George at the Fort Part 8

"Does he always act that way when strangers approach him?" asked Bob as he picked up his cap. "If he does, you need not be afraid that anybody will steal him. I tried to catch him because I was afraid he would run off."

"Oh, he'll not do that. I never think of staking him out, for he always stays by my horse, and I can catch him anywhere. There's a horse for you, Bob, and the best one I ever owned. He is a present from Mr.

Gilbert, who bought him in Kentucky for his own private use, but when he found that I was going into the army he gave him to me, with the a.s.surance that Fletcher and his band could never make a prisoner of me while I was on his back. I lost my old horse, Ranger, at the time I was captured by the Greasers, and he was killed at the battle of Queretaro.

Now, what are you doing so far away from the fort?" asked George as he picked up his picket-pin and led the horse around the station to find a good place to stake him out. "How did you come to go into the army, anyway, and what have you been doing to win those stripes?"

"It would take a long time to answer your last two questions," answered Bob, "and so we will leave them until the rest of the boys have gone to bed. I came here in pursuit of seven men who deserted last night."

"You did? Well, Bob, your superiors must have a good deal of confidence in you to send you off on such an expedition. Where do you expect to find them?"

"I have found them already, and arrested them too; that is, I have caught six of them, and I know where the other one is. I intend to take him in hand to-morrow, though, to tell the truth, I don't know just how I am going to do it. I could have arrested him to-day if I had had authority to take him out of a house; but I wasn't sure on that point, and so I let him go until I could have time to make up my mind to something. I got _that_ about fifteen minutes before you came up," said Bob, directing his friend's attention to the hole in his coat that had been made by Bristow's bullet. "My men returned the fire and slightly wounded one of the deserters, who is now laid out on his blanket in the sleeping-room. By the way, do you know Gus Robbins?"

"I should say I did," replied George, after he had followed the course of the bullet through Bob's clothing and expressed his surprise at his friend's narrow escape. "He ran away from his home in Foxboro', and came down here to visit my cousin, who was at that time living with his father at my ranche. He and Ned, who were constantly pluming themselves on the numerous sc.r.a.pes from which they had narrowly escaped, could not rest easy until they kicked up a row in the settlement, and they did it by shooting Mr. Cook's cattle. The consequence was, that I had to show them the way out of the country. Don't you remember I told you all about it on the morning we walked from that trapper's cabin to White River Landing? I say, Bob, have you any idea of becoming a trapper when your term of service expires?"

"Nary idea," was the emphatic reply. "A soldier's life is hard enough for me, and there is quite as much danger in it as I care to face."

"What do you know about Gus Robbins?" continued George. "He left my cousin Ned very suddenly in Brownsville, and none of us ever heard of him afterward. It can't be possible that he enlisted too?"

"Yes, he did. He belongs to my troop, and is just as fond of getting into sc.r.a.pes as he ever was. When he is not in the guard-house he is almost sure to be doing extra duty for some offence against military discipline. He was one of the deserters I was ordered to capture, and he is in the dug-out now. But I almost wish he had got away. You know him, and when I was arresting him I almost felt as if I were doing something against you. I haven't forgotten that you offered me a home, and--"

"The obligation is all on my side," interrupted George. "You saved my life twice. Let's sit down here and talk a while. Go ahead and tell me something."

The boys threw themselves on the gra.s.s near the place where George had staked out his horse, and Bob began and described some of the interesting incidents that had happened since he last saw the cub pilot.

He told the truth in regard to everything, not even excepting the parting in Galveston. His experience in the army was rapidly working a change in him, and he had not told a wilful lie since he a.s.sured the recruiting-officer that he was an orphan and that there was no one in the world who had a right to say whether he should enlist or not.

"I have done a good many mean things in my life, I am sorry to say," Bob added in winding up his story, "but about the meanest trick I ever played upon anybody I played upon you on the day we parted. I found fifty cents in my watch-pocket, which I had carelessly shoved in there when money was plenty, and I knew it would buy me supper and lodging. It wasn't enough for both of us, so I ran away from you and went off by myself. That's the way we became separated, and I tell you of it at the risk of losing your friends.h.i.+p."

"You risk nothing at all," replied George, extending his hand. "I couldn't expect that you would take care of me and pay my way at the sacrifice of all your own personal comfort; but I do wish you had waited just a little longer, for then you never would have had to enlist. I am ready to prove that I think as much of you now as I ever did. I shall keep an eye on you until your term of service expires, and then you must go home with me. I am sole master there now--Mr. Gilbert is my guardian, but he never has a word to say--and as you have no home of your own--"

"That was a lie, George," interrupted Bob. "I have a home at Rochdale, a few miles below Linwood, where I first pulled you out of the river--you know where it is--and as kind a father and mother as any scoundrel of my size ever had. When I ran away I intended to drop my ident.i.ty altogether, and that was the reason I told you I was alone in the world.

What do you think of me _now_?"

George was greatly astonished at this confession, for he had put implicit faith in Bob's story. He was strictly truthful himself, and he could not understand how a boy as physically brave as Bob Owens had showed himself to be could be coward enough to tell a lie.

"I feel sorry for you," said he at length; "and if I were in your place I would go home as soon as I received my discharge--if you keep on as you have begun you may rest a.s.sured that it will be an honorable one--and try to make amends for my misdeeds. Remember that

'No star is ever lost we once have seen; We always may be what we might have been,'

and go resolutely to work to 'live it down.' You've got the pluck to do it, I know."

"Coffee!" shouted Carey, thrusting his head around the corner of the station.

"By the way," continued George as he and Bob arose to their feet, "what did you mean by saying that, seeing it was I, you wouldn't arrest me?"

"Oh, the colonel was mad when he started me out this morning, and ordered me to gobble up everybody--that is, privates and non-commissioned officers--I caught outside the stockade. But of course I couldn't touch you if I wanted to, for your leave of absence protects you. You will stay here to-night and ride to the fort with us to-morrow, will you not?"

"Certainly I will. Having found you again, I am not going to leave you in a hurry. Say, Bob, would you have any objections to bringing Gus Robbins up to eat supper with us?"

"None whatever. I am sorry to be obliged to keep him and the rest so closely confined, but I know that they are a slippery lot--every one of them has deserted before--and if I should let them get away now that I have got a grip on them, the colonel would give me Hail Columbia. Gus has got himself into a mess, George. The first time he deserted he was simply put into the guard-house and fined, but this escapade is going to land him at Leavenworth. Now I will make you acquainted with our boys, and then I will go down and tell Gus that you want to see him."

After the new scout had been introduced to the troopers, Bob raised the trap-door and descended into the dug-out, while George opened his pack-saddle and took out of it a tin cup and plate, a can of condensed milk, a box or two of sardines and a few other delicacies, which he laid upon the table beside the simple fare that Carey had just served up. By the time he had finished the work of opening the cans with the aid of a formidable-looking hunting-knife which he drew from his boot-leg, Bob returned, followed by a soldier who looked so unlike the das.h.i.+ng, fas.h.i.+onably-dressed Gus Robbins he had seen in company with his cousin Ned that George could hardly bring himself to believe that he was the same boy. He looked pale and haggard; and that was not to be wondered at, for the prison at Fort Leavenworth was constantly looming up before him.

George, as we know, had a very slight acquaintance with Gus Robbins, having pa.s.sed only a few hours in his company, and he was under no obligations whatever to interest himself in his behalf; but when he saw how utterly miserable he was, his heart bled for him, and he at once hit upon a plan for getting him out of the trouble he had brought upon himself. He greeted Gus very cordially, gave him a seat beside himself at the table, and tried to put a little life into him by talking about almost everything except life in the army.

The deserters must have thought that their captors felt very much elated over their success, for a noisier party than that which was gathered about that rough board table was never seen anywhere. Being almost entirely free from military restraint--sergeants and corporals do not hold their men with so tight a rein as the commissioned officers do, although they exact just as prompt obedience to their commands--they told stories and said witty things and sung songs until they were hoa.r.s.e. The additions to their larder which George had been able to supply gave them a better supper than they were accustomed to, and they were merry over it.

None of the members of Bob's squad had ever seen the new scout before, and, although they treated him with the greatest respect, they were sadly disappointed in him. The scouts with whom they were familiar were great, rough, bearded men, strong of limb and slovenly in dress, who had lived among the Indians all their lives, and had the reputation of being able to whip their weight in wild-cats; but this one looked as though he had but just come out of a fas.h.i.+onable tailor's shop, and, moreover, he was nothing but a boy in years. What could the colonel have been thinking of when he engaged this stripling to lead men across the river and into the midst of the desperadoes who were known to have their strongholds there? It was dangerous work, and the guide ought to be a person of courage and experience; and George didn't look as though he had either. That was what the troopers thought as they sat at the table casting furtive glances at the new scout, who was talking earnestly with Gus Robbins; but it was not long before they found out that it took a brave man to follow where he dared lead.

The first trooper who finished his supper took the place of the sentry at the door, and the next relieved the one who was standing guard over the dug-out. When these two had satisfied their appet.i.tes the dishes were washed, the table was laid again and the deserters were ordered up.

Some of them appeared to be very much disheartened, and would scarcely look their comrades in the face, while the others were so defiant, and had so much to say about the colonel who had ordered their arrest and the men who had carried those orders into execution, that Bob was obliged to warn them that if they did not eat more and jaw less he would put them back into the dug-out without any supper.

When the deserters had had all they wanted to eat they were sent down to their prison, the outside sentry was relieved, and Bob stood guard at the door, with George for company. They had much to talk about, and it was long after midnight when they went to bed. They slept on the same blankets, and the new scout went off into the land of dreams with his arm thrown lovingly around the boy who had twice saved his life, and whom he had never expected to see again.

CHAPTER VI.

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST.

"Well, old fellow, what do you think of me now?"

It was George Ackerman who uttered these words, and the question was addressed to his herdsman, Zeke. The former stood in front of a full-length mirror that hung against the wall (among other extravagant and useless things for which Uncle John had spent his nephew's money were two elegant pier-gla.s.ses, one for his own room and the other for Ned's), and Zeke was sitting on the edge of a chair, with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin supported by his hands.

When the commander of Fort Lamoine accepted his proffered services, George had asked for and received a furlough for thirty days to enable him to procure an outfit and to consult with his guardian in regard to the management of the ranche during his absence. That furlough had nearly expired, and George was about to start for the fort. The honest fellows who had so long been employed on the ranche that they began to look upon themselves as members of the Ackerman family could not bear the thought of parting from him, and Zeke especially felt very gloomy over it. He had often denounced, in the strongest terms, the circ.u.mstances which seemed to render it necessary that his young friend should cast his lot among the soldiers for a season, and on this particular morning he looked as though he had lost everything that was worth living for.

George had just put on his new uniform for the first time, and no one, except a very intimate acquaintance, would have recognized in him the rough-looking cowboy whom we introduced to the reader in the first volume of this series of books. During the eighteen months he had lived in the pilot-house he had fallen in with some of the ways of those by whom he was surrounded, and grown very particular in regard to his personal appearance, although he did not by any means go to extremes, as his cousin Ned had done. As he placed the jaunty fatigue-cap over his long, curly hair he looked rather complacently at the handsome face and figure that were reflected from the polished surface of the mirror.

"Come, Zeke, don't be cross," said he, walking up to his herdsman and giving him a slap on the back. "Say just one kind word to me before I go."

"I won't," growled Zeke in reply.

"Then wish me good luck in my new calling," added George.

"I won't," repeated the herdsman in a still louder tone. "You're always going off on some new callin' or another, an' I don't see no sort of sense in it. Didn't I stay home here, quiet an' peaceable, takin' care of your critters, while you was a-philanderin' up and down the river on boats that was likely at any minute to burn up or bust their boilers?

Now that you have got safe home again, why in creation don't you stay here? Good land o' Goshen!" shouted Zeke, jumping up, spreading out his feet and flouris.h.i.+ng both his huge fists in the air, "of all the fool notions that ever a livin' boy got into his head--"

"That'll do, Zeke," interrupted George with a laugh. "I have heard that a thousand times, more or less, already. You will bid me good-bye when I get ready to go, I suppose?"

"I s'pose I won't do nothin' of the kind," exclaimed Zeke. "Of all the fool notions that ever a livin' boy--"

"I understand. Come here and pack my clothes-bag for me; you can do it better than I can."

"I won't. Them things is goin' to hang you higher'n the moon the first you know," said Zeke, scowling savagely at the elegant Mexican costume which George lifted from the bed. "Don't you never go 'crost the river with them duds on, 'cause if you do Fletcher'll string you up for a spy."

"Not in peace-times, I guess," answered George.

"What odds does it make to sich as him whether it's peace-times or not?

You'll see."