John Ermine of the Yellowstone (12 page)

Before the persistent gaze of Ermine the face of a young woman unravelled itself from a wonderful headgear and an unknown frock. The eyes looked into his with a long, steady, and hypnotic gaze.
The gentle face of the image fascinated the lad; it stirred his imagination and added “a beautiful white woman” to his “ten-thousand-deadmen” quest. Wolf-Voice had to call
him twice to take his watch, saying as he lay down, “Put the paper away, brother; it takes your eyes from the Sioux.”

The travellers could not make long journeys in the short summer nights through the open country, and exercise a proper vigilance at the same time. The moon rose later every night, thus cutting
their time. Neither did they see any signs of human beings or know where to find the white men; but recourse to the trail along the river, from time to time, assured them that the wagons had
continued down the stream. The trail was very old, and was full of Indian pony-tracks which had followed it.

One day as they lay in a washout, Wolf-Voice pointed to columns of dust far to the south. Was it buffalo, Indians, or soldiers? The dust stayed all day in one place; it might be a
buffalo-surround or big herds about camps, but this they were not able to determine.

“We will go to the dust this sleep and we will ride the war-horses; the others which we have been riding are stiff and sore; we will leave them here and come after them if we can,”
spoke Ermine as he braided the tail of his favorite pony. When Wolf-Voice’s attention was directed elsewhere, he took his medicine, the dried hoof of the white stallion, and rubbed it gently
on his pony’s heels. The prophet would not approve of this, he felt, but it could do no harm, since he also prayed God to make his pony run fast and not stumble, to blind the Sioux, stop
their ears, and otherwise to cherish appropriately the poor life of John Ermine who believed in Him and now wanted His help.

Slowly they made their way south through the gloom, trusting their range-bred ponies to pick out the footing. Hour after hour they stepped along, stopping at intervals to listen.

Late at night as they made their way down a long ridge, they heard a horse whinny somewhere far down in one of the breaks of the land. Without a word they turned away from the noise. Later
Wolf-Voice whispered: “Indians; the white men never let their horses loose in the night. That pony was alone, or we should have heard more sounds. He was calling his brothers. Now we must
blind our trial; their scouts will find it in the morning.”

Accordingly they allowed their horses to feed slowly along, not attempting to guide them, and after a mile felt that any one who should follow those tracks would think that they were loose
horses grazing. By the light of the late moon they made their way more quickly, but always stopping to separate the sounds of the night—the good sounds from the bad. They could see that they
were coming to the river, and as they rose on a wave of the land, they saw a few faint sparks glitter far down the valley.

“It is the white soldiers—the big fires of the white men, brother. We will go in when the sun comes up. If we should go near them now, they would fire at us. The white men shoot at
anything which moves in the dark; a wolf is not safe near their camps when the sun has gone.”

Before the gray of morning they were safely ensconced under a bluff, waiting for the daylight and within a mile of the long line of Sibley tents. They heard the hungry mule chorus, the clank of
chains, the monotonous calls of the sentries; and the camp slowly developed before their eyes like a photographic negative in a bath of chemicals; then John Ermine began to understand ten thousand
men.

Softly the metallic réveille drifted to their ears; it spread from one group of tents to another until the whole air danced with the delightful sound. The watchers on the sagebrush
hillside were preoccupied with the movements of the soldiers. They listened to the trumpets and saw the men answer them by forming long lines. In a moment the lines broke into hurrying individuals,
the fires began to send up the quiet morning smoke, while the mule chorus ceased.

As though shot out of the ground by some hidden force, Wolf-Voice bounded up. “G——d——! Mit-wit! Coo-ley!” he yelled, and as responsive as a swallow which
follows the swift flight of another in play, Ermine bounded on to his horse. One look behind told the story. The Sioux were coming. He saw the lightning play of the ponies’ legs, heard the
whips crack on their quarters, and was away like a flash, bearing hard on the soldier camp. Before many bounds he recovered from his surprise; it was not far, and his horse was answering the
medicine. He had never run like this before. The Sioux had found and followed their trail and had nearly caught them napping. After their long journey they had almost been cut off during the last
mile of it. Seeing that their prey had escaped, the Sioux swerved like hawks, pulling up on the hill.

Turning, Wolf-Voice and Ermine shouted back taunts at them, fired their guns at the group, and then leisurely loped toward the camps. While yet quite a way out, three white soldiers rose
suddenly from a dry wash with their rifles: “Halt! Who goes there?”

The riders drew down to a walk, Wolf-Voice raising his hand in the peace sign, and saying, “We are your frens, we aire two Crow Enjun; don’ shoot!” and continued to
advance.

The soldiers stood with their guns in readiness, while one answered: “Get off them ponies; lay your guns on the ground. I guess you are all right.” And then, looking at Ermine with a
laugh: “Is that blonde there a Crow? Guess them Sioux scared him white. I’ve often heard tell of a man’s hair turning white in a single night.”

“Ach sure, Bill, and it don’t tourn a mon’s face red to be schared sthiff,” observed another picket.

The faintest suggestion of a smile stole over John Ermine as he comprehended.

“No, soldiers, we are not afraid. Why can’t you let two men go into the big camp; are all those soldiers afraid of two men?” And the pickets laughed at the quaint conjecture.
Shortly an officer rode up on a horse and questioned Ermine.

“Who are you?”

“We are friends of the white people. Did you see that we are not friends of the Sioux?”

“Yes; I saw those Indians chase you. Were they Sioux?”

“We took that for granted.” And again the corner of John Ermine’s mouth relaxed.

“Yes, of course, I admire your judgment; come with me,” replied the officer, as he turned to ride back. The three ambled along together. “Who are you?”

“I am a white man, and my comrade is an Indian.”

“What is your name?”

“My name is John Ermine, and I want to be a scout. Will you take me?”

“That is not my business; but I have no doubt the proper authority will be glad to put you on the pay-roll. You don’t seem any more popular with the Sioux than we are.”

CHAPTER NINE

I
N
C
AMP

T
HE THREE HORSEMEN JOGGED INTO THE CAMP, AND IT CAN HARDLY
be stated who was the more impressed by the sight—John Ermine as he passed through the
crowds of soldiers, or the soldiers as they looked at the barebacked rider with the yellow braids and the glaring handkerchief. They had left their impedimenta with the worn-out ponies back in the
hills with little hope of recovering them. The gathering men who had seen the chase gave tokens of their approval by yelling
Ki-yis
in imitation of the Indians. “Say, Yellow,
you’re no brevet” “You wa’n’t crazy to wait for them Sioux” “The general will feed you on mince-pie” “You’ll be a sergeant in the rag-bag
troop,” and other expressions numerous and ‘uncooked’ fell on their ears. Ermine felt embarrassed with the attention of so many people centred on him, but his face was cut to
stand such shocks. His swift glances about the thronging camp began to illumine the “ten-thousand men” proposition; he saw lines of tents, wagons without end, but no women; he would
have to postpone that feast.

The officer leading stopped in front of a tent around which many officers and men were standing or coming and going. He spoke to one who wore a big hat and a split blond beard, a man less
pretentious in his garb than any about him, but whose eye arrested Ermine by the commanding keenness. Dismounting, the officer, saluting, said: “General Crook, these two men were just chased
into camp by Indians. They say they are Crows, or at least from the Crows, and they want to be made scouts.”

“What Indians chased you?” asked the general.

“We do not know; we were waiting on the hill to come in here by daylight; they surprised us, and we did not stop to talk with them,” replied John Ermine.

“Where did you come from, my boy?” he continued.

“I came from the Stinking Water country to help you fight the Sioux—myself and Wolf-Voice there,” replied Ermine.

Turning to that waif, the general said, “Who are you?”

Patting his chest impressively, Wolf-Voice spoke: “Me? My mother she was Gro Ventre; I am a warrior; I spak de English; I was scout with Yellow Hair. I am brav mans.”

“Umph—no doubt,” softly hazarded the Gray Fox. “You were not with him when he died? I suppose you attended to that matter with proper thoroughness. Have you seen any
Sioux signs?”

“Yaas—day foliar de wagon, dey aire leave dar pony-track all roun you.”

Once fastening his quizzical eyes on the white lad, the general asked, “Do you talk Crow?”

“Yes.”

“Can you make the hand talk?”

Ermine gave the sign for “Yes.”

“Have you ever been to school?”

“No, sir.”

“Who taught you to speak English?”

“My old comrade, Crooked-Bear,” said Ermine.

“Crooked-Bear—Crooked-Bear,” mused the general. “Oh, I give it up,” as he turned away. “You are not one of the Pike County breed, it
seems—Crooked-Bear—Crooked-Bear. Take them to the scout camp, Ferguson.” And the general retired to his tent, somewhat perplexed by the young man’s make-up.

The trio went on toward the scout camp, and as they passed a man on foot he inquired of Ferguson, “Where did you get that pair of aces?”

“The Sioux dealt them to me this morning; will they fill your hand?”