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Randall Parrish - Bob Hampton of Placer

R >> Randall Parrish >> Bob Hampton of Placer




"I recognize you now," Custer said, quietly. "Am I to understand you
are again in the service?"

"My presence here is purely accidental, General Custer. The
opportunity came to me to do this work, and I very gladly accepted the
privilege."

The commander hesitated, scarcely knowing what he might be justified in
saying to this man.

"It was a brave deed, well performed," he said at last, with soldierly
cordiality, "although I can hardly offer you a fitting reward."

The other stood bareheaded, his face showing pale under its sunburn,
his hand trembling violently where it rested against his horse's mane.

"There is little I desire," he replied, slowly, unable to altogether
disguise the quiver in his voice, "and that is to be permitted to ride
once more into action in the ranks of the Seventh."

The true-hearted, impulsive, manly soldier fronting him reddened to the
roots of his fair hair, his proud eyes instantly softening. For a
second Hampton even imagined he would extend his hand, but the other
paused with one step forward, discipline proving stronger than impulse.

"Spoken like a true soldier," he exclaimed, a new warmth in his voice.
"You shall have your wish. Take position in Calhoun's troop yonder."

Hampton turned quietly away, leading his horse, yet had scarcely
advanced three yards before Custer halted him.

"I shall be pleased to talk with you again after the fight," he said,
briefly, as though half doubting the propriety of such words.

The other bowed, his face instantly brightening. "I thank you
sincerely."

The perplexed commander stood motionless, gazing after the receding
figure, his face grown grave and thoughtful. Then he turned to the
wondering adjutant beside him.

"You never knew him, did you, Cook?"

"I think not, sir; who is he?"

"Captain Nolan--you have heard the story."

The younger officer wheeled about, staring, but the despatch bearer had
already become indistinguishable among the troopers.

"Is that so?" he exclaimed, in evident surprise. "He has a manly face."

"Ay, and he was as fine a soldier as ever fought under the flag,"
declared Custer, frankly. "Poor devil! The hardest service I was ever
called upon to perform was the day we broke him. I wonder if Calhoun
will recognize the face; they were good friends once."

He stopped speaking, and for a time his field-glasses were fastened
upon a small section of Indian village nestled in the green valley.
Its full extent was concealed by the hills, yet from what the watchers
saw they realized that this would prove no small encampment.

"I doubt if many warriors are there," he commented, at last. "They may
have gone up the river to intercept Reno's advance, and if so, this
should be our time to strike. But we are not far enough around, and
this ground is too rough for cavalry. There looks to be considerable
level land out yonder, and that _coulee_ ought to lead us into it
without peril of observation from below. Return to your commands,
gentlemen, and with the order of march see personally that your men
move quietly. We must strike quick and hard, driving the wedge home
with a single blow."

His inquiring gaze swept thoughtfully over the expectant faces of his
troop commanders. "That will be all at present, gentlemen; you will
require no further instructions until we deploy. Captain Calhoun, just
a word, please."

The officer thus directly addressed, a handsome, stalwart man of middle
age, reined in his mettlesome horse and waited.

"Captain, the messenger who has just brought us despatches from
Cheyenne is a civilian, but has requested permission to have a share in
this coming fight. I have assigned him to your troop."

Calhoun bowed.

"I thought it best to spare you any possible embarrassment by saying
that the man is not entirely unknown to you."

"May I ask his name?"

"Robert Nolan."

The strong, lion-like face flushed under its tan, then quickly lit up
with a smile. "I thank you. Captain Nolan will not suffer at my
hands."

He rode straight toward his troop, his eyes searching the ranks until
they rested upon the averted face of Hampton. He pressed forward, and
leaned from the saddle, extending a gauntleted hand. "Nolan, old man,
welcome back to the Seventh!"

For an instant their eyes met, those of the officer filled with manly
sympathy, the other's moistened and dim, his face like marble. Then
the two hands clasped and clung, in a grip more eloquent than words.
The lips of the disgraced soldier quivered, and he uttered not a word.
It was Calhoun who spoke.

"I mean it all, Nolan. From that day to this I have believed in
you,--have held you friend."

For a moment the man reeled; then, as though inspired by a new-born
hope, he sat firmly erect, and lifted his hand in salute. "Those are
words I have longed to hear spoken for fifteen years. They are more to
me than life. May God help me to be worthy of them. Oh, Calhoun,
Calhoun!"

For a brief space the two remained still and silent, their faces
reflecting repressed feeling. Then the voice of command sounded out in
front; Calhoun gently withdrew his hand from the other's grasp, and
with bowed head rode slowly to the front of his troop.

In column of fours, silent, with not a canteen rattling, with scabbards
thrust under their stirrup leathers, each man sitting his saddle like a
statue, ready carbine flung forward across the pommel, those sunburnt
troopers moved steadily down the broad _coulee_. There was no pomp, no
sparkle of gay uniforms. No military band rode forth to play their
famous battle tune of "Garryowen"; no flags waved above to inspire
them, yet never before or since to a field of strife and death rode
nobler hearts or truer. Troop following troop, their faded, patched
uniforms brown with dust, their campaign hats pulled low to shade them
from the glare, those dauntless cavalrymen of the Seventh swept across
the low intervening ridge toward the fateful plain below. The troopers
riding at either side of Hampton, wondering still at their captain's
peculiar words and action, glanced curiously at their new comrade,
marvelling at his tightly pressed lips, his moistened eyes. Yet in all
the glorious column, no heart lighter than his, or happier, pressed
forward to meet a warrior's death.




CHAPTER IX

THE LAST STAND

However daring the pen, it cannot but falter when attempting to picture
the events of those hours of victorious defeat. Out from the scene of
carnage there crept forth no white survivor to recount the heroic deeds
of the Seventh Cavalry. No voice can ever repeat the story in its
fulness, no eye penetrate into the heart of its mystery. Only in
motionless lines of dead, officers and men lying as they fell while
facing the foe; in emptied carbines strewing the prairie; in scattered,
mutilated bodies; in that unbroken ring of dauntless souls whose
lifeless forms lay clustered about the figure of their stricken chief
on that slight eminence marking the final struggle--only in such tokens
can we trace the broken outlines of the historic picture. The actors
in the great tragedy have passed beyond either the praise or the blame
of earth. With moistened eyes and swelling hearts, we vainly strive to
imagine the whole scene. This, at least, we know: no bolder, nobler
deed of arms was ever done.

It was shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon when that compact
column of cavalrymen moved silently forward down the concealing
_coulee_ toward the more open ground beyond. Custer's plan was
surprise, the sudden smiting of that village in the valley from the
rear by the quick charge of his horsemen. From man to man the
whispered purpose travelled down the ranks, the eager troopers greeting
the welcome message with kindling eyes. It was the old way of the
Seventh, and they knew it well. The very horses seemed to feel the
electric shock. Worn with hard marches, bronzed by long weeks of
exposure on alkali plains, they advanced now with the precision of men
on parade, under the observant eyes of the officers. Not a canteen
tinkled, not a sabre rattled within its scabbard, as at a swift,
noiseless walk those tried warriors of the Seventh pressed forward to
strike once more their old-time foes.

Above them a few stray, fleecy clouds flecked the blue of the arching
sky, serving only to reveal its depth of color. On every side extended
the rough irregularity of a region neither mountain nor plain, a land
of ridges and bluffs, depressions and ravines. Over all rested the
golden sunlight of late June; and in all the broad expanse there was no
sign of human presence.

With Custer riding at the head of the column, and only a little to the
rear of the advance scouts, his adjutant Cook, together with a
volunteer aide, beside him, the five depleted troops filed resolutely
forward, dreaming not of possible defeat. Suddenly distant shots were
heard far off to their left and rear, and deepening into a rumble,
evidencing a warm engagement. The interested troopers lifted their
heads, listening intently, while eager whispers ran from man to man
along the closed files.

"Reno is going in, boys; it will be our turn next."

"Close up! Quiet there, lads, quiet," officer after officer passed the
word of command.

Yet there were those among them who felt a strange dread--that firing
sounded so far up the stream from where Reno should have been by that
time. Still it might be that those overhanging bluffs would muffle and
deflect the reports. Those fighting men of the Seventh rode steadily
on, unquestioningly pressing forward at the word of their beloved
leader. All about them hovered death in dreadful guise. None among
them saw those cruel, spying eyes watching from distant ridges, peering
at them from concealed ravines; none marked the rapidly massing hordes,
hideous in war-paint, crowded into near-by _coulees_ and behind
protecting hills.

It burst upon them with wild yells. The gloomy ridges blazed into
their startled faces, the dark ravines hurled at them skurrying
horsemen, while, wherever their eyes turned, they beheld savage forms
leaping forth from hill and _coulee_, gulch and rock shadow. Horses
fell, or ran about neighing; men flung up their hands and died in that
first awful minute of consternation, and the little column seemed to
shrivel away as if consumed by the flame which struck it, front and
flank and rear. It was as if those men had ridden into the mouth of
hell. God only knows the horror of that first moment of shrinking
suspense--the screams of agony from wounded men and horses, the dies of
fear, the thunder of charging hoofs, the deafening roar of rifles.

Yet it was for scarcely more than a minute. Men trained, strong, clear
of brain, were in those stricken lines--men who had seen Indian battle
before. The recoil came, swift as had been the surprise. Voice after
voice rang out in old familiar orders, steadying instantly the startled
nerves; discipline conquered disorder, and the shattered column rolled
out, as if by magic, into the semblance of a battle line. On foot and
on horseback, the troopers of the Seventh turned desperately at bay.

It was magnificently done. Custer and his troop-commanders brought
their sorely smitten men into a position of defence, even hurled them
cheering forward in short, swift charges, so as to clear the front and
gain room in which to deploy. Out of confusion emerged discipline,
confidence, _esprit de corps_. The savages skurried away on their
quirt-lashed ponies, beyond range of those flaming carbines, while the
cavalry-men, pausing from vain pursuit, gathered up their wounded, and
re-formed their disordered ranks.

"Wait till Reno rides into their village," cried encouraged voices
through parched lips. "Then we'll give them hell!"

Safe beyond range of the troopers' light carbines, the Indians, with
their heavier rifles, kept hurling a constant storm of lead, hugging
the gullies, and spreading out until there was no rear toward which the
harassed cavalrymen could turn for safety. One by one, continually
under a heavy fire, the scattered troops were formed into something
more nearly resembling a battle line--Calhoun on the left, then Keogh,
Smith, and Yates, with Tom Custer holding the extreme right. The
position taken was far from being an ideal one, yet the best possible
under the circumstances, and the exhausted men flung themselves down
behind low ridges, seeking protection from the Sioux bullets, those
assigned to the right enjoying the advantage of a somewhat higher
elevation. Thus they waited grimly for the next assault.

Nor was it long delayed. Scarcely had the troopers recovered, refilled
their depleted cartridge belts from those of their dead comrades, when
the onslaught came. Lashing their ponies into mad gallop, now sitting
erect, the next moment lying hidden behind the plunging animals,
constantly screaming their shrill war-cries, their guns brandished in
air, they swept onward, seeking to crush that thin line in one terrible
onset. But they reckoned wrong. The soldiers waited their coming.
The short, brown-barrelled carbines gleamed at the level in the
sunlight, and then belched forth their message of flame into the very
faces of those reckless horsemen. It was not in flesh and blood to
bear such a blow. With screams of rage, the red braves swerved to left
and right, leaving many a dark, war-bedecked figure lying dead behind
them, and many a riderless pony skurrying over the prairie. Yet their
wild ride had not been altogether in vain; like a whirlwind they had
struck against Calhoun on the flank, forcing his troopers to yield
sullen ground, thus contracting the little semicircle of defenders,
pressing it back against that central hill. It was a step nearer the
end, yet those who fought scarcely realized its significance. Exultant
over their seemingly successful repulse, the men flung themselves again
upon the earth, their cheers ringing out above the thud of retreating
hoofs.

"We can hold them here, boys, until Reno comes," they shouted to each
other.

The skulking red riflemen crept ever closer behind the ridges, driving
their deadly missiles into those ranks exposed in the open. Twice
squads dashed forth to dislodge these bands, but were in turn driven
back, the line of fire continually creeping nearer, clouds of smoke
concealing the cautious marksmen lying prone in the grass. Custer
walked up and down the irregular line, cool, apparently unmoved,
speaking words of approval to officers and men. To the command of the
bugle they discharged two roaring volleys from their carbines, hopeful
that the combined sound might reach the ears of the lagging Reno. They
were hopeful yet, although one troop had only a sergeant left in
command, and the dead bodies of their comrades strewed the plain.

Twice those fierce red horsemen tore down upon them, forcing the thin,
struggling line back by sheer strength of overwhelming numbers, yet no
madly galloping warrior succeeded in bursting through. The hot brown
barrels belched forth their lightnings into those painted faces, and
the swarms of savagery melted away. The living sheltered themselves
behind the bodies of their dead, fighting now in desperation, their
horses stampeded, their ammunition all gone excepting the few
cartridges remaining in the waist-belts. From lip to lip passed the
one vital question: "In God's name, where is Reno? What has become of
the rest of the boys?"

It was four o'clock. For two long hours they had been engaged in
ceaseless struggle; and now barely a hundred men, smoke-begrimed,
thirsty, bleeding, half their carbines empty, they still formed an
impenetrable ring around their chief. The struggle was over, and they
realized the fact. When that wave of savage horsemen swept forth again
it would be to ride them down, to crush them under their horses'
pounding hoofs. They turned their loyal eyes toward him they loved and
followed for the last time, and when he uttered one final word of
undaunted courage, they cheered him faintly, with parched and fevered
lips.

Like a whirlwind those red demons came,--howling wolves now certain of
their prey. From rock and hill, ridge, ravine, and _coulee_, lashing
their half-crazed ponies, yelling their fierce war-cries, swinging
aloft their rifles, they poured resistlessly forth, sweeping down on
that doomed remnant. On both flanks of the short slender line struck
Gall and Crazy Horse, while like a thunderbolt Crow-King and
Rain-in-the-Face attacked the centre. These three storms converged at
the foot of the little hill, crushing the little band of troopers.
With ammunition gone, the helpless victims could meet that mighty
on-rushing torrent only with clubbed guns, for one instant of desperate
struggle. Shoulder to shoulder, in ever-contracting circle, officers
and men stood shielding their commander to the last. Foot by foot,
they were forced back, treading on their wounded, stumbling over their
dead; they were choked in the stifling smoke, scorched by the flaming
guns, clutched at by red hands, beaten down by horses' hoofs. Twenty
or thirty made a despairing dash, in a vain endeavor to burst through
the red enveloping lines, only to be tomahawked or shot; but the most
remained, a thin struggling ring, with Custer in its centre. Then came
the inevitable end. The red waves surged completely across the crest,
no white man left alive upon the field. They had fought a good fight;
they had kept the faith.

Two days later, having relieved Reno from his unpleasant predicament in
the valley, Terry's and Gibbons's infantry tramped up the ravine, and
emerged upon the stricken field. In lines of motionless dead they read
the fearful story; and there they found that man we know. Lying upon a
bed of emptied cartridge-shells, his body riddled with shot and
mutilated with knives, his clothing torn to rags, his hands grasping a
smashed and twisted carbine, his lips smiling even in death, was that
soldier whom the Seventh had disowned and cast out, but who had come
back to defend its chief and to die for its honor,--Robert Hampton
Nolan.




CHAPTER X

THE CURTAIN FALLS

Bronzed by months of scouting on those northern plains, a graver, older
look upon his face, and the bars of a captain gracing the shoulders of
his new cavalry jacket, Donald Brant trotted down the stage road
bordering the Bear Water, his heart alternating between hope and dread.
He was coming back as he had promised; yet, ardently as he longed to
look into the eyes of his beloved, he shrank from the duty laid upon
him by the dead.

The familiar yellow house at the cross-roads appeared so unattractive
as to suggest the thought that Naida must have been inexpressibly
lonely during those months of waiting. He knocked at the sun-warped
door. Without delay it was flung open, and a vision of flushed face
and snowy drapery confronted him.

"Why, Lieutenant Brant! I was never more surprised in my life. Do,
pray, come right in. Yes, Naida is here, and I will have her sent for
at once. Oh, Howard, this is Lieutenant Brant, just back from his
awful Indian fighting. How very nice that he should happen to arrive
just at this time, is n't it?"

The young officer, as yet unable to discover an opportunity for speech,
silently accepted Mr. Wynkoop's extended hand, and found a convenient
chair, as Miss Spencer hastened from the room to announce his arrival.

"Why 'just at this time'?" he questioned.

Mr. Wynkoop cleared his throat. "Why--why, you see, we are to be
married this evening--Miss Spencer and myself. We--we shall be so
delighted to have you witness the ceremony. It is to take place at the
church, and my people insist upon making quite an affair out of the
occasion--Phoebe is so popular, you know."

The lady again bustled in, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm. "Why, I
think it is perfectly delightful. Don't you, Howard? Now Lieutenant
Brant and Naida can stand up with us. You will, won't you, Lieutenant?"

"That must be left entirely with Miss Naida for decision," he replied,
soberly. "However, with my memory of your popularity I should suppose
you would have no lack of men seeking such honor. For instance, one of
your old-time 'friends' Mr. William McNeil."

The lady laughed noisily, regardless of Mr. Wynkoop's look of
annoyance. "Oh, it is so perfectly ridiculous! And did n't you know?
have n't you heard?"

"Nothing, I assure you."

"Why he--he actually married the Widow Guffy. She 's twice his age,
and has a grown-up son. And to think that I supposed he was so nice!
He did write beautiful verses. Is n't it a perfect shame for such a
man to throw himself away like that?"

"It would seem so. But there was another whose name I recall--Jack
Moffat. Why not have him?"

Miss Spencer glanced uneasily at her chosen companion, her cheeks
reddening. But that gentleman remained provokingly silent, and she was
compelled to reply.

"We--we never mention him any more. He was a very bad man."

"Indeed?"

"Yes; it seems he had a wife and four children he had run away from,
back in Iowa. Perhaps that was why his eyes always looked so sad. She
actually advertised for him in one of the Omaha papers. It was a
terrible shock to all of us. I was so grateful to Howard that he
succeeded in opening my eyes in time."

Mr. Wynkoop placed his hand gently upon her shoulder. "Never mind,
dearie," he said, cheerfully. "The West was all so strange to you, and
it seemed very wonderful at first. But that is all safely over with
now, and, as my wife, you will forget the unpleasant memories."

And Miss Spencer, totally oblivious to Brant's presence, turned
impulsively and kissed him.

There was a rustle at the inner door, and Naida stood there. Their
eyes met, and the color mounted swiftly to the girl's cheeks. Then he
stepped resolutely forward, forgetful of all other presence, and
clasped her hand in both his own. Neither spoke a word, yet each
understood something of what was in the heart of the other.

"Will you walk outside with me?" he asked, at last. "I have much to
say which I am sure you would rather hear alone."

She bent her head, and with a brief word of explanation to the others,
the young officer conducted her forth into the bright July sunshine.
They walked in silence side by side along the bank of the little
stream. Brant glanced furtively toward the sweet, girlish face. There
was a pallor on her countenance, a shadow in her eyes, yet she walked
with the same easy grace, her head firmly poised above her white
throat. The very sadness marking her features seemed to him an added
beauty.

He realized where they were going now, where memory had brought them
without conscious volition. As he led her across the rivulet she
glanced up into his face with a smile, as though a happy recollection
had burst upon her. Yet not a word was spoken until the barrier of
underbrush had been completely penetrated, and they stood face to face
under the trees. Then Brant spoke.

"Naida," he said, gravely, "I have come back, as I said I would, and
surely I read welcome in your eyes?"

"Yes."

"And I have come to say that there is no longer any shadow of the dead
between us."

She looked up quickly, her hands clasped, her cheeks flushing. "Are
you sure? Perhaps you misunderstand; perhaps you mistake my meaning."

"I know it all," he answered, soberly, "from the lips of Hampton."

"You have seen him? Oh, Lieutenant Brant, please tell me the whole
truth. I have missed him so much, and since the day he rode away to
Cheyenne not one word to explain his absence has come back to me. You
cannot understand what this means, how much he has become to me through
years of kindness."

"You have heard nothing?"

"Not a word."

Brant drew a long, deep breath. He had supposed she knew this. At
last he said gravely:

"Naida, the truth will prove the kindest message, I think. He died in
that unbroken ring of defenders clustered about General Custer on the
bluffs of the Little Big Horn."

Her slight figure trembled so violently that he held her close within
his arms.

"There was a smile upon his face when we found him. He performed his
full duty, Naida, and died as became a soldier and a gentleman."

"But--but, this cannot be! I saw the published list; his name was not
among them."

"The man who fell was Robert Nolan."

Gently he drew her down to a seat upon the soft turf of the bank. She
looked up at him helplessly, her mind seemingly dazed, her eyes yet
filled with doubt.

"Robert Nolan? My father?"

He bent over toward her, pressing his lips to her hair and stroking it
tenderly with his hand.

"Yes, Naida, darling; it was truly Robert Hampton Nolan who died in
battle, in the ranks of his old regiment,--died as he would have chosen
to die, and died, thank God! completely cleared of every stain upon his
honor. Sit up, little girl, and listen while I tell you. There is in
the story no word which does not reflect nobility upon the soldier's
daughter."

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