Free Trumpet on the Land by Terry C. Johnston Page B

five hundred yards in the lead, circling his horse to the left.
    â€œMr. King,” Stanton said, “go see what he’s found this time.”
    Charles knelt alongside the scout over the newer tracks—even more warriors crossing the wide valley, their trail disappearing to the northwest. “How many more?” he asked.
    â€œMaybe this many,” Garnier said, opening and closing both hands five times. “Going the shortcut to the Big Horns.”
    King stared off to the north. “How far till we reach the Cheyenne?”
    Little Bat shrugged. “Two. No, three hours, maybe.”
    â€œYou keep on, Little Bat,” the lieutenant said. “I’m going back to the column so they can put out flankers.”
    â€œTell every one of them keep his eyes open,” Garnier advised before he turned away and was gone.
    Stanton and Keyes quickly dispatched outriders to cover the side and rear flanks of the company—choosing old soldiers who were veterans to this country, and to thissort of Indian chasing. On and on the company column moved as quickly as their jaded horses allowed them, shadows creeping longer and longer until the whole land was eventually swallowed up by dusk and the first stars began to wink into sight overhead.
    At last in the distance King saw Little Bat loping his mount back toward them. As he came up, the scout shouted.
    â€œOver that ridge! We done it. Mini Pusa over that ridge!”
    â€œYou heard him, fellas,” Stanton rasped, his throat sounding as dry as a file drawn across rusty iron. “We made it to the Cheyenne River. And that’s where Sheridan figures we’ll make contact with the red sons of a buck.”
    At twilight atop the ridge Garnier pointed out the darker line of trees and willows and thick vegetation that indicated the banks of the Cheyenne below them, meandering its way across a wide valley where the troopers found water only in scanty pools trapped among the smooth rocks in the streambed. They paused only long enough to fill their canteens, then let the horses drink, the iron shoes clattering and scraping the rounded stones. This sorely parched country hadn’t received the blessing of rain for more than a month.
    A mile beyond the Cheyenne, at the base of some low bluffs to the north, King and Garnier found a basin where enough grass grew to please the animals they picketed and hobbled for the night. There was ample wood for the coffee fires they buried in the ground as these veteran horse soldiers stretched their legs and lit their pipes in this stolen moment of relaxation in a horse soldier’s day. Keyes deployed a dozen men as pickets to surround the camp, assigning a rotation throughout the moonlit night. As darkness squeezed on down upon the Cheyenne River patrol, in the distance they couldn’t help but see the faraway glow of signal fires at five different points.
    â€œThey’re talking about us, aren’t they, Major?” King asked Stanton.
    â€œDamn right they are. And those red-bellies’d jump us if they had the nerve.”
    â€œThey won’t: we’ve got pickets out,” Keyes said.
    â€œIt’s not us they’re afraid of particularly, Lieutenant,” Stanton replied. “Trust me—them sonsabitches know Carr and the rest aren’t far behind us. No sense in making the jump on us since they figure we can hold ’em off till the rest of the boys make it up.”
    The lieutenant’s eyes began to droop, what with a bellyful of coffee, hardtack, and fried bacon, as well as his aching muscles screaming for rest after the long day’s march. A grin cracked his bristling, dust-caked face as his head sank back onto his McClellan, tugged the saddle blanket over his shoulders, and listened to the quiet, rinsedcrystal-clear tenor of one of the cavalrymen singing nearby at one of the tiny fires.
    â€œThe ring of a bridle, the stamp of a hoof,
   Stars above