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The Sheriff Of Siskyou
by
“Spread yourselves along the ridge, every man of you, and cover them as they enter the gulch!” shouted the leader. “But not a shot until I give the word. Scatter!”
The assemblage dispersed like a startled village of prairie dogs, squatting behind every available bush and rock along the line of bluff. The leader alone trotted quietly to the head of the gulch.
The nine cavalrymen came smartly up in twos, a young officer leading. The single figure of Major Overstone opposed them with a command to halt. Looking up, the young officer drew rein, said a word to his file leader, and the four files closed in a compact square motionless on the road. The young officer’s unsworded hand hung quietly at his thigh, the men’s unslung carbines rested easily on their saddles. Yet at that moment every man of them knew that they were covered by a hundred rifles and shot guns leveled from every bush, and that they were caught helplessly in a trap.
“Since when,” said Major Overstone with an affectation of tone and manner different from that in which he had addressed his previous companions, “have the Ninth United States Cavalry helped to serve a State court’s pettifogging process?”
“We are hunting a deserter–a half-breed agent–who has just escaped us,” returned the officer. His voice was boyish–so, too, was his figure in its slim, cadet-like smartness of belted tunic–but very quiet and level, although his face was still flushed with the shock and shame of his surprise.
The relaxation of relief went through the wrought and waiting camp. The soldiers were not seeking THEM. Ready as these desperate men had been to do their leader’s bidding, they were well aware that a momentary victory over the troopers would not pass unpunished, and meant the ultimate dispersion of the camp. And quiet as these innocent invaders seemed to be they would no doubt sell their lives dearly. The embattled desperadoes glanced anxiously at their leader; the soldiers, on the contrary, looked straight before them.
“Process or no process,” said Major Overstone with a sneer, “you’ve come to the last place to recover your deserter. We don’t give up men in Wynyard’s Bar. And they didn’t teach you at the Academy, sir, to stop to take prisoners when you were outflanked and outnumbered.”
“Bedad! They didn’t teach YOU, Captain Overstone, to engage a battery at Cerro Gordo with a half company, but you did it; more shame to you now, sorr, commandin’ the thayves and ruffians you do.”
“Silence!” said the young officer.
The sleeve of the sergeant who had spoken–with the chevrons of long service upon it–went up to a salute, and dropped again over his carbine as he stared stolidly before him. But his shot had told. A flush of mingled pride and shame passed over Overstone’s face.
“Oh! it’s YOU, Murphy,” he said with an affected laugh, “and you haven’t improved with your stripes.”
The young officer turned his head slightly.
“Attention!”
“One moment more,” said Overstone coming forward. “I have told you that we don’t give up any man who seeks our protection. But,” he added with a half-careless, half-contemptuous wave of his hand, and a significant glance at his followers, “we don’t prevent you from seeking him. The road is clear; the camp is before you.”
The young officer continued without looking at him. “Forward–in two files–open order. Ma-arch!”
The little troop moved forward, passed Major Overstone at the head of the gully, and spread out on the hillside. The assembled camp, still armed, lounging out of ambush here and there, ironically made way for them to pass. A few moments of this farcical quest, and a glance at the impenetrably wooded heights around, apparently satisfied the young officer, and he turned his files again into the gully. Major Overstone was still lingering there.
“I hope you are satisfied,” he said grimly. He then paused, and in a changed and more hesitating voice added: “I am an older soldier than you, sir, but I am always glad to make the acquaintance of West Point.” He paused and held out his hand.