John Ermine of the Yellowstone (20 page)

Ermine swallowed it and departed.

The doctor tipped his sombrero forward and laughed aloud in long, cadenced peals as he sorted his vials.

“Sick!” he muttered; “funny—funny—funny sick! One could not kill him with an axe. I guess he is sick of sitting round—sick to be loping over the wild plains.
Humph—sick!”

Ermine rode down the officers’ row, but no one was to be seen. He pulled his horse’s head up before Major Searles’ door, but instantly slapped him with his whip and trotted on
to his tent.

“If that fool Indian boy would only show himself,” he thought; but the Indian was not a fool, and did not. Again Ermine found himself lying on his back, more discontented than ever.
The day waned and the shadows on the tent walls died, but still he lay. Ramon stuck his head in at the flaps.

“Well—ah got your British man hees pony, Ermine—trade twenty-five dollar in goods for five pony.”

“Oh, d——the Englishman,” was the response to this, whereat Ramon took a good long stare at his friend and withdrew. He failed to understand the abruptness, and went away
wondering how Ermine could know that he had gouged Mr. Harding a little on the trade. Still this did not explain; for he had confidence in his own method of blinding his trail. He was a business
man and a moral cripple.

The sun left the world and Ermine with his gloomy thoughts.

Late at night Captain Lewis sat at his desk writing letters, the lamp spotting on the white disk of his hat, which shaded his face, while the pale moonlight crept in through
the open door. A sword clanked outside, and with a knock the officer of the guard hurriedly entered.

“Say, Bill, I have your scout Ermine down by the guard house, and he’s drunk. I didn’t lock him up. Wanted to see you first. If I lock him up, I am afraid he’ll pull out
on you when he comes to. What shall I do?”

“The devil you say—Ermine drunk? Why, I never knew him to drink; it was a matter of principle with him; often told me that his mentor, whoever he was, told him not to.”

“Well, he’s drunk now, so there you are,” said the officer.

“How drunk?”

“Oh, good and drunk.”

“Can he walk?” Lewis queried.

“No; all he can do is lay on his back and shoot pretty thick Injun at the moon.”

“Does every one know of this?”

“No; Corporal Riley and Private Bass of Company K brought him up from Wilmore’s whiskey-shack, and they are sitting on his chest out back of the guard house. Come on,” spoke
the responsible one.

Lewis jumped up and followed. They quickly made their way to the spot, and there Lewis beheld Ermine lying on his back. The moonlight cut his fine face softly and made the aureole of his light
hair stand away from the ground. He moaned feebly, but his eyes were closed. Corporal Riley and Private Bass squatted at his head and feet with their eyes fastened on the insensible figure. Off to
one side a small pile of Ermine’s lethal weapons shimmered. The post was asleep; a dog barked, and an occasional cow-bell tinkled faintly down in the quartermaster’s corral.

“Gad!” gasped Lewis, as he too stooped down. “How did this happen, Corporal?”

“Well, I suppose we might as well tell it as it is,” Bass replied, indirectly conscious of the loyalty he owed his brother sinner. “We ran the guard, sir, and went down to
Wilmore’s, and when we got there, we found this feller pretty far gone with drink. He had his guns out, and was talking Injun, and he had Wilmore hiding out in the sagebrush. I beefed him
under the ear, and we took his guns away, sir. I didn’t hurt him much; he was easy money with his load, and then we packed him up here, and I told the officer of the guard, sir.”

“Well,” said Lewis, finally, “make a chair of your hands and bring him down to my quarters.”

The soldiers gathered up the limp form, while Lewis took the belt and pistols.

“No use of reporting this?”

“No,” answered the officer of the guard.

The men laid him out on the Captain’s bed after partially disrobing him, and started to withdraw.

“Go to your quarters, men, and keep your mouths shut; you will understand it is best for you.”

The two saluted and passed out, leaving the Captain pacing the floor, and groping wildly for an explanation.

“Why, I have offered that boy a drink out of my own flask on campaign, when we were cold enough and tired enough to make my old Aunt Jane weaken on her blue ribbon; but he never did. That
was good of the men to bring him in, and smart of Welbote not to chuck him in the guard house. Sailor’s sins! He’d never stand that; it would kill his pride, and he has pride, this
long-haired wild boy. He may tell me in the morning, but I am not so sure of that. Laying down on his luck is not the way he plays it. I don’t doubt it was an accident, and maybe it will
teach him a d——good lesson; he’ll have a head like a hornets’ nest tomorrow morning.”

The Captain, after a struggle with the strange incident, sought his couch, and when he arose next morning betook himself to Ermine’s room. He found him asleep amid the tangle of his
wonderful hair, and he smiled as he pictured the scout’s surprise when he awoke; in fact, he pulled himself together for a little amusement. A few remarks to reënforce the headache would
do more good than a long brief without a big “exhibit A,” such as would accompany the awakening.

The steady gaze of the Captain awoke the scout, and he opened his eyes, which wandered about the room, but displayed no interest; they set themselves on the Captain’s form, but refused to
believe these dreams, and closed again. The Captain grinned and addressed the empty room:

“How would you like to be a millionnaire and have that headache? Oh, gee—’twould bust a mule’s skull.”

The eyes opened again and took more account of things; they began to credit their surroundings. When the scene had assembled itself, Ermine sat up on the bed, saying, “Where am I? What hit
me?” and then he lay down again. His dream had come true; he was sick.

“You are in my bed, so stay there, and you will come out all right. You have been making the Big Red Medicine; the devil is pulling your hair, and every time he yanks, he will say,
‘John Ermine, don’t do that again.’ Keep quiet, and you will get well.” After saying which Lewis left the room.

All day long the young man lay on the bed; he was burning at the stake; he was being torn apart by wild horses; the regimental band played its bangiest music in his head; the big brass drum
would nearly blow it apart; and his poor stomach kept trying to crawl out of his body in its desperate strife to escape Wilmore’s decoction of high-wine. This lasted all day, but by evening
the volcano had blown itself out, when a natural sleep overcame him.

Captain Lewis had the knowledge of certain magic, well enough known in the army, to alleviate Ermine’s condition somewhat, but he chose not to use it; he wanted “exhibit A” to
wind up in a storm of fireworks.

As Ermine started out the next morning Lewis called, “Hey, boy, how did you come to do it?”

Ermine turned a half-defiant and half-questioning front to Lewis and tossed his matted hair. “I don’t know, Captain; it all seems as though I must have fallen off the earth; but
I’m back now and think I can stay here.”

“Well, no one knows about it except myself, so don’t say a word to any one, and don’t do it again—sabe?”

“You bet I won’t. If the soldiers call that drowning their sorrows, I would rather get along with mine.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

B
RINGING IN THE
W
OLF

“G
OING TO FOLLOW THE DOGS TODAY
, L
EWIS?” SAID
L
IEUTENANT
Shockley, poking his head in the
half-open door.

“Yes, reckon I’ll give this chair a vacation; wait a minute,” and he mauled the contents of his ditty-box after the manner of men and bears when in search of trifles. A
vigorous stirring is bound to upheave what is searched for, so in due course the Captain dug up a snaffle-bit.

“I find my horse goes against this better than the government thing—when the idea is to get there and d——formations.”

“Well, shake yourself, Lewis; the people are pulling out.”

“What, ahead of the scouts?” laughed the chief of them.

“Yes; and you know the line never retires on the scouts; so smoke up.”

The orderly having changed the bits, the two mounted and walked away. “’Spose this is for the Englishman. Great people these Englishmen—go trotting all over the earth to chase
something; anything will do from rabbits to tigers, and niggers preferred,” said Lewis.

“Must be a great deprivation to most Englishmen to have to live in England where there is nothing to chase. I suppose they all have this desire to kill something; a great hardship it must
be,” suggested Shockley.

“Oh, I think they manage,” continued Lewis; “from what I understand the rich and the great go batting about the globe after heads; the so-so fellows go into the army and navy
to take their chance of a killing, and the lower orders have to find contentment in staying at home, where there is no amusement but pounding each other.”

“There goes your friend Ermine on that war-pony of his; well, he can show his tail to any horse in cantonments. By the way, some one was telling me that he carries a medicine-bag with him;
isn’t he a Christian?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He reminds me of old Major Doyle of ours, who was promoted out of us during the war, but who rejoined in Kansas and was retired. You don’t remember him? He
was an Irishman and a Catholic; he had been in the old army since the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, and ploughed his way up and down all over the continent. And there was Major
Dunham—you know him. He and Doyle had been comrades since youth; they had fought and marched together, spilled many a noggin in each other’s honor, and who drew the other’s
monthly pay depended on the paste-boards. Old Doyle came into post, one day, and had a lot of drinks with the fellows as he picked up the social threads. Finally he asked: ‘Un’ phware
is me ole friend, Dunham? Why doesn’t he come down and greet me with a glass?’

“Some one explained that old Dunham had since married, had joined the church, and didn’t greet any one over glasses any more.

“‘Un’ phwat church did he join?’

“Some one answered, the Universalist Church.

“‘Ah, I see,’ said Doyle, tossing off his drink, ‘he’s huntin’ an aisy ford.’ So I guess that’s what Ermine is doing.”

They soon joined the group of mounted officers and ladies, orderlies, and nondescripts of the camp, all alive with anticipations, and their horses stepping high.

“Good morning, Mr. Harding; how do you find yourself?” called out Captain Lewis.

“Fine—fine, thank you.”

“How are you mounted?”

Harding patted his horse’s neck, saying: “Quite well—a good beast; seems to manage my weight, but I find this saddle odd. Bless me, I know there is no habit in the world so
strong as the saddle. I have the flat saddle habit.”

“What we call a rim-fire saddle,” laughed Searles, who joined the conversation.

“Ah—a rim-fire, do you call them? Well, do you know, Major, I should say this saddle was better adapted to carrying a sack of corn than a man,” rejoined Harding.

“Oh, you’ll get along; there isn’t a fence nearer than St. Paul except the quartermaster’s corral.”

“I say, Searles,” spoke Lewis, “there’s the Colonel out in front—happy as a boy out of school; glad there’s something to keep him quiet; we must do this for
him every day, or he’ll have us out pounding sagebrush.”

“And there’s the quartermaster with a new popper on his whip,” sang some voice.

“There is no champagne like the air of the high plains before the sun burns the bubble out of it,” proclaimed Shockley, who was young and without any of the saddle or collar marks of
life; “and to see these beautiful women riding along—say, Harding, if I get off this horse I’ll set this prairie on fire,” and he burst into an old song: