New Ulm weekly review. [volume] (New Ulm, Minn.) 1878-1892, 1883-09-12
FINDING THE TRAIL.

here IN the shadow OF this grim noun
tain is camp of cavalry-200 men in
faded and ragged blue uniforms, every
face sunburned and bronzed, every
sabre and carbine showing long use,
every horse lifting its head from the
grass at short intervals for swift glance
up and down the valley.
Here, at the foot of the mountain. the
Apache trail, which has been followed
for three days, has grown cold. Ave,
it has been lost It is as if the white
men had followed path which sudden
ly ended at a precipice. From this
point the red demons took wings, and
the Oldest trailer is at fault
The men on picket looked up and down
the narrow valley with anxious faces.
Down the valley, mile away, a soil
tary wild horse paws and prances and
utters shrill neighs of wonderment and
alarm. Up the valley is q long stretch
OF green grass, the earth is level as
floor and no visible sign of life. The
pines and shrubs and rocks on the
mountain side might hide ten thousand
Indians, but there is not the slightest
movement to arouse suspicion. It is a
still, hot day. Not bird chirps, not a
branch waves. The lynx could detect
nothing beyond the cratic movements
of the lone wild horse adown the valley
and circular flight of an eagle so
high in the air that the proud bird
seemed no larger than sparrow.
For an hour every man and horse has
looked for ''signs,'' but nothing has
been discovered beyond what has been
described. 1t is lost trail. There is
something in it to arouse suspicion as
we'll as annoyance. Ten miles away
the trail was as plain as a country high
way, and the Indians had no suspicion
of pursuit. Five miles back there were
signs of commotion. Here, in the CEN
ter of the valley, every foot print sud-
denly disappears.
Look, now! A sergeant with grizzly
locks and fighting jaw rides down the
valley, followed by five troopers. They
are to scout for the lost trail. Every
man has unslung his carbine, every
saddle-girt has been frightened, and every
man of the six looks over the camp as
he rides out as if he had been told that
stretches clear across the valley before
a word has 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 dress!'
1t is the sergeant who whispers the
order. Six to 200, but we 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 of rescue. The
two lines face each other for q moment
without movement.
SHOW, men, one volley-sling car
bines draw sabres and charge!''
A sheet of t1ame-a roar-a cloud Of
smoke and six horses sprang forward.
Then there is grand yell, rush by
every horse and rider, and whirlpool
begins to circle. Sabres flash and
cling-arrows whistle-revolvers pop
voices shout and scream, and then the
whirlpool ceases. It is not three min
utes since the first carbine was fired,
but the tragedy has ended. Every
trooper is down and scalped, half doz-
en- redskins are dead or dying, a 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.