John Ermine of the Yellowstone (13 page)

“Yes, sir—think they will.” Then to John Ermine, “Do you savvy this country, pardner?”

“Yes, sir; I have always lived in this country,” spoke he, with a wave of his arm around the horizon which had the true Indian swing to it, an accomplishment only acquired by white
men after long years of association with the tribes. All the signs and gestures made by Indians are distinctive with them and are very suggestive from their constant use of the sign language. The
old chief of scouts recognized the significance of the motion on the instant, and knew that one who could make it very probably possessed the other qualifications for his corps.

“What is your name?”

“John Ermine, sir,” came the answer. The “sir” had been an acquisition of the last few interviews. He had heard it from the mouth of Crooked-Bear on infrequent occasions,
but his quick perceptions told him that it was useful in these canvas towns.

“All right. Will you turn these men over to me for duty, Lieutenant Ferguson?” spoke the chief of scouts, who was a short infantry officer with a huge yellow mustache.

“I will,” replied Ferguson, as he turned his horse. “Go with Captain Lewis there; and good luck to you, Mr. Ermine.”

After answering certain questions by the chief of scouts, which were intended to prove their fitness for the job, the two late fugitives had the pleasure of knowing that Uncle Sam would open his
wagons to them in return for their hair and blood when his representative should order the sacrifice. Wolf-Voice never allowed his mind to dwell on market values, and John Ermine felt that he could
do what “ten thousand men” were willing to do in an emergency.

Having done with these formalities, under the trained guidance of Wolf-Voice the two men speedily found their way to the scouts’ mess, where they took a hearty toll of the government.
About the cook fire squatted or sprawled the allies of the white troops. There were Crows and Indians from other tribes—together with half-breeds whose heraldic emblazonment ought to be a
pretty squaw. A few white men came about from time to time, but they did not abide with the regular crew. New faces appeared as they came in from the hills to “cool coffee.”

John Ermine walked aimlessly around camp, all eyes and ears. No backwoods boy at a country fair ever had his faculties so over-fed and clogged as he. In turn the soldiers attempted to engage him
in conversation as he passed about among them, but the hills had put a seal of silence on his lips; he had not yet found himself amid the bustle.

Remarks which grated harshly came to his ears; the unkindness of them undermined the admiration for the white soldiers which the gentle treatment of the officers had instilled.

“Ain’t that yellow handkerchief great?” “Sure he’d do well with a hand-organ on the Bowery.” “Is he a square shake or a make-up?” and other loose
usage of idle minds.

“Say, Bill, come look at the sorrel Injun,” sang one trooper to another who stood leaning on a wagon-wheel whittling a stick, to which that one replied: “You take my advice and
let the sorrel Injun alone; that butcher knife on his belly is no ornament.”

By noon Ermine’s mind had been so sloshed and hail-stoned with new ideas that his head was tired. They were coming so fast that he could not stow them, so he found his way back to the
scout camp and lay down on a stray robe. The whole thing had not impressed him quite as he had anticipated; it had a raw quality, and he found he did not sift down into the white mass; he had a
longing for the quiet of Crooked-Bear’s cabin—in short, John Ermine was homesick. However, after a few hours’ sleep, he became hungry, which shifted his preoccupation to a less
morbid channel.

The scouts talked excitedly of the enemy with whom they had skirmished out on the hills; they discussed the location of the Sioux camp, and speculated on the intention of the Gray Fox. Sunlight
or firelight never in the ages played on a wilder group than this; not on the tribes of Asiatics who swarmed in front of Alexander; not in the deserts of Northern Africa: nor on the steppes of
Asia, at any period, did sun or fire cut and color cruder men than these who were taking the long, long step between what we know men are and what we think they were.

A soldier stepped briskly into the group, and touching Ermine on the shoulder, said, “The Captain wants to see you; come on.” He followed to the tent designated, and was told to come
in and sit down. The officer sat opposite, on a camp stool, and after regarding him kindly for a moment, said: “Your name is John Ermine and you are a white man. Where were you
born?”

“I do not know, Captain, where I was born, but I have lived all my life with the Crows.”

“Yes; but they did not teach you to speak English.”

“No; I have lived some years with my old comrade up in the mountains, and he taught me to speak English and to write it.”

“Who was your old comrade, as you call him? He must have been an educated man,” queried the Captain, looking insistently into Ermine’s eyes.

“Captain, I cannot tell, any more than to say that he is an educated white man, who said he is dead, that his fires have burnt out, and he asked me not to speak about him; but you will
understand.”

Captain Lewis did not understand, nor did he avert his perplexed gaze from Ermine. He was wondering about the boy’s mind; had it become deranged? Clearly he saw that Ermine had been a
captive; but this mystery of mind cultivation by one who was dead—had he struck a new scheme in psychical research? The Captain rolled a cigarette and scratched a match on the leg of his
breeches.

“My old companion told me I ought to come here and help fight the Sioux.”

“Have you ever been to war?”

“Yes; I took a scalp from a Sioux warrior when I was a boy, and I wear the eagle feather upright,” spoke Ermine in his usual low and measured voice.

“Ho, ho! That is good. I see that you carry a Spencer carbine. I have not seen one lately; we do not use them now.”

“It is the best I have, Captain.” The Captain took his cigarette from his mouth and bawled: “Jones!
Oh
Jones, Jones!” Almost instantly a soldier stepped into the
tent, touching his forehead in salute. “Go down and draw a carbine, fifty rounds, a saddle, blanket, and bridle.” Jones disappeared. “Oh, Jones, Jones, and a shirt and hat.”
Then turning to Ermine, “Do you ever wear shoes?”

“Only this kind I have on, sir.”

“Do you want some shoes?”

“No; I think I am better off with these. I have tried on the heavy leather shoes, but they feel as though my feet were caught in a trap.”

“Ha, ha! A trap, hey—a good deal so; well, any time you want anything come to me. And now, my boy, may I give you a little advice?”

“You may, sir; I shall be glad of it. I know I have much to learn,” assented John Ermine.

“Well, then, you are an odd-looking person even in this camp, and that is saying much, I can assure you. I will have a hat here in a moment which will displace that high-art headgear of
yours, and may I ask if you will not take your hair out of those braids? It will be more becoming to you, will not be quite so Injuny, and I think it will not interfere with your
usefulness.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” quietly said the young man, who forthwith undid the plats with a celerity which comes to the owners of long hair. Having finished, he gave his head a toss; the
golden tresses, released from their bindings, draped his face, falling down in heavy masses over his shoulders, and the Captain said slowly, “Well, I will be good
God-d——d!”

After having soothed his surprise by a repetition of this observation several times, the Captain added, “Say, you are a village beauty, Ermine, by Gad—I’d like a photograph of
you.” And that worthy continued to feast his eyes on the bewildering sight. It seemed almost as though he had created it.

The orderly entered at this point, loaded down with quartermaster and ordnance stuff. His hat had found its way on to the back of his head during these exertions, and he came up all standing,
but the discipline told. All he did as he gazed helplessly at Ermine was to whistle like a bull elk. Quickly recovering himself, “I have the stuff, sir—but—but I’m afraid,
sir, the hat won’t fit.”

“All right, all right, Jones; it will do.” And Jones took himself out into the darkness. To a passing comrade he ‘unloaded’: “Say, Steve, you savvy that blond Injun
what was run in here this morning? Well, he’s in the Captain’s tent, and the Captain has got him to take his hair down, undo them braids, you see; and say, Steve, I am a son-of-a-gun if
it ain’t like a bushel of hay; say, it’s a honey-cooler. You will fall dead when you see it.”

Meanwhile Ermine was put in possession of the much-coveted saddle and a new gun, one with a blue barrel without a rust-spot on it anywhere, inside or out. His feelings were only held in leash by
a violent repression. The officer enjoyed the proceedings hugely as the young man slipped into the new shirt and tied the yellow handkerchief round his neck. The campaign hat was a failure, as
Jones had feared. It floated idly on the fluffy golden tide, and was clearly going to spoil the Captain’s art work; it was nothing short of comical. Frantically the officer snatched his own
hat from his camp-chest, one of the broad rolling sombreros common on the plains in those days, but now seen no more; this he clapped on Ermine’s head, gave it a downward tug together with a
pronounced list to the nigh side. Then, standing back from his work, he ran his eyes critically for a moment: “Good! Now you’ll do!”

Ermine’s serious face found itself able to relax; the ripples broadened over it, his eyes closed, and his mouth opened ever so little, only escaping looking foolish by the fact that he had
a reserve; he did not close or broaden too much.

“Well, my boy,” said the officer, as he began to put up his papers on the chest, “go down to camp now; the outfit moves tomorrow; you’ll do in a free-for-all, by
Gad.”

When this greeted the easy ears of our hero, he found the loud bustle, so characteristic of the white soldier, more noisy than ever. Slowly the dancing refrain passed from regiment to regiment.
The thing itself is dear to the tired soldier who dreads its meaning. It is always a merry beginning, it accords with the freshness of the morning; when associated with youth it never fails to
cheer the weary dragging years of him who looks behind.

The tents fluttered down; men ran about their work, munching crackers and hot bacon; they bundled and boxed and heaved things into the escort wagons. Teamsters bawled loudly—it is a
concomitant with mule association; yet they were placid about their work of hooking up; their yells never interfered with their preoccupied professionalism. The soft prairie winds sighing through
the dreaming teamster’s horse-blankets fills his subconscious self with cracks, whistles, howls. “You blaze!” “Oh, Brown!” “D——you,
Brigham!”—,——,——, and other phrases which cannot be printed. That mules and teamsters have never received a proper public appreciation of their importance in war
is one of the disheartening injustices of the world. Orderlies and mounted officers tore about; picturesque men who had been saved from the scrap-heap of departing races ranged aimlessly or smoked
placidly; they had no packing to do, their baggage was carried in their belts. One of these was John Ermine, who stood by his pony, watching Captain Lewis; this busy man with his multitudinous
duties had been picked out for a guiding star. Having presently completed all the details, the Captain mounted and rode away, followed by his motley company. The camp being cleared, the officer
turned, and with a wave of his hand which covered the horizon in its sweep, yelled, “Go on now; get to the hell out of here!”

In quick response the wolfish throng broke apart, loping away over the yellow landscape flaming out toward all points; the trained skirmishers trusted their instincts and their horses’
heels. John Ermine rode slowly over a hill, and looking backward, saw the long, snakelike columns of horse and foot and wagons come crawling. It was the most impressive sight he had ever beheld,
but he could not arrange any plan in his own mind whereby the command was going to fight the Sioux. All the Indians in his world could not and would not try to stem that advance: as well try to
stop the falling of the snow or the swarms of grasshoppers. Again, there was no necessity, since the command could no more catch the Sioux than it could reach the sailing hawks or flapping
ravens.