Part 8

“But bless his educated heart,” said Casey, “he don't learn me nothing that'll soil my innercence!”

Thus did the sunny-humored Sergeant take it, but not thus the mess. Had Augustus seen himself as they saw him, could he have heard Mrs. Starr--But he did not; the youth was impervious, and to remove his complacency would require (so Mrs. Starr said) an operation, probably fatal. The commanding officer held always aloof from gibing, yet often when Augustus passed him his gray eye would dwell upon the Lieutenant's back, and his voiceless laugh would possess him. That is the picture I retain of these days--the unending golden sun, the wide, gentle-colored plain, the splendid mountains, the Indians ambling through the flat, clear distance; and here, close along the parade-ground, eye-glassed Augustus, neatly hastening, with the Captain on his porch, asleep you might suppose.

One early morning the agent, with two Indian chiefs, waited on the commanding officer, and after their departure his wife found him breakfasting in solitary mirth.

“Without me,” she chided, sitting down. “And I know you've had some good news.”

“The best, my love. Providence has been tempted at last. The wholesome irony of life is about to function.”

“Frank, don't tease so! And where are you rushing now before the cakes?”

“To set our Augustus a little military problem, dearest. Plain living for to-day, and high thinking be jolly well--”

“Frank, you're going to swear, and I must know!”

But Frank had sworn and hurried out to the right to the Adjutant's office, while his Catherine flew to the left to the fence.

“Ella!” she cried. “Oh, Ella!”

Mrs. Bainbridge, instantly on the other side of the fence, brought scanty light. A telegram had come, she knew, from the Crow Agency in Montana. Her husband had admitted this three nights ago; and Captain Duane (she knew) had given him some orders about something; and could it be the Crows? “Ella, I don't know,” said Catherine. “Frank talked all about Providence in his incurable way, and it may be anything.” So the two ladies wondered together over the fence, until Mrs. Duane, seeing the Captain return, ran to him and asked, were the Crows on the war-path? Then her Frank told her yes, and that he had detailed Albumblatt to vanquish them and escort them to Carlisle School to learn German and Beethoven's sonatas.

“Stuff, stuff, stuff! Why, there he does go!” cried the unsettled Catherine. “It's something at the Agency!” But Captain Duane was gone into the house for a cigar.

Albumblatt, with Sergeant Casey and a detail of six men, was in truth hastening over that broad mile which opens between Fort Brown and the Agency. On either side of them the level plain stretched, gray with its sage, buff with intervening grass, hay-cocked with the smoky, mellow-stained, meerschaum-like canvas tepees of the Indians, quiet as a painting; far eastward lay long, low, rose-red hills, half dissolved in the trembling mystery of sun and distance; and westward, close at hand and high, shone the great pale-blue serene mountains through the vaster serenity of the air. The sounding hoofs of the troops brought the Indians out of their tepees to see. When Albumblatt reached the Agency, there waited the agent and his two chiefs, who pointed to one lodge standing apart some three hundred yards, and said, “He is there.” So then Augustus beheld his problem, the military duty fallen to him from Providence and Captain Duane.

It seems elementary for him who has written of “The Contact Squadron.” It was to arrest one Indian. This man, Ute Jack, had done a murder among the Crows, and fled south for shelter. The telegram heralded him, but with boundless miles for hiding he had stolen in under the cover of night. No welcome met him. These Fort Brown Indians were not his friends at any time, and less so now, when he arrived wild drunk among their families. Hounded out, he sought this empty lodge, and here he was, at bay, his hand against every man's, counting his own life worthless except for destroying others before he must himself die.

“Is he armed?” Albumblatt inquired, and was told yes.

Augustus considered the peaked cone tent. The opening was on this side, but a canvas drop closed it. Not much of a problem--one man inside a sack with eight outside to catch him! But the books gave no rule for this combination, and Augustus had met with nothing of the sort in Germany. He considered at some length. Smoke began to rise through the meeting poles of the tepee, leisurely and natural, and one of the chiefs said:

“Maybe Ute Jack cooking. He hungry.”

“This is not a laughing matter,” said Augustus to the by-standers, who were swiftly gathering. “Tell him that I command him to surrender,” he added to the agent, who shouted this forthwith; and silence followed.

“Tell him I say he must come out at once,” said Augustus then; and received further silence.

“He eat now,” observed the chief. “Can't talk much.”

“Sergeant Casey,” bellowed Albumblatt, “go over there and take him out!”

“The Lootenant understands,” said Casey, slowly, “that Ute Jack has got the drop on us, and there ain't no getting any drop on him.”

“Sergeant, you will execute your orders without further comment.”

At this amazing step the silence fell cold indeed; but Augustus was in command.

“Shall I take any men along, sir?” said Casey in his soldier's machine voice.

“Er--yes. Er--no. Er--do as you please.”

The six troopers stepped forward to go, for they loved Casey; but he ordered them sharply to fall back. Then, looking in their eyes, he whispered, “Good-bye, boys, if it's to be that way,” and walked to the lodge, lifted the flap, and fell, shot instantly dead through the heart. “Two bullets into him,” muttered a trooper, heavily breathing as the sounds rang. “He's down,” another spoke to himself with fixed eyes; and a sigh they did not know of passed among them. The two chiefs looked at Augustus and grunted short talk together; and one, with a sweeping lift of his hand out towards the tepee and the dead man by it, said, “Maybe Ute Jack only got three--four--cartridges--so!” (his fingers counted it). “After he kill three--four--men, you get him pretty good.” The Indian took the white man's death thus; but the white men could not yet be even saturnine.

“This will require reinforcement,” said Augustus to the audience. “The place must be attacked by a front and flank movement. It must be knocked down. I tell you I must have it knocked down. How are you to see where he is, I'd like to know, if it's not knocked down?” Augustus's voice was getting high.

“I want the howitzer,” he screeched generally.

A soldier saluted, and Augustus chattered at him.

“The howitzer, the mountain howitzer, I tell you. Don't you hear me? To knock the cursed thing he's in down. Go to Captain Duane and give him my compliments, and--no, I'll go myself. Where's my horse? My horse, I tell you! It's got to be knocked down.”

“If you please, Lieutenant,” said the trooper, “may we have the Red Cross ambulance?”

“Red Cross? What's that for? What's that?”

“Sergeant Casey, sir. He's a-lyin' there.”

“Ambulance? Certainly. The howitzer--perhaps they're only flesh wounds. I hope they are only flesh wounds. I must have more men--you'll come with me.”

From his porch Duane viewed both Augustus approach and the man stop at the hospital, and having expected a bungle, sat to hear; but at Albumblatt's mottled face he stood up quickly and said, “What's the matter?” And hearing, burst out: “Casey! Why, he was worth fifty of--Go on, Mr. Albumblatt. What next did you achieve, sir?” And as the tale was told he cooled, bitter, but official.

“Reinforcements is it, Mr. Albumblatt?”

“The howitzer, Captain.”

“Good. And G troop?”

“For my double flank movement I--”

“Perhaps you'd like H troop as reserve?”

“Not reserve, Captain. I should establish--”

“This is your duty, Mr. Albumblatt. Perform it as you can, with what force you need.”

“Thank you, sir. It is not exactly a battle, but with a, so-to-speak, intrenched--”

“Take your troops and go, sir, and report to me when you have arrested your man.”

Then Duane went to the hospital, and out with the ambulance, hoping that the soldier might not be dead. But the wholesome irony of life reckons beyond our calculations; and the unreproachful, sunny face of his Sergeant evoked in Duane's memory many marches through long heat and cold, back in the rough, good times.

“Hit twice, I thought they told me,” said he; and the steward surmised that one had missed.

“Perhaps,” mused Duane. “And perhaps it went as intended, too. What's all that fuss?”

He turned sharply, having lost Augustus among his sadder thoughts; and here were the operations going briskly. Powder-smoke in three directions at once! Here were pickets far out-lying, and a double line of skirmishers deployed in extended order, and a mounted reserve, and men standing to horse--a command of near a hundred, a pudding of pompous, incompetent, callow bosh, with Augustus by his howitzer, scientifically raising and lowering it to bear on the lone white tepee that shone in the plain. Four races were assembled to look on--the mess Chinaman, two black laundresses, all the whites in the place (on horse and foot, some with their hats left behind), and several hundred Indians in blankets. Duane had a thought to go away and leave this galling farce under the eye of Starr for the officers were at hand also. But his second thought bade him remain; and looking at Augustus and the howitzer, his laugh would have returned to him; but his heart was sore for Casey.

It was an hour of strategy and cannonade, a humiliating hour, which Fort Brown tells of to this day; and the tepee lived through it all. For it stood upon fifteen slender poles, not speedily to be chopped down by shooting lead from afar. When low bullets drilled the canvas, the chief suggested to Augustus that Ute Jack had climbed up; and when the bullets flew high, then Ute Jack was doubtless in a hole. Nor did Augustus contrive to drop a shell from the howitzer upon Ute Jack and explode him--a shrewd and deadly conception; the shells went beyond, except one, that ripped through the canvas, somewhat near the ground; and Augustus, dripping, turned at length, and saying, “It won't go down,” stood vacantly wiping his white face. Then the two chiefs got his leave to stretch a rope between their horses and ride hard against the tepee. It was military neither in essence nor to see, but it prevailed. The tepee sank, a huge umbrella wreck along the earth, and there lay Ute Jack across the fire's slight hollow, his knee-cap gone with the howitzer shell. But no blood had flown from that; blood will not run, you know, when a man has been dead some time. One single other shot had struck him--one through his own heart. It had singed the flesh.

“You see, Mr. Albumblatt,” said Duane, in the whole crowd's hearing, “he killed himself directly after killing Casey. A very rare act for an Indian, as you are doubtless aware. But if your manoeuvres with his corpse have taught you anything you did not know before, we shall all be gainers.”

“Captain,” said Mrs. Starr, on a later day, “you and Ute Jack have ended our fun. Since the Court of Inquiry let Mr. Albumblatt off, he has not said Germany once--and that's three months to-morrow.”

Twenty Minutes for Refreshments

Upon turning over again my diary of that excursion to the Pacific, I find that I set out from Atlantic waters on the 30th day of a backward and forlorn April, which had come and done nothing towards making its share of spring, but had gone, missing its chance, leaving the trees as bare as it had received them from the winds of March. It was not bleak weather alone, but care, that I sought to escape by a change of sky; and I hoped for some fellow-traveller who might begin to interest my thoughts at once. No such person met me in the several Pullmans which I inhabited from that afternoon until the forenoon of the following Friday. Through that long distance, though I had slanted southwestward across a multitude of States and vegetations, and the Mississippi lay eleven hundred miles to my rear, the single event is my purchasing some cat's-eyes of the news-agent at Sierra Blanca. Save this, my diary contains only neat additions of daily expenses, and moral reflections of a delicate and restrained melancholy. They were Pecos cat's-eyes, he told me, obtained in the rocky canyons of that stream, and destined to be worth little until fashion turned from foreign jewels to become aware of these fine native stones. And I, glad to possess the jewels of my country, chose two bracelets and a necklace of them, paying but twenty dollars for fifteen or sixteen cat's-eyes, and resolved to give them a setting worthy of their beauty. The diary continues with moral reflections upon the servility of our taste before anything European, and the handwriting is clear and deliberate. It abruptly becomes hurried, and at length well-nigh illegible. It is best, I think, that you should have this portion as it comes, unpolished, unamended, unarranged--hot, so to speak, from my immediate pencil, instead of cold from my subsequent pen. I shall disguise certain names, but that is all.

Friday forenoon, May 5.--I don't have to gaze at my cat's-eyes to kill time any more. I'm not the only passenger any more. There's a lady. She got in at El Paso. She has taken the drawing-room, but sits outside reading newspaper cuttings and writing letters. She is sixty, I should say, and has a cap and one gray curl. This comes down over her left ear as far as a purple ribbon which suspends a medallion at her throat. She came in wearing a sage-green duster of pongee silk, pretty nice, only the buttons are as big as those largest mint-drops. “You porter,” she said, “brush this.” He put down her many things and received it. Her dress was sage green, and pretty nice too. “You porter,” said she, “open every window. Why, they are, I declare! What's the thermometer in this car?” “Ninety-five, ma'am. Folks mostly travelling--” “That will do, porter. Now you go make me a pitcher of lemonade right quick.” She went into the state-room and shut the door. When she came out she was dressed in what appeared to be chintz bedroom curtains. They hang and flow loosely about her, and are covered with a pattern of pink peonies. She has slippers--Turkish--that stare up in the air, pretty handsome and comfortable. But I never before saw any one travel with fly-paper. It must be hard to pack. But it's quite an idea in this train. Fully a dozen flies have stuck to it already; and she reads her clippings, and writes away, and sips another glass of lemonade, all with the most extreme appearance of leisure, not to say sloth. I can't imagine how she manages to produce this atmosphere of indolence when in reality she is steadily occupied. Possibly the way she sits. But I think it's partly the bedroom curtains.

These notes were interrupted by the entrance of the new conductor. “If you folks have chartered a private car, just say so,” he shouted instantly at the sight of us. He stood still at the extreme end and removed his hat, which was acknowledged by the lady. “Travel is surely very light, Gadsden,” she assented, and went on with her writing. But he remained standing still, and shouting like an orator: “Sprinkle the floor of this car, Julius, and let the pore passengers get a breath of cool. My lands!” He fanned himself sweepingly with his hat. He seemed but little larger than a red squirrel, and precisely that color. Sorrel hair, sorrel eyebrows, sorrel freckles, light sorrel mustache, thin aggressive nose, receding chin, and black, attentive, prominent eyes. He approached, and I gave him my ticket, which is as long as a neck-tie, and has my height, the color of my eyes and hair, and my general description, punched in the margin. “Why, you ain't middle-aged!” he shouted, and a singular croak sounded behind me. But the lady was writing. “I have been growing younger since I bought that ticket,” I explained. “That's it, that's it,” he sang; “a man's always as old as he feels, and a woman--is ever young,” he finished. “I see you are true to the old teachings and the old-time chivalry, Gadsden,” said the lady, continuously busy. “Yes, ma'am. Jacob served seven years for Leah and seven more for Rachel.” “Such men are raised today in every worthy Louisiana home, Gadsden, be it ever so humble.” “Yes, ma'am. Give a fresh sprinkle to the floor, Julius, soon as it goes to get dry. Excuse me, but do you shave yourself, sir?” I told him that I did, but without excusing him. “You will see that I have a reason for asking,” he consequently pursued, and took out of his coat-tails a round tin box handsomely labelled “Nat. Fly Paper Co.,” so that I supposed it was thus, of course, that the lady came by her fly-paper. But this was pure coincidence, and the conductor explained: “That company's me and a man at Shreveport, but he dissatisfies me right frequently. You know what heaven a good razor is for a man, and what you feel about a bad one. Vaseline and ground shells,” he said, opening the box, “and I'm not saying anything except it will last your lifetime and never hardens. Rub the size of a pea on the fine side of your strop, spread it to an inch with your thumb. May I beg a favor on so short a meeting? Join me in the gentlemen's lavatory with your razorstrop in five minutes. I have to attend to a corpse in the baggage-car, and will return at once.” “Anybody's corpse I know, Gadsden?” said the lady. “No, ma'am. Just a corpse.”

When I joined him, for I was now willing to do anything, he was apologetic again. “'Tis a short acquaintance,” he said, “but may I also beg your razor? Quick as I get out of the National Fly I am going to register my new label. First there will be Uncle Sam embracing the world, signifying this mixture is universal, then my name, then the word Stropine, which is a novelty and carries copyright, and I shall win comfort and doubtless luxury. The post barber at Fort Bayard took a dozen off me at sight to retail to the niggers of the Twenty-fourth, and as he did not happen to have the requisite cash on his person I charged him two roosters and fifty cents, and both of us done well. He's after more Stropine, and I got Pullman prices for my roosters, the buffet-car being out of chicken a la Marengo. There is your razor, sir, and I appreciate your courtesy.” It was beautifully sharpened, and I bought a box of the Stropine and asked him who the lady was. “Mrs. Porcher Brewton!” he exclaimed. “Have you never met her socially? Why she--why she is the most intellectual lady in Bee Bayou.” “Indeed!” I said. “Why she visits New Orleans, and Charleston, and all the principal centres of refinement, and is welcomed in Washington. She converses freely with our statesmen and is considered a queen of learning. Why she writes po'try, sir, and is strong-minded. But a man wouldn't want to pick her up for a fool, all the samey.” “I shouldn't; I don't,” said I. “Don't you do it, sir. She's run her plantation all alone since the Colonel was killed in sixty-two. She taught me Sunday-school when I was a lad, and she used to catch me at her pecan-trees 'most every time in Bee Bayou.”

He went forward, and I went back with the Stropine in my pocket. The lady was sipping the last of the lemonade and looking haughtily over the top of her glass into (I suppose) the world of her thoughts. Her eyes met mine, however. “Has Gadsden--yes, I perceive he has been telling about me,” she said, in her languid, formidable voice. She set her glass down and reclined among the folds of the bedroom curtains, considering me. “Gadsden has always been lavish,” she mused, caressingly. “He seems destined to succeed in life,” I hazarded. “ah n--a!” she sighed, with decision. “He will fail.” As she said no more and as I began to resent the manner in which she surveyed me, I remarked, “You seem rather sure of his failure.” “I am old enough to be his mother, and yours,” said Mrs. Porcher Brewton among her curtains. “He is a noble-hearted fellow, and would have been a high-souled Southern gentleman if born to that station. But what should a conductor earning $103.50 a month be dispersing his attention on silly patents for? Many's the time I've told him what I think; but Gadsden will always be flighty.” No further observations occurring to me, I took up my necklace and bracelets from the seat and put them in my pocket. “Will you permit a meddlesome old woman to inquire what made you buy those cat's-eyes?” said Mrs. Brewton. “Why--” I dubiously began. “Never mind,” she cried, archly. “If you were thinking of some one in your Northern home, they will be prized because the thought, at any rate, was beautiful and genuine. 'Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, my heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee.' Now don't you be embarrassed by an old woman!” I desired to inform her that I disliked her, but one can never do those things; and, anxious to learn what was the matter with the cat's-eyes, I spoke amiably and politely to her. “Twenty dollars!” she murmured. “And he told you they came from the Pecos!” She gave that single melodious croak I had heard once before. Then she sat up with her back as straight as if she was twenty. “My dear young fellow, never do you buy trash in these trains. Here you are with your coat full of--what's Gadsden's absurd razor concoctions--strut--strop--bother! And Chinese paste buttons. Last summer, on the Northern Pacific, the man offered your cat's-eyes to me as native gems found exclusively in Dakota. But I just sat and mentioned to him that I was on my way home from a holiday in China, and he went right out of the car. The last day I was in Canton I bought a box of those cat's-eyes at eight cents a dozen.” After this we spoke a little on other subjects, and now she's busy writing again. She's on business in California, but will read a paper at Los Angeles at the annual meeting of the Golden Daughters of the West. The meal station is coming, but we have agreed to--