Northwest enterprise. [volume] (Anacortes, Wash. Ter.) 1882-1887, 1883-09-01


mile now to the turn in the valley.
The lone horse has suddenly stopped
to sniff the air. His ears are point
ed straight ahead, his eyes grow
larger and take on frightened look
and he half wheels as if he would
gallop back to those who have SEEM
ingly pursued. Five, eight, ten sec
onds, and with snort of alarm he
breaks into a terrific run, takes the
extreme left of the valley, and goes
tearing out of sight as if followed
by lions.
Halt
The grim sergeant sees "signs" in
the actions of the horse. Every
trooper is lool ing ahead and to the
tight. The green valley runs into
the fringe, the fringe into dense
thicket, the thicket into rock and
pine and mountain slope. No eye
can penetrate the fringe. The In
dians may be in ambush there, or the
horse may have scented wolf or
grizzly.
"Forwardr'
No man knows what danger turks
in the fringe, but the order was to
scout beyond the bend. 10 disobey
is ignominy and disgrace; to ride
forward is-wait. There is no air
stirring in the valley. Every limb
and bough is as still as if made of
iron. There is a silence which weighs
like heavy burden, and the harsh
note of hawk or buzzard would be a
relief.
Here is the bend. The valley con
tinues as before--no wider-no mar
rower-level and unbroken. The
wild horse was out of sight long ago,
and the six troopers see nothing but
the green grass as their eyes sweep
the valley from side to side.
Turn the bend and ride down
the valley for mile or so and keep
your eyes open to discover any pass
leading out"
"Haltw
1t is more than a mile beyond the
bend. No pass has been discovered.
No signs of a trail have been picked
ND. The sergeant has raised himself
up for long and careful scrutiny,
when an exclamation causes him to
turn his face up the valley. Out
from the fringe ride the demons
" no have been lurking there to drink
blood Five-ten-twenty- fifty -
the line has no end. 1t stretches
clear across the valley before word
he's been spoken. Then it faces to
the right and 200 Indians in war
paint face the grim old sergeant and
his five troopers.
Into line-right dressr'
1t is the sergeant who whispers the
order. Six to 200, but he will face
the danger. To retreat down the
valley is to be overtaken one by one
and shot from the saddle or reserved
for torture. Down the valley there
is no hope; up the valley is the camp
and rescue. The two lines face each
other for q moment without move
ment.
Now, men, one volley-sling car
bines draw sabres and chsrge"
A sheet of flame-a roar-a cloud
of smoke, and the six horses spring
forward. Then there is q grand
yell, a rush by every horse and rider,
and a whirlpool begins to circle.
Sabres flash and clang-arrows whis-
tle-revolvers pop--voices shout and
scream, and then the whirlpool
ceases. 1t is not three minutes since
the first carbine was fired, but the
tragedy has ended. Every trooper
is down and scalped, half a dozen
redskins are dead or dying, q dozen
horses are struggling or staggering,
and turning the bend at mad gallop
is the sergeant's riderless horse. He
carries an arrow in his shoulder, and
there is blood on the saddle. In five
minutes he will be in camp, and the
notes of the bugle will prove that the
lost trail has been found.