The Argosy, Vol. XXV, No. 3 — page 158: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

542 THE ARGOSY. handed, so to speak, by the irate colonel himself. Of course denial and bold impudence were no longer practicable, and the joker was consigned to the guard house for a period of ten days. At the expiration of his term of im- prisonment he was required, as a further punishment, to black the officers’ shoes for a fortnight. For a very short period after this Sim was unusually quiet, and even the colonel, prejudiced as he was, began to look with favor on his course. Sim’s early history was as brief as it was pathetic. His father had been a trumpeter in Troop B for years, and his mother had acted in the capacity of laundress since her marriage to the colored trumpeter. When Sim was five years old his paternal relative had his military career cut short in a skirmish with a band of Cheyennes. Six years later his mother renounced all earthly claims, leaving her savings, which had reached respectable pro- portions, to her son and heir, bequeathing the lad himself to Lieutenant Paul. And a troublesome bequest he had proven. Yet, with all his faults, Sim had some ‘‘ good pints,’’ as he expressed it. One of these was trumpeting. At the age of sixteen he was trumpeter for Troop B, and had more than once demonstrated his ability as a soldier. ok *k *K *K * *k *K A twelvemonth after Sim enlisted in Troop B an unusual activity was manifest at the little army post. A troop was leaving the post, equipped for a long scouting expedition. The Indians had been getting restless, and it was deemed necessary to have a few soldiers kept in the field to quell any sudden uprising. When the troop had been out four days, and had still seen nothing either of the Indians or the main body of cavalry that was to follow the trail after a. lapse of thirty six hours, the soldiers were riding about sundown in column of fours, amid a cloud of dust. ‘Tired, dirty, and perspiring, they jogged steadily along, profanely wondering when their young commander would give the signal to halt and make camp. A hundred yards ahead was the advance guard stretching out in a long, thin, fatigued skirmish line. At the head of the fours rode Lieutenant Paul Cheatwood, commanding in: the absence of the captain. : . Like the majority of the men, he was clad in sombrero, buckskin riding breeches, and blue flannel shirt, while on his boot heels jingled huge cavalry spurs. Being desirous of advancing as far as possible before nightfall, he kept the troop moving until it was plainly necessary to look for a camping place. Ina few minutes they entered a deep canyon, surrounded on three sides by high walls of solid rock. With Sim and the first sergeant at his side, Cheatwood left the troop near the mouth of the canyon and rode off to select a suitable spot in which to pass the night. — An immense rock, which projected from the face of the right wall a hundred yards from the entrance like a massive table, attracted Sim’s attention. ‘See dat rock up dar?’’ he remarked, pointing to it with his trumpet. ‘‘ Well, dat’s sacred among de reds. Dey tink de debbil er sumfin’ am up dar, an’ yo’ couldn’t git dem near to hit wif a team ob steam keers. No, (<@) Commicooolkxs