and charged from four sides.

Now was it after midnight; the moon was floating high. At once set out, under cover of the ridge, with troops G, H and M, about 200 men, Major Joel Elliot, on wide circuit to take station whence he might charge the village from below; set out in the other direction, with B and F troops, Colonel William Thompson, to take similar position above.

“The attack will be made promptly at daylight, gentlemen,” were the general’s last instructions. “The band will play Garryowen, and at the first note you will charge from whatever position you are in.”

The veteran Colonel Myers and his “right center” column might remain, until time to take their posts also, not so far away, on the right.

The fourth or “center” column was commanded by the general himself; but of the four companies, A, C, D and K, Captain Hamilton commanded the one squadron, Colonel West the other. And there were Lieutenant (Colonel) “Queen’s Own” Cook’s sharpshooters.

Ah, but it was cold up here, behind the ridge. The time was two o’clock, and four hours must pass before daylight. Nobody might make a fire, and orders forbade stamping of the feet or walking up and down, because such a creaking of the snow might give alarm to the village.

The men, huddled in their overcoats, stood or crouched, each holding to the lines of his horse. The officers gathered in little knots, and sitting or standing, talked low.

The general’s group was the largest: Adjutant Moylan, Lieutenant Tom Custer, Captain Hamilton, Colonel West, and others.

“It’s been a long Thanksgiving day, and a fast instead of a feast,” said Colonel West.

“Oh, we’ll have our celebration later,” quoth Lieutenant Tom. “You know the verse:

“How about it, Hamilton? Are you glad you came?” asked Lieutenant Moylan.

“Perfectly. The only person I’m sorry for is poor Mathey.”

“He’s liable to miss a rousing good fight.”

“And one in which some of us are likely to get hurt. Those Indians will fight like demons, to defend their families and property.”

“Well, as for me, gentlemen, you know how I feel,” spoke young Captain Hamilton, earnestly. “I want the soldier’s death. When my hour comes, I hope that I shall be shot through the heart, in battle.”

By all the low talk, among men as among officers, the approaching battle must be regarded as a serious problem. Nobody might tell how many Indians were housed down below, on their own ground, with plenty of ammunition and food and cover; and no harder fighters could be found than the Cheyennes and the Kiowas.

The Osages, in their war-paint of red, white, black and yellow, sat under blankets and robes, in a circle, murmuring gravely as if they, too, were doubtful of the white chief’s ability. One of them was not in war-paint. His paint all was black, for mourning. The interpreter explained that this warrior had lost his squaw, to the Cheyennes, and that he could not wash off his mourning until he had taken a Cheyenne scalp.

Ned thought much upon the village. It probably would contain some white captives. Among them might be little Mary. He resolved to keep his eyes open for trace of anybody looking as she might look.