Evening Republican, Volume 17, Number 147, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 June 1913 — Molly McDonald A TALE OF THE FRONTIER [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Molly McDonald A TALE OF THE FRONTIER

By RANDALL PARRISH

JMorof "Keith 'Border? My lady of Doubt? My Souffi? / 1 cowßwwr mt by a-c.mcglurg a co.

SYNOPSIS. Major McDonald, commanding an a.rmy post near Fort Dodg*. seeks a man to Intercept his daughter, Molly, who Is headed for the post. An Indian outbreak is threatened. Sergeant "Brick” Hamlin njeets the stage In which Molly is traveling. They are attacked by Indians, and Hamlta and Molly escape in the darkness. Hamlin tells Molly he was discharged from the Confederate service in disgrace and at the close of the war enlisted in the regular army. He suspects one Captain LeFevre of being responsible for his disgrace. Troops appear and under escort of Lieut. Gaskins Molly starts to join her father. Hamlin leaves to rejoin ms regiment He returns to Fort Dodge after a summer of fighting Indians, and finds Molly there. Lieutenant Gaskins accuses Hamlin of shooting him. The sergeant is proven innocent. He sees Molly In company with Mrs. Dupont, whom he recognises as a former sweetheart whdthrew him over for LeFevre. Later he overhears Dupont and a soldier hatching up a money-making plot. Molly tells Hamlin her father seems to be in the power of Mrs. Dupont, who claims to be a daughter of McDonald’s sister. Molly disappears and Hamlin sets out to trace her. McDonald is ordered to Fort Ripley. Hamlin finds McDonald’s murdered body. He takes Wasson, a guide, and two troopers and goes in pursuit of the murderers, who had robbed McDonald of $30,000 paymaster’s money. He suspects Dupont. Conners, soldier accomplice of Dupont, is found murdered. Hamlin's party is caught In a fierce blizzard while heading for the Clmmaron. One man dies from cold and another almost succumbs. Wasson is shot as they come tn sight of Clmmaron. Hamlin discovers a log cabin hidden under a bluff, occupied by Hughes, a cow thief, who is laying for LeFevre. who cheated him in a cattle deal. His description identifies LeFevre and Dupont as one and the same. Hughes shot Wasson mistaking him for one of LeFevre’s party. Hamlin and Hughes take up the trail of who is carrying Molly to the Indian’s camp. Two days out they sight the fugitives. A fight ensues in which Hughes is shot by an Indian. Dying, he makes a desperate attempt to shoot LeFevre, but hits Hamlin, while the latter is disarming Le Fevre. LeFevre escapes, believing HamUn and Molly dead. Molly tells Hamlin that her father was implicated in the plot to steal the paymaster’s money. Hamlin confesses his love for Molly and finds that it is reciprocated. Molly declares her father was forced into the robbers* plot They meet an advance troop of Custer’s command, starting on a winter campaign against the Indians. Hamlin remains as guide. The winter camp of Black Kettle Is discovered. Custer plans an attack.

CHAPTER XXXVll.—Continued. The bugle rang again, and they turned, facing back, and charged onee more, no longer in close formation, but every trooper fighting as he could. Complete as the surprise had been, the men of the Seventh realized now the odds against them, the desperate nature of the fight Out from the sheltering tepees poured a flood of warriors; rifles In hand they fought savagely. The screams of women and children, the howling and baying of - Indian dogs, the crack of rifles, the wild war cries, all mingled into an indescribable din. Black Kettle was almost the first to fall, but other chiefs rallied their warriors, and fought like fiends, yielding ground only by inches, until they found shelter amid the trees and under the river bank. In the cessation of hand to hand fighting the detachments came together, reforming their ranks, and reloading their arms. Squads of troopers fired the tepees, and gathering their prisoners under guard, hastened back to the ranks again at the call of the bugle. By now Custer comprehended his desperate position and the full strength of his Indian foes. Fresh hordes were before him, already threatening attack. Hamlin, bleeding from two flesh wounds, rode in from the left flank, where he had been borne by the impetus of the last charge, with full knowledge of the truth. Their attack had been centered on Black Kettle’s village, but below, a mile or two apart, were other villages, representing all the hostile tribes of the southern plains. Already these were hurrying up to join those rallying warriors under the shelter of the river bank. Even from where Custer stood at the outskirts of the devastated village he could distinguish the war bonnets of Cheyennes. Arapahoe*, Kiowas and Comanches mingled together in display of savagery. His decision was instant, that of the Impetuous cavalry leader, knowing well the inherent strength and weakness of his branch of the service. He could not hope to hold his position before such a mass of the enemy, with the little force at his disposal. His only chance of escape, to come off victor, was to strike them so swiftly and with such force as to paralyze pursuit. Already the reinforcing warriors were sweeping forward to attack, two thousand strong, led fiercely by Little Ra»en, an Arapahoe; Santana, a Kiowa, and Little Rock a Cheyenne. Dismounting bis men he prepared for a desperate resistance, although the troopers' ammunition was running low. Suddenly, crashing through the

very Indian lines, came a four-mule wagon. The quartermaster was on the box, driving recklessly. Only Hamlin and a dozen other men were still in saddle. Without orders they dashed forward, spurring maddened horses into the ranks of the Indians, hurling them left and right, firing into infuriated red faces, and slashing about with dripping sabres. Into the lane thus formed sprang the tortured mules, sweeping on with their precious load of ammunition. Behind closed in the squad of rescuers, struggling for their lives amid a horde of savages. Then, with one wild shout, the dismounted troopers leaped to the rescue, hurling back the disorganized Indian mass, and dragging their'comrades from the rout. It was hand to hand, clubbed carbine against knife and spear, a fierce, breathless struggle. Behind eager hands ripped open the ammunition cases; cartridges were jammed into empty guns, and a second line of fighting men leaped forward, their front tipped with fire. Dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty, his broken saber a jagged piece of steel, Hamlin hacked his way through the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse. Here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine. It was all the work of a moment .About him were skurrying figures, infuriated faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage. The three fought like fiends, standing back to back, and striking blindly at leaping bodies and clutching hands Out of the mist, the mad confusion of breathless combat, one face alone seemed to confront the Sergeant. At first it was a delirium; then it became a reality. He saw the shagginess of a buffalo coat, the gleam of a white face. All else vanished in a fierce desire to kill. He leaped forward, crazed with sudden hate, hurled aside the naked bodies in the path, and sent his whirling carbine stock crashing at Dupont. Even as it struck he fell, clutched v by gripping hands, and over all rang out the cheer of the charging troopers. Hamlin staggered to his knees, spent and breathless, and smiled grimly down at the dead white man in that ring of red; It was over, yet that little body of troopers dared not remain. About them still, although demoralized and defeated, circled an overwhelming mass of savages capable of crushing them to death, when they again rallied and consolidated. Custer did the only thing possible. Turning loose the pony herd, gathering his captives close, he swung his compact command into marching column. Before the scattered tribes could rally for a sec-

ond attack, with flankers out, and skirmishers in advance, the cavalrymen rode straight down the valley toward the retreating hostlles. It was a bold and desperate move, the commander’s object being to impress upon the Indian chiefs the thought of his utter fearlessness, and to create the impression that the Seventh would never dare such a thing if they did not have a larger force behind. With flags unfurled, and the band playing, the troopers swept on. The very mad audacity of the movement struck terror into the hearts of the warriors, and they broke and fled. As darkness fell the survivors of the Seventh rode alone, amid the silent desolation of the plains. Halting a moment for rest under shelter of the river bank, Custer

hastily wrote Ns report and sent for Hamlin. The latter approached and stopd motionless in the red glare of the single camp-fire. The impetuous commander glanced up inquiringly. "Sergeant, I must send a messenger to Camp Supply. you fit to go?” “As much as anyone, General Custer,” was the quiet response. “I have no wounds of consequence.”. “Very well. Take the fastest horse In the command, and an Osage guide. You know the country, but he will be of assistance. I have written a very brief report; you are to tell Sheridan personally the entire story. We shall rest here two hours, and then proceed slowly along the trail. I anticipate no further serious fighting. You will depart at once.” “Very well, sir,” the Sergeant saluted, and turned away, halting an instant to ask: “You have reported the losses, I presume?” “Yes, the dead and wounded. There are some missing, who may yet come in. Major Elliott and fourteen others are still unaccounted for.” He paused. “By the way, Sergeant, while you are with Sheridan, explain to him who you are—he may have news for you. Good night, and good luck.” He stood up and'held out his hand. In surprise, his eyes suddenly filling with tears, Hamlin felt the grip of his fingers. Then he turned, unable to articulate a sentence, and strode away into the night.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. At Camp Supply. There are yet living in that great Southwest those who will retell the story of Hamlin’s ride from the banks of the Washita to Camp Supply. It remains one of the epics of the plains, one of the proud traditions of the army. To the man himself those hours of danger, struggle and weariness, were more a dream than a reality. He passed through them almost unconsciously, a soldier performing his duty in utter forgetfulness of self, nerved by the discipline of years of service, by the importance of his mission, and by memory of Molly McDonald. Love and duty held him reeling in the saddle, brought him safely to the journey’s end. Let the details pass unwritten. Beneath the darkening skies of early evening, the Sergeant and the Osage guide rode forth into the peril and mystery of the shrouded desert. Beyond the outmost picket, moving as silently as two specters, they found at last a Coulee leading upward from the valley to the plains above. To their left the Indian fires swept in half circle, and between were the dark outlines of savage foes. From rock to rock echoed guttural voices, but, foot by foot, unnoted by the keen eyes, the two crept steadily on through the midnight of that sheltering ravine, dismounted, hands clasping the nostrils of their ponies, feeling through the darkness for each step, halting breathless at every crackle of a twig, every crunch of snow under foot. Again and again they paused, silent, motionless, as some apparition of savagery outlined itself between them and the sky, yet slowly, steadily, every instinct of the plains exercised, they passed unseen. In the earliest gray of dawn the two wearied men crept out upon the upper plateau, dragging their horses. Behind, the mists of the night still hung heavy and dark over the valley, a new sense of freedom they swung into their saddles, faced sternly the chill wind of the north and rode forward across the desolate snow fields. It was no boys’ play! The tough, half-broken Indian ponies kept steady stride, leaping the drifts, skimming rapidly along the bare hillsides. From dawn to dark scarcely a word was uttered. By turns they slept in the saddle, the" one awake gripping the other’s rein. Once, in a strip of cottonwood beside a frozen creek, they paused to light a fire and make a hasty meal. Then they were off again, facing the frosty air, rid ing straight into the north. Before them stretched the barren sno'w-clad steppes, forlorn and shelterless, with scarcely a mark of guidance anywhere, a dismal wilderness, intersected by gloomy ravines and frozen creeks. Here and there a river, the water icy cold and covered with floating ice, barred their passage; down in the valleys the drifted snow turned them aside. Again and again the struggling ponies floundered to their ears, or slid headlong down some steep declivity. Twice Hamlin was thrown, and once the Osage was crushed between floating cakes and submerged In the icy stream. Across the open barrens swept the wind Into their faces, a ceaseless buffeting, chilling to the marrow; their eyes burned in the snow-glare. Yet they rode on and on, voiceless, suffering in the grim silence of despair, fit denizens oF’that Scene of utter desolation. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

The Mad Confusion of Breathless Combat.