CHAPTER XV.

DROPPED STITCHES.

Now that an unlooked-for interest has been developed in this enterprise

of the Sunday _Sentinel_, and that in accordance with the wishes of many

old comrades these sketches are reproduced in a little volume by

themselves, many and many an incident is recalled which deserves to be

noted, but which was omitted for fear of wearying the readers for whom

alone these stories of campaign life were originally intended, so that

in this closing and retrospective chapter there will be nothing of

lively interest, except to those already interested, and it can be

dropped right here.

Looking back over it all, more especially the toilsome march and

drenching bivouacs that followed the departure from Heart River, I

wonder how some men stood it as they did. Among our own officers in the

Fifth, one of our best and cheeriest comrades was Lieutenant Bache, "a

fellow of infinite jest," and one to whom many of us were greatly

attached. He was a martyr to acute rheumatism when he overtook us with

Captains Price and Payne, at the headquarters of the Mini Pusa. By the

time we met General Terry on the Rosebud, he was in such agonizing

helplessness as to be unable to ride a horse, and was ordered to the

Yellowstone and thence to Chicago for medical treatment; but while we

lay at the mouth of the Powder River he suddenly reappeared in our

midst, and, greatly benefited by the two weeks of rest and dry clothes

on the boat, he insisted that he was well enough to resume duty. The

surgeons shook their heads, but Bache carried his point with General

Crook, and was ordered to rejoin the regiment. Then came day after day

of pitiless, pouring rain, night after night unsheltered on the sodden

ground. A cast-iron constitution would have suffered; poor Bache broke

down, and, unable to move hand or foot, was lifted into a _travois_ and

dragged along. When we reached the Black Hills he was reduced to mere

skin and bone, hardly a vestige of him left beyond the inexhaustible

fund of grit and humor with which he was gifted. He reached Fort Dodge

at the close of the campaign, but it had been too much for him. The news

of his death was telegraphed by Captain Payne before we had fairly

unsaddled for the winter.

Though brother officers in the same regiment, so are our companies

scattered at times that before this campaign Bache and I had met but

once, and that was in Arizona. To-day the most vivid picture I have in

my mind of that trying march in which he figures is a duck-hunting

scene that I venture to say has never been equalled in the experience of

Eastern sportsmen. We had halted on the evening of September 7th, on the

dripping banks of one of the forks of the Grand River (Palanata Wakpa,

the Sioux call it, and a much better name it is), a muddy stream, not

half the width of our Menominee, but encased between precipitous banks,

and swirling in deep, dark pools. The grass was abundant, but not a

stick of timber could we find with which to build a fire. While I was

hunting for a few crumbs of hard-tack in my lean haversack, there came a

sudden sputter of pistol shots on the banks of the stream, and I saw

scores of men running, revolver in hand, to the scene. Joining them, I

found Bache reclining in his _travois_ and blazing away at some objects

in the pool below him. The surface of the water was alive with

blue-and-green-wing teal, and a regiment of ravenous men was opening

fire upon them with calibre-45 bullets. Only fancy it! The wary, gamy

bird we steal upon with such caution in our marshes at home, here on the

distant prairies, far from the busy haunts of men, so utterly untutored

by previous danger, or so utterly bewildered by the fusillade, that

hardly one took refuge in flight, while dozens of them, paddling,

ducking, diving about the stream, fell victims to the heavy revolver,

and, sprinkled with gunpowder for salt, were devoured almost raw by the

eager soldiery. "Great Caesar's ghost," said Bache, as he crammed fresh

cartridges into the chambers of his Colt, "what would they say to this

on the Chesapeake?"

Another scene with Bache was at Slim Buttes. In order to prevent

indiscriminate pillage among the captured lodges of the Sioux, General

Crook had ordered the detail of guards to keep out the crowd of

curiosity-seekers. Bache was lying very stiff and sore near one of the

large tepees, and I had stopped to have a moment's chat with him, when

something came crawling out of a hole slashed in the side by the

occupants to facilitate their escape when Lieutenant Schwatka charged

the village that morning; something so unmistakably Indian that in a

second I had brought my revolver from its holster and to full cock. But

the figure straightened up in the dim twilight, and with calm

deliberation these words fell from its lips: "There ain't a thing worth

having in the whole d--d outfit."

Bache burst into amused laughter. "Well, my aboriginal friend, who in

thunder are you, anyhow? Your English is a credit to civilization."

It was "Ute John," one of the scouts who had joined us with the

Shoshones on the Big Horn, but who, unlike them, had concluded to stand

by us through the entire expedition. He was a tall, stalwart fellow,

picturesquely attired in an overcoat not unlike our present unsightly

ulster in shape, but made of a blanket which had been woven in imitation

of numerous rainbows. The storied coat of many colors worn by the

original Joseph was never more brilliant than this uncouth garment, and

about this time an effort was made to rechristen our sturdy ally, and

call him no longer monosyllabic and commonplace John, but Scriptural

Joseph. Subsequent developments in his career, however, brought about a

revulsion of feeling, as it was found that the fancied resemblance in

characteristics ended with the coat.

We had been accustomed in our dealings with the Indians who accompanied

us to resort to pantomime as a means of conversation. Some of our number

prided themselves on their mute fluency--none more so, perhaps, than our

genial friend Major Andy Burt, of the 9th Infantry, who would

"button-hole," so to speak, any Indian who happened along during his

unoccupied moments, and the two would soon be lost in a series of

gyrations and finger flippings that was a dark mystery to the rest of

the command; and when the major would turn triumphantly towards us with

his "He says it's all serene, fellows," we accepted the information as

gospel truth without asking what "it" was. Bache and I were not a little

astonished, therefore, at hearing Ute John launch forth into fluent

English, albeit strongly tinged with Plains vernacular.

The most tireless men in pursuit of Indian knowledge were the

correspondents of the papers. Frequent mention has already been made of

Mr. Finerty, of the _Chicago Times_, who was the gem of the lot, but the

_New York Times_ and _Herald_ were represented, as were leading journals

of other large cities. With one exception they proved excellent

campaigners, and welcome, indeed, genial associates; but the exception

was probably one of the most unhappy wretches on the face of the globe.

He had come out as a novice the year previous, and accompanied Colonel

Dodge's exploring expedition to the Black Hills, and before long

developed traits of character that made him somewhat of a nuisance. He

was wofully green, a desperate coward, but so zealous in the cause of

journalism that anything he fancied might interest the readers of the

paper of which he announced himself "commissioner" was sent on

irrespective of facts in the case. The officers found him taking notes

of their conversations, jotting down everything he saw and heard around

camp, caught him prying into matters that were in nature confidential,

and so one night they terrified him to the verge of dissolution by

preparations for defence and the announcement that the cooing and wooing

of an army of wood-doves were the death-chants of hundreds of squaws as

the warriors were stripping for the combat. Another time they primed him

into writing a four-column despatch descriptive of the "Camelquo," a

wonderful animal found only in the Black Hills, the offspring of the

Rocky Mountain elk and the Egyptian camel, the latter being some of the

animals introduced into Texas just before the war for transportation

purposes, who had, so Mr. D---- overheard, escaped from the rebels and

made their way to the Northern plains during the great rebellion, and

there had intermarried with the great elk, the native of the Hills. The

resultant "Camelquo," so D---- enthusiastically informed his paper, was

an animal of the stature of the giraffe, the antlers of the elk, the

humps of the camel, the fleetness and endurance of both parents, and the

unconquerable ferocity of the tiger. How D---- came to discover the sell

in time, my informant, Dr. McGillicuddy, did not remember, but to this

day the maps of the Black Hills bear commemoration of the incident, and

Camelquo Creek is almost as well known as Spring and Rapid. Many a rough

miner has asked since '75 how in Hades, or words to that effect, they

came to have such queer names for their streams in the Hills. Most of

them were named by Colonel Dodge's party, and there was rhyme or reason

in each, even for Amphibious Creek, which, said McGillicuddy, we so

named because it sank out of sight so often and came up smiling so

unexpectedly that it only seemed half land, half water.

On the campaign of '76, Mr. D---- again made his appearance as

commissioner, started with General Crook's staff, but ere long was

called upon to find new accommodations elsewhere. How it all came about

I never cared to know, but after unpleasant experiences with first one

set and then another, he gravitated eventually to the packers, who made

him do guard and herd duty. He pushed ahead with Major Mills's command,

and stumbled with them into the morning battle at Slim Buttes. This he

witnessed in a state of abject terror, and then, when the danger was

over, wrote a most scandalous account, accusing Major Mills of all

manner of misbehavior. His paper published it, but had to eat humble

pie, make a most complete apology, and, I think, dismiss its

correspondent. Camelquo Creek is the only existing trace of poor D----

of which we have any knowledge.

Once fairly in the Black Hills, and resting on the banks of French

Creek, we set to work to count up the losses of the campaign. In

horseflesh and equipments the gaps were appalling. Some companies in

the Fifth were very much reduced, and, of course, when the horse dropped

exhausted on the trail, there was no transportation for the saddle,

bridle, and "kit." It often happened that for days the soldier led his

horse along the flanks of the column or in the rear of the regiment,

striving hard to nurse his failing strength, hunting eagerly for every

little bunch of grass that might eke out his meagre subsistence. In all

the array of company losses there was one, and only one, shining

contrast--Montgomery, with Company "B," the Grays, calmly submitted a

clear "bill of health;" he had not lost a single horse, which was

marvellous in itself, but when "Monty" proceeded to state that every

Company "B" man had his saddle, bridle, nose bag, lariat, picket-pin,

side lines, etc., the thing was incomprehensible; that is, it seemed

incomprehensible, until the fact was taken into consideration that those

companies which bivouacked on either flank of the Grays woke each

morning to the realization of a predatory ability on the part of "them

d--d Company 'B' fellers" that rose superior to any defensive devices

they might invent. But Company "B" could not acquire gray horses at the

expense of the rest of the regiment, whatever it might have done in side

and other lines, and the fact that Captain "Monty" paraded every horse

with which he started is due to the unerring judgment and ceaseless

vigilance with which he noted every symptom of weakness in any and every

animal in his troop, and cared for it accordingly.

As a rule, our company commanders are not thorough horsemen, and too

little attention is devoted to the instruction of our cavalry officers

in the subject--but Montgomery is a noteworthy exception. I don't know

which class will be the more inclined to think me in error in the

following statement, but as a result of not a little observation it is

my opinion that, while the best riders in the cavalry service come from

West Point, the best horsemen are from the ranks.

But for our anxiety about our horses, the most enjoyable days of the

campaign were probably contained in the first two weeks of October. We

were the roughest-looking set of men on the face of the globe; but with

abundant rations and rousing big fires along the valley of French Creek,

with glad letters from home, and finally the arrival of our wagons with

the forgotten luxuries of tents and buffalo robes, we began taking a new

interest in life. The weather was superb, the sun brilliant, the air

keen and bracing, the nights frostily cold. Wonderful appetites we had

in those days, and after supper the men would gather in crowds around

the camp-fires and sing their songs and smoke their pipes in placid

contentment. The officers, too, had their reunions, though vocalists

were scarce among them, and the proportions of "youngsters" who keep the

fun alive was far too small. The year before, those irrepressible

humorists, Harrigan and Hart, of the New York stage, had sung at their

"Theatre Comique" a witty but by no means flattering ditty, which they

called "The Regular Army, O." One of its verses, slightly modified to

suit the hearers, was particularly applicable to and popular in the

Fifth Cavalry, and their adjutant, when he could be made to sing "_pro

bono publico_," was always called upon for the song and sure of applause

at the close of this verse. It ran:

"We were sent to Arizona, for to fight the Indians there;

We were almost snatched bald-headed, but they didn't get our hair.

We lay among the canyons and the dirty yellow mud,

But we seldom saw an onion, or a turnip, or a spud,

Till we were taken prisoners and brought forninst the chief;

Says he, "We'll have an Irish stew"--the dirty Indian thief.

On Price's telegraphic wire we slid to Mexico,

And we blessed the day we skipped away from the Regular Army, O."

Now General Crook received his promotion to brigadier-generalship in

Arizona, after a stirring and victorious campaign with the Apaches, and

the Fifth Cavalry used to boast at times that his "star" was won for him

by them. Soldiers are quick to attach some expressive nickname to their

officers, but I never learned that our general had won this questionable

distinction until we joined him at Goose Creek, when we found that in

the command already there he was known as "Rosebud George."

In the hard times that followed there was no little growling among the

half-starving troopers, because the packers seemed to have sufficient to

eat when we were well-nigh destitute. So one night a fifth verse was

trolled out on the still evening air in a strongly Hibernian brogue, and

the listening ears of the Fifth were greeted with something like this:

"But 'twas out upon the Yellowstone we had the d--dest time,

Faix, we made the trip wid Rosebud George, six months without a dime.

[Illustration: "THE DANDY FIFTH."

(General Merritt and his Officers on the Sioux Campaign.)]

Some eighteen hundred miles we went through hunger, mud, and rain,

Wid backs all bare, and rations rare, no chance for grass or grain;

Wid 'bunkies shtarvin' by our side, no rations was the rule;

Shure 'twas ate your boots and saddles, you brutes,

but feed the packer and mule.

But you know full well that in your fights no soldier lad was slow,

And it wasn't the packer that won ye a star in the Regular Army, O."

With full stomachs, however, came forgetfulness of suffering, and this

with other campaign lyrics was forgotten.

It seemed so good to rest in peace for day after day. General Merritt

with his staff, and Major Upham, had pitched their tents in the shelter

of a little rocky promontory that jutted out into the valley and was

crowned by a sparse growth of pines and cedars. One evening, as the full

moon shone down upon the assembled party over this ridge, a perfectly

defined cross appeared upon the very face of the luminary. Every one

noticed it, and one of the number, clambering to the summit, found

growing from a cleft in the rock a sturdy little leafless branch about

two feet in length, crossed by another and smaller twig; the cross was

perfect, and the effect in the moonlight something simply exquisite.

"Camp Faith" was thereupon selected as the name of cavalry headquarters.

Somebody wanted a name for the Fifth Cavalry camp, and, in recognition

of our present blissful and undisturbed existence, as compared with

recent vicissitudes, and mindful of the martial palace of Sans Souci at

Potsdam, a wildly imprudent subaltern suggested _Sans Sioux Ici_, but it

was greeted with merited contempt.

Of course all were eager for intimation of our next move. Occasional

despatches reached General Merritt, but not a hint could be extracted

from him. Rumors of a winter campaign were distressingly prevalent, and

the Fifth were beginning to look upon a prolonged stay in the Hills as a

certainty, when one day an aide-de-camp of the chief's came to me with

the request that I would make a map for him of the country between the

South Cheyenne and Red Cloud Agency, and let no one know what I was

doing. A week after he wanted another sketch of the same thing, and it

became evident, to me at least, that before very long we would be down

along the White River, looking after "Machpealota."

The campaign itself being virtually over, the recruits authorized by

special act of Congress to be enlisted for the cavalry regiments

actively engaged began to be heard of at the front, and one evening in

early October we learned that some four hundred heroes were on the march

from Fort Laramie to join the Fifth, and that the Third was to be

similarly reinforced. A hint as to the probable character of the new

levies was also in circulation. Twenty-five hundred men having been

suddenly and urgently needed, the recruiting officers were less

particular in their selections than would otherwise have been the case,

and from the purlieus of Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York the scum

of the country was eagerly grasping this method of getting to the Black

Hills at Uncle Sam's expense. They were marching up to join us, under

the command of Captain Monahan, of the Third Cavalry, assisted by

Lieutenants Ward, Cherry, and Swift, "of Ours;" and on the 11th of

October General Merritt struck camp, the "B., H., and Y.," horse, foot,

and dragoon, bade farewell to French Creek, and, after an exhilarating

ride through a wildly beautiful and picturesque tract of the Hills, we

unsaddled, pitched our tents along Amphibious Creek, and that evening

the new levies arrived. Nobody cared particularly to see the recruits,

but the Fifth Cavalry turned out to a man to see the new horses; and

having called upon and extended a welcoming hand to the comrades joining

us for the first time, we made a dash for the quadrupeds. Before tattoo

that evening there was not one that had not been closely inspected and

squabbled over by the company commanders and their men, and the first

thing the next morning General Merritt ordered the distribution of

horses, "according to color," to companies.

It was revealed that an expedition somewhere was intended by his

directing the regimental adjutant to pick out the old soldiers among the

recruits, assign them to companies at once, and then issue orders to the

regiment to be in readiness to move at daybreak.

Never in my life have I seen such an array of vagabonds as that

battalion of four hundred "unassigned" when I got them into line on the

morning of the 12th of October and proceeded to "pick out the old

soldiers" as directed. That was a matter of no difficulty; they were

already acting as non-commissioned officers of the recruit companies,

but were not sixty all told, and more were needed. Stopping before a

sturdily built little fellow with a grizzled moustache and an

unmistakably soldierly carriage, the only promising-looking man left in

the three hundred who had "stood fast" when the order was given "men who

have served previous enlistments step to front," the adjutant

questioned:

"Haven't you served before?"

"Not in the regulars, sir."

"That man is lame, sir," interposed a sergeant.

"It is an old wound," says the man eagerly, "and it's only so once in

while. I can ride first-rate."

"What was your regiment?"

"Seventh Wisconsin, sir."

"What! Were you at Gainesville?"

"Yes, sir. Wounded there."

A knot of officers--Merritt, Mason, Sumner, and Montgomery--who fought

through the war with the Army of the Potomac, are standing there as the

adjutant turns.

"Sergeant, take this man to Company 'K' and fit him out--and--stop a

moment. Bring him to my tent to-night after supper. Gentlemen, that's an

Iron Brigade man."

That evening a Company "K" sergeant scratches the flap of the adjutant's

tent--you cannot knock when there is no door--and presents himself with

the recruit-veteran. The latter looks puzzled, but perfectly

self-possessed; answers without hesitation two or three rapidly

propounded questions as to names of his regimental officers in '62, and

then seems completely bewildered as the adjutant takes him cordially by

the hand and bids him welcome. However, it did not require many words to

explain the matter.

To return to those recruits. If the police force of our large Eastern

cities were at a loss to account for the disappearance of a thousand or

more of their "regular boarders," a flying trip to the Black Hills on

this 12th day of October, '76, would have satisfied them as to their

whereabouts. Where there were ten "good men and true" among the

new-comers, there were forty who came simply with the intention of

deserting when they got fairly into the Hills and within striking

distance of the mines, an intention most successfully carried out by a

large proportion of their number.

And then the names under which they enlisted! "What's your name?" said

the adjutant to the most unmistakable case of "Bowery Boy" in the front

rank.

"My name's Jackson Bewregard," is the reply, with the accompaniment of

hunching shoulders, projecting chin, overlapping under-lip, and sneering

nostril characteristic of Chatham Square in the palmy days of Mose.

"And yours?" to Mr. Bewregard's left file, a big rough of Hibernian

extraction.

"My name's Jooles Vern."

The adjutant glances at the muster-roll: "'No. 173--Jules Verne.' Ha!

yes. The party that wrote 'Around the World in Eighty Days.' Have we

many more of these eminent Frenchmen, sergeant?"

The sergeant grins under his great moustache. Possibly he is recalling a

fact which the adjutant has by no means forgotten, that ten years

before, when they were both in General Billy Graham's famous light

battery of the First Artillery, of which the adjutant was then second

lieutenant, the sergeant was then, too, a sergeant, but with a very

different name.

Friday, October 13th--ill-omened day of the week, ill-omened day of the

month--and we were to start on a scout down into the valley of the

Cheyenne. Perhaps three fourths of our number neither knew nor cared

what day it was; but, be that as it may, there was an utterly

unmistakable air of gloom about our move. The morning was raw and

dismal. "The General" sounded soon after nine, and the stirring notes

fell upon seemingly listless ears; no one seemed disposed to shout,

whistle, or sing, and just at ten o'clock, when we were all standing to

horse and ready to start, Major Sumner's company sent forth a mournful

little procession towards the new-made grave we had marked on the

hillside at the sharp bend of the creek, and with brief service, but sad

enough hearts, the body of a comrade who had died the night before was

lowered to its rest. The carbines rang out the parting volleys, and

Bradley's trumpet keened a wailing farewell. General Merritt and his

staff, coming suddenly upon us during the rites, silently dismounted and

uncovered until the clods rattled in upon the soldier's rude coffin, and

all was over. Then, signalling us to follow, the chief rode on, the

Fifth swung into saddle, and with perceptibly augmented ranks followed

in his tracks. A battalion of the Third Cavalry, under Colonel Van

Vliet, and a detachment of the Second, under Captain Peale, accompanied

us, while the infantry battalion, the rest of the cavalry, the

recruits, and the sick or disabled remained in camp under command of

Colonel Royall. Where were we going? What was expected? None knew behind

the silent horseman at the head of column; but a start on Friday, the

13th, to the mournful music of a funeral march, boded ill for success.

However, not to be harrowing, it is as well to state right here that ten

days from that date the scout was over, and, without having lost man or

horse, the Fifth rode serenely into Red Cloud Agency. So far as the

regiment was concerned that superstition was exploded.

The march down Amphibious Creek was grandly beautiful as to scenery. We

wound, snake-like, along the stream, gliding under towering,

pine-covered heights, or bold, rocky precipices. The valley opened out

wider as we neared the "sinks," and, finally, turning abruptly to the

right, we dismounted and led our horses over a lofty ridge, bare of

trees, and commanding a broad valley to the south, over which the road

stretched in long perspective till lost in dark Buffalo Gap, the only

exit through the precipitous and lofty range that hemmed in the plain

between us and the Cheyenne valley beyond. Here we encountered an

emigrant train slowly toiling up the southern slope and staring at us in

undisguised wonderment. Ten miles away we came once again "plump" upon

the boiling waters of the creek, where it reappeared after a twelve-mile

digression in the bowels of the earth. It was clear and fair when it

left us in the valley behind to take its plunge, and it met us again

with a more than troubled appearance and the worst kind of an odor.

Square in between the massive portals of the great gap we unsaddled at

sunset and encamped for the night.

In the scout which ensued down the valley of the South Cheyenne there

was absolutely nothing of sufficient interest to record in these pages.

Nor had we any luck in our participation in the "round-up" at the Indian

reservation on the 22d and 23d of October. Such warriors as had remained

near Camp Robinson meekly surrendered to General MacKenzie, and we had

nothing to do but pitch our tents side by side with the new-comers of

the Fourth Cavalry and wonder what was to come next. General Crook was

known to be in the garrison with his aides-de-camp, and we had not long

to wait. On the 24th of October our motley array received the welcome

order to go into winter-quarters, the Fifth Cavalry on the line of the

Union Pacific Railroad, and within another twenty-four hours we were _en

route_ for the comforts of civilization.

But, before we separated from the comrades with whom we had marched and

growled these many weary miles, our chief gave us his parting

benediction in the following words:

"Headquarters Big Horn and Yellowstone Expedition,

Camp Robinson, Neb., _October 24, 1876_.

"_General Orders No. 8._

"The time having arrived when the troops composing the Big Horn

and Yellowstone Expedition are about to separate, the

brigadier-general commanding addresses himself to the officers

and men of the command to say:

"In the campaign now closed he has been obliged to call upon

you for much hard service and many sacrifices of personal

comfort. At times you have been out of reach of your base of

supplies; in most inclement weather you have marched without

food and slept without shelter; in your engagements you

have evinced a high order of discipline and courage; in your

marches, wonderful powers of endurance; and in your

deprivations and hardships, patience and fortitude.

"Indian warfare is, of all warfare, the most dangerous, the most

trying, and the most thankless. Not recognized by the high

authority of the United States Senate as war, it still possesses

for you the disadvantages of civilized warfare, with all the

horrible accompaniments that barbarians can invent and

savages execute. In it you are required to serve without the

incentive to promotion or recognition; in truth, without favor or

hope of reward.

"The people of our sparsely settled frontier, in whose defence

this war is waged, have but little influence with the powerful

communities in the East; their representatives have little voice

in our national councils, while your savage foes are not only

the wards of the nation, supported in idleness, but objects of

sympathy with large numbers of people otherwise well-informed

and discerning.

"You may, therefore, congratulate yourselves that, in the

performance of your military duty, you have been on the side

of the weak against the strong, and that the few people there

are on the frontier will remember your efforts with gratitude.

"If, in the future, it should transpire that the avenues[A] for

recognition of distinguished services and gallant conduct are

opened, those rendered in this campaign will be remembered.

* * * * *

"By Command of Brigadier-General Crook.

(_Signed_) JOHN G. BOURKE,

"_First Lieutenant Third Cavalry,

A.D.C., and A.A.A. General._"

[A: The avenue was at last opened by the signature of the

President to the bill providing that brevet rank might be conferred on

officers for gallant conduct in Indian warfare, but it came just too

late. General Crook had barely time to express his gratification. He

died within the week that followed, and his list of officers recommended

or brevets for services rendered in this campaign died with him.]

To use the emphatic vernacular of the frontier, that parting order "just

filled the bill." It was as complete a summing-up of the disadvantages

of Indian campaigning as could well be written; it indicated plainly how

thoroughly our general had appreciated the sufferings of his men on that

hideous march from Heart River; it assured us of the sympathy he had

felt for one and all (though I doubt if ever a one of us suffered half

so much as he); and, finally, in tendering the thanks of our commander,

it conveyed the only reward we could possibly expect, for had he not

truly said that, of all warfare, Indian warfare is the most thankless?

Well, it was over with, so far as we were concerned, though brief was

our respite, and now came the closing scenes before the rising of the

morning's sun should see us split up into battalions or detachments,

and, with light feet and lighter hearts, marching away to the south.

All night long, at General Crook's headquarters, his tireless staff were

working away at orders and details of the move, and closing his report

to the lieutenant-general at Chicago; and here, too, my services were

kept in requisition preparing the map which was to accompany the written

report, so that, for us at least, there was no opportunity of sharing in

the parting festivities and bidding farewell to comrades, cavalry and

infantry, separating for the new posts and the duties of recuperation.

Our farewells were hurried, yet even now, how vividly I recall the faces

that crowded round headquarters that bright morning of the 25th.

Bronzed and bearded, rugged with the glow of health, or pallid from

wounds and illness, but all kindly and cordial. Then, too, the scenes of

our campaign seemed passing in review before me, and, dream-like, they

linger with me still. Glancing over these now completed pages, how

utterly meagre and unsatisfactory the record seems; how many an incident

have I failed to mention; how many a deed of bravery or self-denial is

left untold. I look back through the mists and rain into the dark depths

of that bloody ravine at Slim Buttes, and wonder how I could ever have

told the story of its assault and failed to speak of how our plucky

Milwaukee sergeant sprang down in the very face of the desperately

fighting Indians and picked up a wounded Third Cavalryman and carried

him on his back out of further harm's way; and of brave, noble-hearted

Munson, as true a soldier as ever commanded company, rushing in between

two fires to drag the terrified squaws from their peril; of Bache,

"swollen, puffed, and disfigured with rheumatism, conquering agony to

mount his horse and take part in the action;" of Rodgers, striding down

the slopes in front of his skirmish-line, his glorious voice ringing

above the clamor, laughing like a schoolboy at the well-meant efforts of

the Indian sharpshooters to pick him off; of General Carr, riding out to

the front on his conspicuous gray, and sitting calmly there to show the

men what wretched shots some Indians could be.

How could half the incidents be told when so little parade was made of

them at the time? Who knew the night of the stampede on the Rosebud

that Eaton was shot through the hand until he had spent an hour or

more completing his duties, riding as though nothing had happened? Who

knew, at the Rosebud battle, that Nickerson's exertions in the saddle

had reopened the old Gettysburg wound and well-nigh finished him? We

thought he looked white and wan when he rejoined us at Red Cloud, but

never divined the cause. From first to last throughout that march of

eight hundred miles, so varied in its scenes, but so utterly

changeless in discomfort, there was a spirit of uncomplaining

"take-it-as-a-matter-of-course" determination that amounted at times

among the men to positive heroism. Individual pluck was thoroughly

tested, and the instances of failure were few and far between.

Despite the fact that our engagements were indecisive at the time (and

Indian fights that fall short of annihilation on either side generally

are), the campaign had its full result. Sitting Bull's thousands were

scattered in confusion over the Northwest, he himself driven to a refuge

"across the line," his subordinates broken up into dejected bands that,

one after another, were beaten or starved into submission, and in the

following year General Crook's broad department, the grand ranges of the

Black Hills and Big Horn, the boundless prairies of Nebraska and

Wyoming, were as clear of hostile warriors as, two years before, they

were of settlers, and to-day the lovely valleys of the North, thanks to

his efforts, and the ceaseless vigilance of Generals Terry and Miles in

guarding the line, are the peaceful homes of hundreds of hardy

pioneers.

ROSTER OF OFFICERS

SERVING WITH THE FIFTH CAVALRY IN THE BIG HORN AND YELLOWSTONE

EXPEDITION OF 1876.

_Colonel_ Wesley Merritt, Brevet Major-General.

_Lieutenant-Colonel_ Eugene A. Carr, Brevet Major-General.

_Major_ John J. Upham.

_Major_ Julius W. Mason, Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel.

_Captain_ Edward H. Leib, Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel.

_Captain_ Samuel S. Sumner, Brevet Major.

_Captain_ Emil Adam.

_Captain_ Robert H. Montgomery.

_Captain_ Sanford C. Kellogg, Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel.

_Captain_ George F. Price.

_Captain_ Edward M. Hayes.

_Captain_ J. Scott Payne.

_Captain_ Albert E. Woodson.

_Captain_ Calbraith P. Rodgers.

_First Lieutenant_ Bernard Reilly, Jr.

_First Lieutenant_ Wm. C. Forbush, A.A.G. Cavalry Brigade.

_First Lieutenant_ Charles King, Adjutant.

_First Lieutenant_ William P. Hall, Quartermaster.

_First Lieutenant_ Walter S. Schuyler, A.D.C. to General Crook.

_Second Lieutenant_ Charles D. Parkhurst.

_Second Lieutenant_ Charles H. Watts (until July, when disabled).

_Second Lieutenant_ Edward W. Keyes.

_Second Lieutenant_ Robert London.

_Second Lieutenant_ George O. Eaton

(until August 24th, disabled August 10th).

_Second Lieutenant_ Hoel S. Bishop.

_Lieutenant_ Wm. C. Hunter, U.S.N. ("Brevet Commodore").

_Second Lieutenant_ Robt. H. Young, 4th Inf.,

A.D.C. to General Merritt.

_Second Lieutenant_ J. Hayden Pardee, 23d Inf.,

A.D.C. to General Merritt.

_Second Lieutenant_ Satterlee C. Plummer, 4th Inf., with Co. "I."

_Acting Assistant Surgeon_ J. W. Powell.

CAPTAIN SANTA CLAUS.

There was unusual commotion in the frontier mining town when the red

stage, snow-covered and storm-beaten, lurched up in front of the Bella

Union and began to disgorge passengers and mail. The crowd on the wooden

sidewalk was of that cosmopolitan type which rich and recently

discovered "leads" so surely attract--tough-looking miners;

devil-may-care cow-boys with rolling hat-brims and barbaric display of

deadly weapons; a choice coterie of gamblers with exaggerated suavity of

manners; several impassive Chinamen (very clean); several loafing

Indians (very dirty); a brace of spruce, clean-shaven, trim-built

soldiers from the garrison down the valley; and the inevitable squad of

"beats" with bleary eyes and wolfish faces infesting the doorways of the

saloons, sublimely trustful of a community that had long ceased to trust

them, and scenting eleemosynary possibilities in each new-comer.

But while the arrival of the stage was a source of perennial excitement

in the business centre of Argentopolis, the commotion on this occasion

was due to the tumultuous welcome given by a mob of school-children to a

tall, bronzed, fiercely moustached party the instant he stepped,

fur-clad, from the dark interior. Such an array of eager, joyous little

faces one seldom sees. Big boys and wee maidens, they threw themselves

upon him with shrill clamor and enthusiastic embraces, swarming about

his legs as, with twinkling eyes and genial greeting, he lifted the

little ones high in air and kissed their dimpled cheeks, and shook the

struggling boys heartily by the hand, and was pulled this way and that

way until eventually borne off in triumph towards the spickspan new

shop, with its glittering white front and alluring display of fruit,

pastry, and confectionery, all heralded forth under the grandiloquent

but delusive sign, "Bald Eagle Bakery."

Upon this tumultuous reception Argentopolis gazed for some moments in

wondering silence. When the transfer of the children and their willing

captive to a point some dozen yards away rendered conversation a

possibility, the spokesman of the sidewalk committee shifted his quid,

and formulated in frontier phrase the question which seemed uppermost in

the public mind:

"Who 'n thunder's that?"

"That?" said the soldier addressed. "That's Captain Ransom. It's good

times the kids'll be having now."

"B'long to your rigiment?"

"Yes; captain of 'B' troop. Been away on leave ever since we got here."

"Seems fond o' children," said the Argentopolitan, reflectively. "Got

any of his own?"

"Nary. He b'longs to the whole crowd. The 'B' company fellers'll be glad

he's back. They think as much of him as the kids do."

"Good officer, eh?"

"You bet; ain't no better in the cavalry."

At this unequivocal endorsement from expert authority the eyes of

Argentopolis again followed the big man in the fur overcoat. With three

or four youngsters tugging at each hand, and a dozen revolving

irregularly about him, he was striding across the street, keeping up a

running fire of chatter with his thronging satellites. Soldier he was

unquestionably. Tall, erect of carriage, broad of shoulder, deep of

chest, with a keen, quick glance from under his heavy brows. Eyes full

of light and fire, nose straight and prominent, a great moustache that

hid the curves of his handsome mouth and swept out across the square and

resolute jaws--a moustache that, like the wavy brown hair about the

temples, was tingeing with gray. Strong white teeth glistened through

the drooping thatch, and one or two merry dimples dotted his bronzed and

weather-beaten cheeks.

Over on the neighboring side street, from the steps of the schoolhouse,

other children surveyed the group, and with envious eyes and watering

mouths beheld the demolition of tarts and turnovers. Despite the keen

and searching cold of the mountain air, rare and still and brimming with

ozone as November days can ever find it, the school shoved its hands

deep in trousers pockets and stared with all its youthful might.

Even so blessed a half-hour must have its end, and as the warning bell

began to ring, and the Townies to shout that "reecess" was over, the

merry throng, spoil-laden, came pouring down the bakery steps, with

many admonitions to their big benefactor not to think of starting for

the fort until school was out and they could escort him home. Two or

three of the smallest still clung to him, explaining that only the big

ones had afternoon school; _they_ were all through; they had nothing to

do until the ambulance came to take them all at four o'clock; and the

captain became suddenly aware of two little people standing on the

sidewalk and regarding him wistfully. One was a sturdy boy of seven,

with frank blue eyes and chubby rounded cheeks--a picture of solid young

America despite the fact that his little fists were red and bare; his

knickerbockers, though well fitting, were worn and patched; and the

copper toes of his cheap, heavy boots were wearing suspiciously thin. He

stood protectingly by a little maiden, whose face was like those of Sir

Joshua Reynolds's seraphs--a face as pure an oval as ever sculptor

modelled or painter limned, with great, lustrous, long-lashed eyes and

delicate and dainty features, and all about it tumbled a wealth of

glistening golden hair, and all over it shone the look of childish

longing and almost piteous entreaty. One little mittened hand was

clasped in her brother's; the other, uncovered, hung by a finger in her

rosy mouth. She was warmly clad; her little cloak and hood were soft and

white and fleecy; her pigmy legs were cased in stout worsted, and her

feet in warm "arctics," and "mother's darling" was written in every

ornament of her dress.

Ransom, stowing away a handful of silver, came suddenly upon this silent

pair, and stopped short. Another instant and he had stooped, raised the

younger child in his strong hands, and with caressing tone accosted her:

"Why, little Snow-drop, who are you? What a little fairy you are!"

"She ain't one of us," piped up a youthful patrician, disdainfully.

"She's infantry. He's her brother, and they don't belong to the fort."

The boy's face flushed, and he looked reproachfully at the speaker, but

said no word. Ransom was gazing with singular intentness into the

downcast face of his little captive.

"Won't you tell me your name, little one?" he pleaded. "Why didn't you

come in and have some tarts and turnovers with the others? I've got to

run now and meet some other old fellows at the stage office. Here,

little man," he said, as he set her down, "take Snow-drop in for me, and

you two just eat all you can, and you pay for it for me." He held out a

bright half-dollar. Snow-drop's eyes glistened, and she looked eagerly

at her brother.

But the boy hung back. For an instant he hesitated, screwing his boot

toe into a convenient knot-hole as means of covering his embarrassment.

"Come, Jack," said the captain, reassuringly, touching him on the

shoulder. The little fellow shook his head.

"Why not, my boy?" pleaded Ransom. "Papa won't mind, when you tell him

it was old Uncle Hal. That's what they call me."

A lump rose in the youngster's throat. His head went lower.

"It--it's mamma wouldn't like it," he finally said; and just then, with

rush and sputter of hoofs, two officers came trotting around the corner,

threw themselves from their saddles, pounced upon their comrade, and

overwhelmed him with joyous greeting. Another minute and others arrived,

and between them all he was led away up the street. While some of the

children confidently followed, two remained behind--little Snow-drop,

refusing to be comforted, was applying the back of her mittened hand to

her weeping eyes, and turning a deaf ear to her manful brother, who was

vainly striving to explain matters.

"Maudie Carleton's crying because Phil wouldn't take the money and get

her some goodies," said little Jack Wilkins, in an opportune pause.

"Who did you say?" asked Ransom, turning suddenly, and looking

inquiringly at his friends. There was an instant of embarrassment. Then

one of the officers replied,

"Maud Carleton, Ransom. Those are poor Phil Carleton's little ones."

"Wait for me at the office, fellows; I'll be along in a minute," was the

response; and the captain went striding back to the Bald Eagle.

It was an old story in the cavalry. Very few there were who knew not

that Captain Ransom was a hard-hit man when Kate Perry--the beauty of

her father's regiment--came back from school, and with all the wealth of

her grace and loveliness and winning ways, refusing to see how she had

impressed one or two "solid" men of the garrison, fell rapturously in

love with Philip Carleton, the handsome, dashing scapegrace of the

subalterns. It was "hard lines" for old Colonel Perry; it would have

been misery to her devoted mother; but she was spared it all--the grass

had been growing for years over her distant grave.

[Illustration: "'COME, JACK,' SAID THE CAPTAIN, REASSURINGLY."]

The wedding was a glitter of gold-lace, champagne glasses, and tears.

Every one wished her--and him--all happiness, but dreaded the future.

There was a year of bliss, and little Phil was born; another year when

she was much taken up with her baby boy, and the father much abroad--a

year of clouds and silence. Then came sudden call to the field, and one

night with reeling senses she read the despatch that told her he was

shot dead in battle with the Sioux. When little Maudie came there was no

father to receive her in his arms. The gray-haired colonel took the

widow and her children a few short years to his own roof; then he, too,

was called to his account, and with a widow's pension and the relic of

her father's savings the sorrowing woman moved from the garrison that

had so long been her home, and took up arms against her sea of troubles.

She need not have gone. All Fort Rains knew that there were officers who

would gladly have taken her and her beautiful children to their

fireside. But she was loyal, proud, high-spirited, and she could not

stay. All the roof her father had to leave her was the frame cottage at

the ranch he had bought and stocked, a mile below the fort. She was a

soldier's daughter, brave and resolute, she had her father's old

soldier-servant and his wife to help her, and she moved to the ranch,

and declared she would be dependent on no one. When first she had come

into that glorious valley, a girl of eighteen, a large force of cavalry

was encamped around the garrison in which her father's regiment of foot

was stationed, and Captain Harold Ransom became one of her most devoted

admirers, though nearly twice her age. Few men had much chance against

such a lover as Phil Carleton, buoyant, brilliant, gallant, the pride of

all the juniors in the infantry, the despair of many a prudent mother;

and when that engagement was announced, the cavalry were rather glad to

be ordered away, and to comfort themselves with the perilous

distractions of Indian fighting for three or four stirring years. But,

before they left, Ransom and others had bought much of the land on which

Argentopolis gleamed to-day. Perhaps it was the silver that came into

his hair as well as his pockets, but silver did not cause the lines that

crept under his kindly eyes and around the corners of the firm mouth. He

was rich, as army men go, but his heart was sorely wrenched. He went

abroad when the Indian campaigns were over, and rejoined while his

comrades were on the Pacific coast, and became the delight of the

children and the children's mothers. Captain Santa Claus they called him

at Walla Walla and Vancouver, where he was the life of those garrisons;

and while men honored and women waxed sentimental towards him, it was

the children who took possession of the tall soldier and made his house

their home, who trooped unbidden all over it at any hour of the day, and

made it the garrison play-ground when the rainy season set in and drove

them to cover.

And then, after their four years in the Columbia country, the regiment

crossed the big range, and, wonder of wonders, headquarters and six

troops, one of them Ransom's, were ordered to Fort Rains! He was again

on long leave when the change of station occurred, and the widow drew a

long breath. She found life very different, with her father's old

friends and hers removed. As the children grew in years their needs

increased. She sold the stock and much of the land of the Ranch, keeping

only the homestead and the patch around it, but she was glad to find

employment at the fort as teacher of the piano and singing. She played

well, but her voice was glorious, and had been carefully trained. The

news that he was coming had given her a shock. It was more than eight

years since she had seen him. It was more than five since she had

briefly answered the letter he wrote her on hearing of her husband's

death. It was so manly, sympathetic, and so full of something he knew

not how to express--a longing to shield her from want or care. She had

gently but firmly ended it all.

And yet--She was bitterly poor now. Handsomer than ever, said the

officers who knew her in the old days; still wearing her mourning, and

looking so tall and majestic in her rusting weeds. She was a woman whose

form and carriage would be noticeable anywhere--tall, slender, graceful,

with a certain slow, languorous ease of motion that charmed the senses.

Her face was exquisite in contour and feature--a pure type of blond,

blue-eyed, Saxon beauty, with great masses of shimmering golden-brown

hair. No wonder Ransom felt a thrill when he looked into Maudie's

eyes--the child was her mother in miniature. At twenty-seven, with all

her trials, Mrs. Carleton was a lovelier woman than in her maiden

radiance at eighteen. What she had gained in strength and character,

through her years of poverty and self-abnegation, God alone knew, and He

had been her comforter.

For nearly a year the garrison children had been going in to town for

school, an excellent teacher having been secured in the East, and Mrs.

Carleton eagerly embraced the chance of sending hers. She could no

longer afford a nurse to look after the wee one. She could not take her

on her daily round of lessons, and her infantry friends had gladly seen

to it that the little Carletons were carried to and fro with their own.

So, too, when the cavalry came had Colonel Cross assured her that the

ambulance should always come for them and bring them back to the post.

Everybody wanted to be kind to her, or said so at least; but the ladies

were all new and strange. She had never been the pet among them she was

in her own regiment. They had not known and loved her father, as had the

colonel. They had heard of handsome Phil Carleton, as who had not? but

they had heard of Hal Ransom's old-time devotion to her, and now he

would soon be back. Rich, growing gray, everybody's friend, the

children's idol--oh! what if she should set that widow's cap for him

now! The possibility was appalling.

And Christmas was coming, and the children had been weaving glowing

pictures of the bliss to be theirs because Captain Santa Claus was

homeward bound, and little Maud was listening with eager ears, and her

blue-eyed brother in silent longing. The boy was his mother's knight and

champion. She took him into her confidence and told him many of her

troubles, and time and again after Maudie was asleep the two were

rocking in the big arm-chair in front of the hearth, the little fellow

curled up in her lap, his arms around her neck, his ruddy cheek nestled

against hers, that looked so fragile and white by contrast. He knew how

hard a struggle mamma was having in keeping the wolf from the door, and

he was helping her--little hero that he was--wearing uncomplainingly the

patched knickerbockers and cowhide boots, bearing in soldier silence the

thoughtless jeers of his schoolmates, and taking comfort in the fact

that sensitive little Maud was always prettily dressed. She had been

petted from babyhood, for scarlet-fever had left her weak and nervous.

And so the coming of glad Christmas-tide was not to them the source of

boundless joy it seemed to others. For days Maud had been coming home

from school full of childish prattle about the lovely things the other

girls were going to have. Couldn't she have a real wax doll, with

"truly" eyes and hair, that could sing and say mamma; and a doll house,

with kitchen, and a real pump and stove in it, and dining-room and

parlor, and lots of lovely bedrooms up-stairs; and a doll carriage like

Mabel Vane's, with blue cushions, and white wheels and body, and

umbrella top? She was tired of her old dollies and her broken wagon. Why

didn't people ever give her such beautiful things? If she was very good,

and wrote to Santa Claus, wouldn't he bring her what she wanted so very,

very much? Poor Mrs. Carleton! Do our hearts ever ache over our own

troubles as they do over the longings of our little ones? She promised

Maud that Santa Claus should bring the very things she craved, and now

she knew not how to fulfil her pledge. Commissary and butcher bills were

still unpaid, and she so hated to ask even for what was due her! It is

such an old, homely, heart-worn story--that of Christmas yearnings that

must be unfulfilled! We lay down our cherished plans with a sigh of

resignation, but when baby eyes and baby lips are pleading, God forgive

us if we are not so humbly patient, if we accept our burden not without

a murmur, or yield not without a struggle!

She had other sore perplexities. She well knew she must meet Hal Ransom.

Two days had elapsed since Phil had told her of the reception accorded

him, and Maud had preferred her complaint against her brother for being

so mean to her in not taking the money and giving her a treat.

Heaven! how the widowed soul hugged her boy to her bosom that night, and

kissed and blessed and cried over him! Come what might, he should have a

Christmas worth remembering, for his remembrance of her! She had long

planned to send to Chicago for a handsome suit to replace the worn and

outgrown knickerbockers. It would have crushed her to think of her

boy's taking money from him, of all people, no matter what the Forties

did. Then came the question as to how she would meet him. Go to the fort

she had to every day, and meet they must. It was not that he would be

obtrusive; he was too thorough a gentleman for that, and her last letter

to him was such that he could not be. It was written in the ecstasy of

her bereavement, when she was hiding even from herself the faults and

neglects of the buried Philip to whom she had given her girlish love.

With lofty spirit she had told him she lived only to teach her children

to revere their father's memory, and that she could never think of

accepting aid from any one, though she thanked him for the delicacy and

thoughtfulness of his well-meant offer. She had asked herself many a

time in the last year whether, if it were to be done again, she could

find it in her heart to be quite so cold and repellent. She wondered if

he had ever heard that the last year of her handsome Philip's life had

been devoted more to other women than to her. She could not tolerate the

idea that he, above all, should suppose that between Philip and herself

all had not been blissful, and that she had been neglected not a little.

And yet--and yet was she unlike other women that just now her toilet

received rather more thought than usual, and that she wondered would he

find her faded--changed?

They met, as men and women whose hearts hold weightier secrets must

meet, with the ease and cordiality which their breeding demands. Scene

there was none; but she saw, and saw instantly, what she had vainly

striven to teach herself she was utterly indifferent to, that in his

eyes she was no more faded than his love in hers. She could have

scourged herself for the thrill of life and youth it gave her.

That night little Philip was hugged closer than ever. He had been

telling her how the captain was moving into his new quarters, and the

children trooped over there the moment they got back from school, and

would not ask them, because they were infantry, and Maud cried, and the

captain himself came out and took her in his arms and carried her, and

made him come too, and they all had nuts and raisins and apples, and the

captain was just as kind to them as though they were cavalry--"more too,

for he kept Maudie on his knee most of the time, and wanted us to stay,

but we had to go and meet mamma. And he said that was what made him

proud of me from the first, because I was so true to you, mamma," said

Phil. "I suppose because I wouldn't take his half-dollar."

She was silent a moment, pressing her lips to his cheek, and striving

hard to subdue the tears that rose to her eyes. She had something to ask

of her boy that was hard, very hard. Yet it had to be done.

"You were right, Philip. It would have hurt mamma more than words can

tell had you taken money from--from any one. We are very poor, but we

can be rich in one thing--independence. Mamma has not had much luck this

year. It seemed all to go with papa's old regiment. But we'll be brave

and patient, you and mamma, and say nothing to anybody about our

troubles. We'll pay what we owe as we go along. Won't we, Phil?"

"I wish I could help some way, mamma."

"You can, my soldier boy."

He looked up quickly and patted her cheek; then threw his arm around her

neck again. Something told him what it would have to be.

"Maudie is a baby who cannot realize our position. Philip is my brave

little knight and helper. It--it is so hard for mamma to say it, my boy,

but if we buy what she so longs for at Christmas, there will be nothing

left for the skates, and I know how you want them, and how many other

things you ought to have. You have helped mother so often, Phil. Can you

help her once more?"

For all answer he only clung to her the closer.

And now holiday week was near at hand. It was Friday, and school would

close that afternoon, and for two blessed, blissful weeks there would be

no session at all. Christmas Day would come on Tuesday, and the Forties

were running riot in the realms of anticipation. They hugged each other

and danced about the street when the express agent told them of the

packages that were coming almost every day for Captain Ransom, and the

little Townies, who were wont to protest they were glad their papas

weren't in the army, were beginning to show traitorous signs of

weakening. It was a sore test, if every regiment had its own Santa

Claus, as the Forties said.

And older heads were noting that for some time Captain Ransom drove not

so much townward, up the valley as down; and that there was a

well-defined sleigh track from the lower gate over to the Ranch.

Officers coming up from the stables were quick to note the new feature

in the wintry landscape, and to make quizzical comment thereon. Then, on

Sunday, the third in Advent, a heavy snow-storm came up during the

morning service, and the wind blew a "blizzard." It was only a few weeks

after the captain's arrival, but his handsome roans were well known in

the valley already, and the ladies looked at each other and nodded

significantly as they saw the team drawn up near the chapel door when

the congregation came shuddering out into the cold. Mrs. Colonel Cross,

who had a charming young sister visiting her for the holidays, and Mrs.

Vane, whose cousin Pansy had come over from her brother's station at

Fort Whittlesey, had both offered Ransom seats in their pews until he

chose his own; but he had chosen his own very promptly, and it was well

down the aisle opposite that to which Mrs. Carleton had humbly retired

after her father's death. As a consequence the higher families reached

the door only in time to see the captain bundling the widow and her

little ones in his costly robes, and driving away through the whirling

storm.

That night the wind died away; the snow fell heavily, and all the next

day it lay in silent, unruffled, unfurrowed beauty over the broad level

below the fort, and though the captain's sleigh went townward towards

evening, and the butcher's "bob" tore an ugly groove along the lower

edge, there was now no trail other than the foot-path along the

willow-fringed river-bank joining the garrison with the widow's gate.

When Friday came, and the plain was still unfurrowed, Fort Rains was

unanimous in its conclusion; Captain Ransom had offered himself again,

and been rejected.

The households of Vane and Potts, and the ladies, at least, at the

colonel's, breathed freer. Captain Ransom was invited to Christmas

dinner at all three places, and begged to be excused. He explained that

he purposed having all the children at his house from eight to ten for

general frolic that evening--and would not the ladies come over and see

the fun? Mrs. Vane and Pansy were for changing their dinner hour to five

o'clock, if thereby the captain could be secured, and Vane "sounded"

him, but without the hoped-for result. He would have to be at home, he

said. Mrs. Carleton was narrowly watched. Women who had been disposed to

treat her coldly could have hugged her now, if they could be sure she

had really refused the best catch in the cavalry, and left a chance for

some one else. But Mrs. Carleton gave no sign, and she was a woman they

dared not question. What staggered the theory of renewed offer and

rejection was the warmth and cordiality of manner with which they met in

public--and they met almost daily. There was something that seemed to

shatter the idea of rejection in the very smile she gave him, and in the

reverence of his manner towards her. Estrangement there certainly was

none, and yet he had been going over to the Ranch every day, and his

visits had suddenly ceased. Why? They scanned his face for indications;

but, as Mrs. Vane put it, "he always was an exasperating creature; you

could no more read him than you could a mummy."

Monday before Christmas had come, and Colonel Cross, trudging home from

his office about noon, caught sight of the tall and graceful figure of

Mrs. Carleton coming towards him along the walk. He was about to hail

her in his cheery style, when he saw that her head was bowed, and that

she was in evident distress. Even while he was wondering how to accost

her, she put him out of doubt. Her lips were twitching and her cheeks

were flushed; tears were starting in her eyes, but she strove hard to

command herself and speak calmly.

"You were so kind as to order the 'special' for me this morning,

colonel, but I shall not need it--I cannot go to town."

He knew well that something had gone wrong. Blunt, rugged old trooper

that he was, he had been her father's intimate in their cadet days, and

he wanted to befriend her. More than a little he suspected that hers was

not a path of roses among the ladies at Rains. In his presence they were

on guard over their tongues, but he had not been commanding officer of

several garrisons for nothing.

"Mrs. Carleton," he impetuously spoke, "something's amiss. Can't you

tell an old fellow like me, and let me--ah--settle things? Surely it is

something I can do."

She thanked him warmly. It was nothing in which he could be of service,

she declared, trying hard to smile--she was a little upset and could

not go to town. But he saw she had just come from Mrs. Vane's, and he

knew that estimable and virtuous woman thoroughly, and drew his

conclusions. Whatever was wrong, it was not unconnected with her

monitions or ministrations--of that he was confident. As for Mrs.

Carleton, she turned quickly from the fort and took her lonely, winding

way among the willows to her valley home, a heart-sick woman.

Counting her ways and means, she had found that to pay for the items she

had promised Maud and had ordered for her boy--the latter being the suit

sent "C. O. D." from Chicago--she would have to ask a favor of her

patrons at the fort. She had arranged with the proprietor of the big

variety store in town that he should set aside for her a certain

beautiful doll and one of the prettiest of the doll carriages, and that

she would come and get them on this very afternoon. To meet her bills

and these expenses, and that there might be no disappointment, she had

addressed to the parents of her few pupils a modest little note,

enclosing her bill, and asking as a kindness to her that it might be

paid by Saturday, the 22d. Courteous and prompt response had come from

all but two, and with the money thus obtained she had settled her little

household accounts. Mrs. Vane and Mrs. Potts, however, had vouchsafed no

reply, and it was to the mothers, not the fathers, her notes had been

addressed. On Monday morning, therefore, when she went to give Miss

Adele her lesson, she ventured to ask for Mrs. Potts, and Mrs. Potts was

out--spending the day at Mrs. Vane's. So thither she went, and with

flushing cheeks and deep embarrassment inquired if the ladies had

received her notes. Mrs. Potts had, and was overcome, she said, with

dismay. She had totally forgotten, and thought it was next Saturday she

meant; and now the captain had gone to town, and there was no way she

could get at him. Then came Mrs. Vane's turn. Mrs. Vane, too, had

received her note, but she was not overcome. With much majesty of mien

she told the widow that she always paid her bills on the last day of the

quarter, and that her husband was so punctilious about it and so

methodical that she never asked him to depart from the rule. Mrs.

Carleton strove hard to keep down her pride and the surging impulse to

cry out against such heartless superiority of manner and management.

There was a tinge of reproach in the plea she forced herself to make for

her babies' sake. "You know there are no more lessons this term, Mrs.

Vane; my work is done; and I--so needed it for Christmas, or I would not

have asked." And she smiled piteously through the starting tears. Mrs.

Vane was sorry--very sorry. She could hardly ask her husband to depart

from his life-long practice, even if he were here--and he, too, had gone

to town.

Yes, everybody seemed to have gone or sent to town for Christmas

shopping. Her little ones were alone in having no one to buy for them.

Harold Ransom too was going, for she saw the handsome roans come dashing

up the drive, as she rose, with a burning sense of indignity, to take

her leave. She came upon Miss Pansy in the hallway, all hooded and

furred, and beaming with bliss at the prospect of a sleigh-ride to

town--behind the roans, no doubt. Never mind that now. Her heart was

full of only one thought--her babies. Where were now her long-cherished

schemes? All Fort Rains was blithe and jubilant over the coming

festivities; Maud was wild with anticipation; and she alone--she alone,

who had worked so hard and faithfully that her children might find joy

in their Christmas awaking--she alone had seen her hopes turn to ashes.

In her pride and her vehement determination to be "beholden" to no one,

she would seek no help in her trouble. She went home, asking only to be

alone, thankful that the children were spending the day with friends in

the garrison, and could not be there to see the misery in her eyes.

Full an hour she gave to her uncontrollable grief, locked in her room,

sobbing in utter prostration. Her eyes were still red and swollen; she

was weak, trembling, exhausted, when the sudden sound of hoof-beats

roused her. The blood flew to her cheeks. Despite her prohibition, then,

he was here. He had come again, and something told her he had fathomed

her trouble, and would not be denied. She heard the quick, firm tread

upon the steps, the imperative rat-tat-tat of the whip-handle on the

door. She could have called to her faithful slave Mrs. Malloy, the

"striker's" wife, who had known her from babyhood, and bidden her tell

the captain she must be excused, but it was too late. Bridget Malloy had

seen her face when she came home; had vainly striven to enter her room

and share her sorrow; had shrewdly suspected the cause of the trouble,

and through the key-hole had poured forth voluble Hibernian fealty and

proffers of every blessed cent of her savings, but only to be implored

to go away and let her have her cry in peace. Even had Mrs. Carleton

ordered her to deny her to the visitor, it is probable that Mrs. Malloy

would have obeyed--her own instincts.

"Sure it's glad I am to see the captain!" was her prompt greeting; "and

it was a black day that ever let ye go from her. Come right in, an' I'll

call her to ye. It's all broke up she is."

And so she had to come. There he stood in the little sanctuary where

Philip in photographed beauty beamed down upon her from over the mantel,

and Philip's rusting sword hung like that of Damocles by the fragile

thread of sentiment that bound her to the past. There he stood with such

a world of tenderness, yearning, sympathy, and suppressed and passionate

love in his dark eyes! She came in, almost backward, striving to hide

her swollen and disfigured face. He never strove to approach her. With

one hand on the mantel, he stood gazing sorrowfully at her. With one

hand on the door-knob, with averted face, she silently awaited his

words.

"I have disobeyed you, Kate, though I left my sleigh and came on Roscoe.

I have tried to accept what you said eight days ago, but no man on earth

who has heard what I have heard to-day could obey you longer. No.

Listen!" he urged, as she half turned, with silencing gesture. "I'm not

here to plead for myself, but--my heart is breaking to see you

suffering, and to think of your being subjected to such an outrage as

that of this morning. Of course I heard of it. I made them tell me. The

colonel had seen your distress, and told me you had abandoned the trip

to town. I found out the rest. Yes, Mrs. Carleton, if you so choose to

term it" (for she had turned with indignant query in her eyes), "I

_pried_ into your affairs. Do you think I can bear this, to know you are

in want--for want it must be, or you'd never have stooped to ask that

vulgar, purse-proud, patronizing woman for money? Do you think I can

live here and see you subjected to this? By Heaven! If nothing else will

move you, in Philip's name, in your children's name, let me lift this

burden from you. Send me across the continent if you like. I'll promise

to worry you no more, if that will buy your trust. I've lived and borne

my lot these eight or nine long years, and can bear it longer if need

be. What I can't bear, and won't bear, is your suffering from actual

_poverty_. Kate Carleton, won't you trust me?"

"How _can_ I be your debtor, Captain Ransom? Ask yourself--ask any

one--what would be said of me if I took one cent from you! I _do_ thank

you. I _am_ grateful for all you have done and would do. Oh, it is not

that I do not bless you every day and night for being so thoughtful for

me, so good to my little ones! It wasn't for myself I was so broken

to-day; it was for my--my babies. Oh, I--I _cannot_ tell you!"

And now she broke down utterly, weeping hysterically, uncontrollably. In

the abandonment of her grief she threw her arms upon the wooden casing

of the doorway, and bowed her head upon them. One instant he stood

there, his hands fiercely clinching, his broad chest heaving, his

bronzed, honest, earnest face working with his weight of emotion, and

then, with uncontrollable impulse, with one bound he leaped to her side,

seized her slender form in his arms, and clasped her to his breast. In

vain she struggled; in vain her startled eyes, filled with resolute

loyalty to the old faith, blazed at him through their mist of tears; he

held her close, as once again, despite her struggles and her forbidding

words, he poured forth his plea.

"You _can_ take it, you _must_ take it. For your own sake, for your

children's sake--even for his!--give me the right to protect and cherish

you. I--I don't ask your love. Ah, Kate, be merciful!" and then--fatal

inspiration!--but the face he loved was so--so near; he never would have

done it had he thought--it was only as utterly unconquerable an impulse

as his wild embrace; his lips were so tremulous with entreaty, with

love, sympathy, pleading, pity, passion, everything that impelled and

nothing that restrained, that with sudden sweep they fell upon her

flushed and tear-wet cheek, and ere he knew it he had kissed her.

There was no mistaking the wrath in her eyes now. She was free in an

instant, and bidding him begone. He begged hard for pardon, but to no

purpose. She would listen to nothing. Go he must--his presence was

insult. And he left her panting with indignation, a vengeance-hurling

goddess, a wild-eyed Juno, while he at full gallop went tearing through

the snow-drifts, recklessly, dolefully, yet determinedly, back to the

post. In half an hour he was whipping to town.

When sunset came, and the evening gun awakened the echoes of the

snow-shrouded valley, and the red disk went down behind the crested

bluffs far up the stream, a sleigh came out from the fort, and Captain

Vane, with curious mixture of cordiality and embarrassment, restored

Phil and Maud to the maternal roof, and begged to hand her the amount

due from him and from Captain Potts for family tuition. He had only

heard a--accidentally--a few minutes before, of her request. And wasn't

there something else he could do? Would she not go to town with him

to-morrow morning? She thanked him. She hardly knew what to do. Here was

the money at last, but it was Christmas eve now, and there was no time

to be lost, and town lay full six miles away. Perhaps she wished a

messenger now, suggested the captain--he would send in a mounted man

gladly. Knowing no other way to secure her treasures for her little

ones, she breathlessly accepted his offer, briefly explained the

situation, and told him how she longed to have the presents there, with

the trifles she had made for them, to greet their eyes with the coming

day. The messenger could go to the store and get the coveted doll and

carriage; there would surely be sleighs from the fort that would bring

them out for him, and he would find the box from Chicago at the express

office, and could pay the charges and sign the receipt on her written

order to the agent. It was arranged in a moment, and with reviving hope

she gave the children their tea and strove to get them early to bed.

Ten o'clock came. The little ones were at last asleep. She had filled

the stockings with such inexpensive but loving remembrances as she could

afford, and had tottered dangerously near the brink of another flood of

tears when Malloy and his wife came in, the one with a box of tools for

Phil, the other with a set of china for the doll-house. She had finally

bidden those faithful friends good-night, and, having arranged the few

gifts she had for the children, she threw over her shoulders a heavy

shawl and went to the gate to listen for the messenger's return.

It was a perfect night--clear, still, and sparkling. The moon shone

brightly upon the glistening mantle of snow, and tinged with silver the

pine crests across the stream. Westward, on a little rise, were the

twinkling lights of the fort. Far beyond, far up the narrowing valley,

other lights, dim and distant, marked the position of the town. She

could hear the faint, muffled sound of shots with which the benighted

but jubilant frontiersmen were hailing the coming of the sacred

anniversary, like some midwinter Fourth of July, with exuberant and

explosive hilarity. Then, nearer at hand, soft, sweet, and solemn, there

floated out over the valley the prolonged notes of the cavalry trumpet

sounding the signal "Lights out," the "good-night" of the garrison. Then

all the broad windows of the barracks were shrouded in sudden gloom;

only in the quarters of the officers, on the opposite side of the

parade, were the lights still twinkling. In one of them, nearest the

gate, high up aloft, and close under the gables, there gleamed a

brighter light than all the others. Even in the chilly air she felt the

flush of blood to her cheeks. That was Ransom's house. She well knew he

had chosen it, farthest from the quarters and stables of his troop,

simply because it was at the end of the row, overlooking the valley, and

nearest her. Two weeks since he had said to her that he could not rid

himself of the thought of her isolation. Though off the beaten track a

full three-quarter mile, and within long carbine-range of the sentries,

she was still far away, almost unprotected. Though Indians were no

longer to be feared, there were such things as tramps and blackguards in

the settlements. She laughed at his fears. She had lived there three

years, and never heard a sound at night other than the occasional howl

of a coyote and the distant watch-cry of the sentries. She had brave old

Malloy with his gun, and Bridget with her tongue and nails; she had

Philip's sword, her own brave spirit, and her boy: what had she to fear?

All the same, struggle against it though she would, it was sweet to hear

his anxious questioning. Even if unmolested by marauders, something

might go wrong--Maudie have croup, a kerosene lamp burst. She might need

help. Who knew? "I shall put a bright lamp and reflector in the little

round garret window every night as soon as I get home," he said, "and,

should you ever be in danger or need, throw a red handkerchief over your

biggest lantern, and show it at the top window. If the sentries don't

see it at once, fire Malloy's gun." She promised, laughingly, though

repudiating the possibility. She had told herself that Philip's spirit

was all the protection she needed; but the night landscape of the

valley, the night lights at the fort, had acquired of late an interest

they never knew before. She would have scourged herself had she

believed, she would have stormed at any one who suggested, that she went

to look for his light; but if ever it failed to be there, at ten or

eleven or later, she knew it. Whatever might be his evening occupation

at the fort--a dinner, a card-party, officers' school, "non-coms"

recitation--it was his habit on reaching home to go at once to the

garret and post his sentinel light. What would he not have given for an

answering signal?

And there was the light now. He was home, then, and, despite her anger

and his banishment, he was faithful. Christmas eve, and only ten, and he

was home and watching over her. She was still quivering with wrath at

him for that ravished kiss--at least she told herself she was, and had

told him a great deal more. Was it quite fair to drive him from her

home, as she had, when Phil was so fond of him and Maudie loved him so,

and he was so devoted to them? What could he be doing at home so early?

There was a party at the adjutant's, she knew. She had been obliged to

decline. She had three invitations for Christmas dinners, and had said

no to all, gratefully. There were many who wanted to be kind to her, but

she had only one dress she considered fit to wear, so, too, had little

Maud, and as for her brave boy Phil, he had nothing--unless the suit

from Chicago came in time. Without that he could not go to the captain's

Christmas-tree. Why did not the messenger return? She was becoming

feverishly anxious.

It was too cold to remain out-of-doors. She re-entered, and paced

fitfully up and down her little parlor. She went in and bent over her

sleeping children, and rearranged the coverlets with the noiseless touch

of the mother's hand; she leaned over and kissed them softly, and now

that her surcharged nature had had free vent, and the skies were cleared

by the morning's storm, she felt far gentler, happier. Her cry had done

her good. Her hopefulness was returning--but not the messenger. What

_could_ detain him? Where could he be? It was eleven, and long after,

when at last she sighted a shadowy horseman loping across the moonlit

plain, and slowly he dismounted at her gate and came to

her--empty-handed. He was a soldier of Vane's troop, and his tale was

doleful. He had been set upon in a saloon, robbed, and beaten. The money

was gone, he had brought back nothing but bruises. As consolation he

imparted the fact that 'twas too late to get the doll and carriage. The

last ones had been sold that evening, as she had not come to claim them.

Then he had stepped in to take a drink, because he was cold, and then

the catastrophe had occurred. True or false as might be the story, there

was no doubt of the veracity of that portion which referred to the

drink. Conscious that it was too late to do anything at this hour, she

simply dismissed him, bidding him go at once to the post, barred and

locked her door, and sat down, stunned and heartsick. This, then, was

the joyous Christmas for which she had worked so long and hard! She

raised her arms in one last appeal to Heaven; then threw herself upon

her knees beside her little ones, and buried her face in her quivering

hands. What would their early waking bring to them now but

disappointment? For half an hour she knelt there helpless, stunned. Then

lifted her head--startled.

Somebody was fumbling at the storm-door. With her heart in her throat,

she listened, incredulous, fearful, then convinced. The boards creaked

and snapped beneath a heavy, stealthy tread. She heard, beyond doubt, a

muttered question, a reply. There were two of them, then! All was

darkness in her parlor now, only the light burned in the children's

room. Her heart bounded, but she stole, despite trembling knees,

noiselessly into the parlor, stooped and peered through the slats, and,

sure as fate, two men, burly, muffled so that they were unrecognizable,

were bending down at the storm-house in front of her parlor door.

Quickly she rose, scurried through the parlor, up the stairs to the room

above the kitchen, where she rapped heavily at the door. "Malloy!

Malloy!" she cried. No answer but a snore and heavy breathing. She

rattled the knob and called again. This time with success.

"Who is't?" was the startled challenge.

"It is I--Mrs. Carleton! Quick, Malloy! Two men are trying to break in

at the front door."

She heard the bound with which the old soldier leaped to the floor. She

ran into the front room. One quick glance showed her Ransom's

signal-light blazing across the mile of snow. One moment more, and,

muffled in red silk, her biggest lantern swung glowing in the window.

Then down the stairs she hurried to her children, just as Malloy, with

his carbine, and Bridget, with a six-shooter, swept gallantly into

action. She heard his fierce summons, "Who shtands there?" and listened

breathlessly. No response. "Who's dhere, I say?" Dead silence. Not even

scurrying footsteps. She crept to the window and peered out. No one

near. She raised the sash, threw open a shutter, and gazed abroad. The

little piazza was deserted, unless both were hiding inside the

storm-house. No! See! Over among the willows by the stream there are

shadowy figures and a sleigh.

"They've gone, Malloy! They are up the river-bank with a sleigh!" she

called. And then she heard him furiously unbarring the parlor door

preparatory to a rush. She heard it swing open, an impetuous sally, a

collision, a crash, the clatter of a dropped carbine against the

surrounding wood-work, a complication of anathemas and objurgations from

the dark interior, and then a dialogue in choice Hibernian.

"Are ye hurted, Terence?"

"I am. Bad scran to the blagyards that left their thrunk behind 'em!"

Trunk! What trunk? She bore a light into the parlor, and revealed

Malloy, with rueful visage, doubled up over a big wooden box planted

squarely in the doorway. Robbers, indeed! Mrs. Bridget whisked him out

of the way, ran and closed the children's door, and in another moment

had lugged the big box into the parlor, and wrenched away the top. The

two women were on their knees before it in an instant.

First they dragged forth a great flat paper box, damp and cool and

moist, and this the widow opened tremblingly. A flat layer of white

cotton, dry; then paper; a flat layer of white cotton, moist; and then,

peep! Upon the fresh, green coils of smilax, rich with fragrance, sweet,

moist, dewy, exquisite, lay store upon store of the choicest

flowers--rose-buds and rose-blossoms in cream and yellow and pink and

crimson, carnations in white and red, heliotrope and hyacinth, and

fairest pansies, and modest little violets, and gorgeous tulips, even

great callas--the first flowers she had seen in years. Oh, Captain Santa

Claus! who taught you Christmas wooing? Where learned you such art as

this? Beneath the box was yet another, bearing the stamp of the great

Chicago firm, sealed, corded, just as he had got it from the agent that

evening--Phil's longed-for suit. She hugged it with delight, while tears

started to her dancing eyes. How good he was! How thoughtful for her and

for her little ones! There, beneath, was the very white doll-carriage,

blue lining, umbrella top, and all, wherein reposed a wondrous wax doll,

the like of which Maud had never dreamed. There was a tin kitchen, with

innumerable appendages. There was a glistening pair of club-skates of

finest steel and latest patent, the very thing that Phil so longed for,

and had so lovingly resigned. There were fur cap and gloves and boots

for him, and such an elegant shawl for Mrs. Malloy! He could send them

all he chose, and no offence. But to her--on her he could lavish only

flowers.

[Illustration: "ONE MOMENT MORE, AND, MUFFLED IN RED SILK, HER BIGGEST

LANTERN SWUNG GLOWING IN THE WINDOW."]

And then her Irish allies returned to their slumbers, and left her to

the rapture of arranging the new presents and the contemplation of her

flowers; and she was hugging the big pasteboard box and gloating over

her treasures when there was sudden noise without, a rush up the steps,

and before she could drop her possessions the door flew open, and in

came a wild-eyed, breathless captain of cavalry, gasping the apparently

unwarrantable query, "What's the matter?"

For an instant she stared at him in astonishment. Holding tight her

flowers, she gazed at his agitated face. "Nothing," she answered. "How

could anything be wrong when you have been so--so--" But words failed

her.

"Why! your red light's burning" he explained.

"I declare! I forgot all about it!"

Then another silence. He threw himself back in an arm-chair, breathing

hard, and trying to recover his composure.

"Do you mean--didn't you mean to signal for help?" he finally asked.

"Yes, I did"--an arch and mischievous smile now brightening her face.

"When I swung it I wanted you to come quick and drive--yourself away."

Then she put down her box, and stepped impulsively towards him, two

white hands outstretched, tears starting from her eyes, the color

surging to her lovely face--"Where can I find words to thank you,

Captain Santa Claus?"

He rose quickly, his face flushed and eager, his strong hands trembling.

"Shall I tell you?" he asked.

Her head was drooping now; her eyes could not meet the fervent love and

longing in his; her bosom heaved with every breath. She could only stand

and tremble when he seized her hands.

"Kate, will you take back what you said to-day?"

She stole one glance into his passionate, pleading eyes, and her head

drooped lower.

"_Can't_ you take it back, Kate?"

A moment's pause. At last the answer. "How can I, unless--unless you

take back what you--what caused it?"

* * * * *

Never before had the little Carletons waked to such a radiant Christmas

morning. Never had the Forties known so royal a Christmas-tree. Never

before was "Uncle Hal's" so thronged with beaming faces and happy

hearts. But among all the little ones whom his love and thoughtfulness

had blessed there was no face that shone with bliss more radiant, with

joy more deep and perfect, than that of Captain Santa Claus.

[Illustration: "CAPTAIN SANTA CLAUS."]

THE MYSTERY OF 'MAHBIN MILL.

CHAPTER I.

Placid and homelike enough were all its surroundings, one would say. It

seemed the very last place to look for romance or mystery--the very last

place in the world to be confronted by a foul and savage crime. There

was not a shadow on the bright, breeze-ruffled mill-pond whereon the

ducks were splashing and quacking noisily. Not a willow drooped its

mourning branches over the sunny shallows above, or the foaming,

rushing, tumbling torrent below the dam. Not a tree with heavy,

spreading foliage stood guard between the sunshine and the shores.

Nothing but a few pert, sturdy young hickories fringed the banks, bolt

upright in the broad glare of the noon-tide, and proclaiming in their

very attitude their detestation of all that was vague, dark, or shadowy.

There were no beetling cliffs--no firs, no pines, no dark

hemlocks--nothing in the least suggestive of gloom or tragedy. The

valley lay broad and open. Cosy homesteads and cottages gleamed here and

there along the slopes, nestled in little groves of their own. Orchards,

a vineyard, many fields of waving, yellowing grain, broad pastures

dotted with drowsy sheep and drowsier, clover-fed cattle; bright green

patches every now and then where the sugar-maples huddled together in

rustling gossip; and smiling farms and winding, well-kept country roads

lay north and south. Westward, a few hundred yards, the gleaming bosom

of the island-dotted lake into which the mill-stream poured its swirling

waters; eastward, a short mile, the roofs and chimneys of the thriving

county town; and then, over towards the distant railway, a creamy spire,

with the sacred emblem of the cross glinting and shimmering in the

sunlight, peeped through the fringe of waving tree-tops. All was quiet,

rural beauty. All told of peace, life, contentment, and prosperity this

lovely July morning of the centennial year--all save the hush and awe

that hung about old 'Mahbin mill.

Over by the waste weir, with musical splash and laughter and faint

little clouds of spray, a tumbling sheet of water was disappearing into

the cool depths below; but here, in the broad, beaten roadway around the

worn threshold, was impressive silence. The busy whir and hum and

clatter was all stilled, though elsewhere this had been a bustling

Monday morn. Men spoke in low, awe-stricken whispers, and went on

tip-toe over the creaking floor within. Peace and contentment, life and

prosperity, flooding sunshine, laughing-water, merry-throated birds made

glad the scene around; but within was silence and mystery and death.

Here, prone on the flour-dusted floor of the old office lay all that was

mortal of gray-haired Sam Morrow, the miller, murdered by murder most

foul, as one and all could see; and young Dick Graham, his right-hand

man for years, had gone, gone no one knew whither.

In all its peaceful history, Nemahbin had known no such sight or

sensation as this. Thirty years had the old mill been the rallying-point

of the farmers, to the exclusion of the attractions of the tavern in the

little town. Morrow was a character--a man who read and remembered, a

man who took the papers and had an opinion, backed by good reasoning, of

public men and public affairs of the day. He grew to be an authority on

many and most subjects, but he never grew to be popular. Morrow had an

ugly temper when crossed, a lashing, venomous tongue when angered, and,

of late, there had been growing up among the farmers who drove thither

with their grain a suspicion that old Sam, in his grasping, money-loving

greed had become unscrupulous. In this there was rank injustice. Crabbed

and ill-tempered as the man had often been, surly and rough of speech as

he had become, there did not live a more rigidly honest man--his word

was his bond. His own dealings were beyond question, and six months

before his death no man within a thirty-mile radius of Nemahbin had ever

been heard to hint at such a thing as sharp practice at 'Mahbin mill.

He had not been a happy man. His home life had been far from sweet and

peaceful. Ten years ago his patient and devoted wife had died--worn out,

some neighbors were good enough to say, by his outbreaks of fury and his

cutting injustice. But he had loved her, loved her well, and he mourned

her bitterly. Two children she had left him: one a son, high-spirited,

impulsive, and wilful, between whom and his father there waged incessant

feud while he was at home, and between whom and that same father there

passed frequent letters of most loving description when the boy was

placed at boarding-school. Young Sam had been liberally provided for

when he went away, and his pocket-money was unstinted. The boy was not

vicious, but the restraints of school discipline seemed to tempt him

from one mad exploit to another, and, after two years of sorely tried

patience, the authorities of the school requested his withdrawal. Sam

was fifteen then, a bright, quick-witted fellow, a leader in all boyish

sports and mischief, and immensely popular among the farm folk around

Nemahbin. His chum and intimate friend from early boyhood had been Dick

Graham; like himself, an only son of an idolizing mother, but, unlike

himself, compelled to labor for her support. When young Sam had been

sent away to school after his mother's death, the old man was noticed on

several consecutive days hovering uncertainly about the little country

store where his boy's friend was working from morn till night doing hard

jobs and thankfully carrying home his scanty wages at the end of the

week. One day he blustered in on the "boss" with brief ceremony:

"Murphy," said he, "you work that boy too hard, and pay him too little.

If you don't double his wages, I will, and take him out to the mill to

boot." Murphy was vastly angered at the proceeding, and Murphy's

adherents voted around the fire that night that old Sam Morrow had no

business to be "spilin' the market for boys," and undermining other

folk's concerns in that way; but the miller stuck to his word; Murphy

would not agree, and at the end of the month Dick Graham moved out to

the mill, where his bright face, and cheery, alert ways, soon deepened

the interest old Sam felt in him for his own boy's sake. Then he moved

Mrs. Graham out there, and placed her and her boy in the cottage near

the mill-house, as his own home was termed. And then the minister of the

pretty church over towards the railway had come over to call on Mr.

Morrow--who was not of the fold--and to shake hands with him, and when

he went away he bent down and kissed pretty little Nellie--the miller's

only daughter, and his darling--and had asked that his own little girls

might come over to make her acquaintance and to gather pond lilies. All

this had happened ten years back, when Nellie was a blue-eyed,

sunny-haired child, and Sam was in his first turbulent year at school.

Little Nell had to go to her own school very soon. It lay across country

over where the minister lived, and many was the time in the rough spring

weather when Dick Graham had to carry her over the rushing brooks that

burst across the roadway from the deep-drifted slopes of snow. He was a

splendid, sturdy boy of fifteen then--manly, truthful, independent; and

loyally he strove to serve his benefactor in the clattering old mill,

and still more loyally he watched over the bonny child who seemed that

master's all in all.

Things went smoothly enough, in all conscience, a year or two. Dick

trudged off to evening school during the wintry season, and had found a

good friend in that same minister, who lent him books and helped him

along in his studies; but then Sam came home, virtually expelled from

school, and then began a series of domestic troubles between father and

son that brought sorrow and anxiety to all. Old Sam in his wrath would

taunt the boy with having disgraced him, and young Sam in his flush of

temper would threaten to quit his father's home for good and all. Dick

strove to reason with his friend, but the boy was sensitive and stung to

the quick. A kind word, a loving touch from his father would have melted

his heart in an instant. He would have gone back to school full of

apology and promises to amend; but his father's eyes were averted and

his tongue edged with fire. Sam swore it was of no use to try and be

patient. Then Dick went to the minister in his perplexity, and that

worthy gentleman came strolling over to the mill, and looking over the

ground, so to speak. His was a diplomatic mind, and it had reason to be.

It was easy to win the son's confidence. He, Dick, and Sam junior soon

formed a trio of fast friends, and before long another scheme was

broached; and, with some surly misgiving on old Morrow's part, Sam was

sent to another and larger school. It was the old man's hobby that his

boy should be well educated. But a plethora of pocket-money, said the

authorities of the first establishment, had been the cause of his

downfall, and now the old man sternly refused to give his son a cent.

All his expenses were to be met and paid, and the principal of the new

school was to give him a certain trifling sum on holidays. There was no

known trouble for a year as the result of this arrangement. The boy felt

that he had amends to make and so did his best. A widowed sister of old

Morrow had come to his home and taken charge of it and little Nell, and

there was another era of comparative peace.

But to young Sam the school life was far from bright. Stinted now where

he had formerly been indulged, he found himself forced into a position

greatly contrasted with the prominence and popularity he had enjoyed

among the youngsters of the year before. He was beginning to learn the

lesson that sooner or later saddens and often embitters the brightest

minds--the lesson that even here in free America money is the standard

of even personal value. It was not so with Western boys before the war.

Money was a thing well-nigh unknown to them, but the "flush" days

brought with them new ideas, and the ideas stuck fast long after the

flush days had gone. Sam Morrow found that he was no longer the pet of

the "best set." Money and reckless good-nature had won it for him in the

old school; good-nature unbacked by money was no help here at the new.

Sam said nothing to his father, but his letters to Dick became more

frequent. He stood to his work like a little man, and despite the sorrow

and loneliness of that year he came home the better for it all. He had

made excellent progress. His teacher had praised him; the minister put

him through his paces and extolled him; and old Morrow, proud and

pleased, wanted to unbend and send the boy back for his second year with

some substantial token of his pleasure; but stubborn pride on both

sides seemed to stand between father and son. Sam junior would ask

nothing, and the old man's reply to the minister's well-meant suggestion

was, "Well, if the boy wants money now let him come and say so." And

this Sam swore he would not do, and so it ended.

Next year there was a catastrophe. Sam was now a stalwart, handsome

young fellow of seventeen. "Ready to go to college," said his teachers.

One day old Morrow received a telegraphic despatch begging him to come

at once to the school. He went, and in four days was home again with Sam

and a broken heart. Small sums of money had been missed from time to

time by various pupils of the school. Suspicion had fastened on a sharp

boy who was believed to spend more money than he legitimately received.

A watch was kept, a search was made, and Sam Morrow was detected passing

at a store some of the marked money. Questioned as to where he got it,

he for the time declined to answer, until told that he was suspected of

the theft. He then confessed that it was part of a small sum Fielding,

the sharp boy aforementioned, paid him from time to time for translating

his Caesar for him. Fielding promptly, and with much apparent

indignation, denied the story. Receiving such assistance and passing off

another boy's work as his own was an offence for which a pupil was

always severely punished. The case rested as a question of veracity

between the two boys, with the odds vastly in favor of Sam--for a few

hours only, pending further investigation, but that investigation was

fatal. At least twelve dollars of the missing money was found secreted

in Sam's books and clothing. He had furiously denied everything; he

protested in vain that he had no idea how it came there, but his lonely,

solitary ways were remembered, his habits of hanging about the

dormitories apparently at study when the boys were at play--and there

was no one to stand up for him. Old Morrow came, listened in crushed

silence, and took his boy home. Honest to the backbone himself, he was

sore stricken to think that his son should steal. He had heard first the

stories of the teachers and pupils before being ushered into the

presence of the accused. All hot impulse and fury, he had come upon his

lonely and friendless son, and when the poor fellow, bursting into tears

in his misery and excitement of the moment, had thrown his arms about

his father's neck, sobbing, "I have not done it, I am innocent," he had

sternly unclasped the pleading hands and ordered him to prepare at once

to go home with him. Sam seemed utterly stunned by his father's refusal

to hear a word. He was almost crazed with misery when he reached home.

The minister and Dick listened to his story and believed it. Old Sam

shut himself up; refused to see any one for some days, until Nellie's

tears and petitions secured a brief interview for the worthy churchman.

This time the latter was not diplomatic. He believed the boy wronged

from beginning to end. He told old Morrow in so many words that his

pride and stubbornness were sin and shame, and roused the old man to

such a pitch of wrath that he shrieked out his hope that the son who had

disgraced him might never come before his sight again--and he never

did. Sam Morrow heard the furious words. Pride came to his aid; and

never saying a word of farewell to the friends whom he knew would strive

to dissuade him, but clinging long to sweet twelve-year-old Nellie, and

sobbing as though his heart would break, Sam left his father's roof that

night. Five years had passed away, and not one word was ever heard from

him. The old man's curse had indeed come home to rest; his fading eyes

were never more to be blessed by the sight of his son.

But this was only half of his misery. The minister left the house with

his blood up; went forthwith to that school and was closeted some hours

with his old friend the principal. Sam's side of the story had an

intelligent advocate; a revulsion of feeling had set in; boys and men

both began to recall good points about Morrow that had not occurred to

them before, and queer things about that fellow Fielding. In less than a

month after Sam's disappearance there came a letter to old Morrow one

day which he read in gasping amaze, and then fell prone and senseless on

the floor of the very office where he lay now prone and dead. Sam's

story was true; Fielding had confessed even to having stolen the money

and hiding portions of it in Sam's property, to divert suspicion from

himself.

But now came a long illness in which old Morrow lay at death's door. He

raved for his boy. He cursed his own mad folly and injustice. He did

everything that could be suggested to bring the wanderer home again. The

story went into the papers. Advertisements were circulated through the

Western States. Even detectives were called upon, but to no purpose.

Sam never returned. The old man, bent and sorrowing, but with as fiery a

temper and an even more envenomed tongue, seemed to live only for

Nellie's sake and the hope of once more greeting his boy. Nellie herself

had spent some years at boarding-school and had grown into a lovely girl

of eighteen. Dick Graham was a fine, manly fellow, good to look at and

better to trust and tie to. "Too good a man to stay grubbing for old

Morrow at the mill," said the neighbors. "Far too valuable and

intelligent for the humble stipend that is paid him," said the minister.

"Old Morrow" had grown miserly and grasping, said Public Opinion--and it

was true. He had no confidant; he had no friends to whom he could open

his heart. In dumb sorrow he shrank from the world, ever looking with

haggard eyes for some trace of the lost boy whom his injustice and

cruelty had driven into exile. Nellie was his one comfort. He gloried in

her budding beauty, but he meant to make a lady of her, and even during

her school vacation she did not always come home. It was too lonely and

sad a spot for one so bright as she, said the old man, and he willingly

permitted her to visit school friends in their city homes, and went

month after month to see her--and bear to her, and the friends she

liked, huge and uncouth offerings of candy or flowers in his efforts to

show his appreciation of their interest in his precious child. Nellie

was a princess in his eyes, but others saw in her a somewhat spoiled and

over-petted beauty. That is--some others--most others. There was one

who worshipped her as even her father never dreamed of doing; one to

whom her faintest wish was law; one to whom her lightest word was

sacred, and to whom her smile, or the touch of her little hand meant

heaven. People wondered how Dick Graham could consent to hang on there

at 'Mahbin mill, "grubbing" for that grasping old Morrow like a slave.

Poor Dick! Slave he was, as many another had been, but not the miller's.

He could and would have broken with him three years before, when the

death of his invalid mother left the young fellow independent of all

claim--but he could not and would not break the tie that bound him to

'Mahbin and the dusty, dingy, red-shingled old mill. He idolized Nellie

Morrow, and she held his life in her hands.

She had learned to be very fond of Dick in the year that followed her

brother's disappearance. She had grown into his heart the year before

she went to school, and when she came home from her first vacation,

child though she was, she knew it and gloried in it. Each year added to

her maidenly graces, and to his thraldom, and the very winter that

preceded this centennial summer Dick had brought her home from a

sleighing-party one night fairly wild with joy and pride. In answer to

his impetuous and trembling words she had murmured to him that he was

dearer to her than anybody else could be, and he believed it, though

Miss Nellie had grave doubts in her own mind as to the truth of that

statement even when she made it. Still, it was very nice to have the

best-looking and smartest young man in and around 'Mahbin for her own,

when she was home, but he was not quite to be compared with the

exquisites she saw in the city streets, or the brothers of some of her

school friends. And there was one--oh! so romantic a fellow! whom she

met that very winter in Chicago when spending Thanksgiving holidays with

a schoolmate; a dark-eyed, splendid-looking man, tall, straight,

athletic, with bronzed features and such a strange history! He was much

older than these school-girls. He must have been thirty or thereabouts,

and was own cousin to her friend. He had been a soldier when very young;

had run away from home and fought in the great war, and had been a

wanderer almost ever since; had been to California and to sea, and--they

did not really know where else. Nellie was too young to notice that he

had not been cordially welcomed by the old people on his arrival at the

home of her friend. He had been wild and reckless, had "Cousin Harry,"

and papa did not like him, was the explanation of subsequent coldness

she could not help seeing. But to the girls he was perfect. He had so

mournful, mysterious, pathetic a manner. He was trying so hard to find

some steady employment--was so eager to settle down--and he soon became

so interested in Nellie, so devoted to her in fact, and the very day

they returned to school--how it came about she never knew exactly, his

sympathetic manner did it, perhaps,--she told him about her brother and

his utter disappearance, and then she wondered at the sudden eager light

in his eyes, the color that shot into his face through bronze and all,

and the unmistakable agitation with which he had asked the question,

"What was his name?" For an instant she believed he must have met Sam

and known him, but this he denied, denied even when he asked to see his

photograph.

Then "Cousin Harry" had been searching in his questions about Nellie,

her father, his age, his property, her prospects. It was easy enough to

extract all manner of information from her school-girl friend, and, when

Nellie went back to school, she had reason to believe there was

something very real in Mr. Henry Frost's decided interest in her.

She knew Dick loved her. She had given him every reason to hope that she

was growing to care for him; yet before the Christmas holidays she twice

had more reason to remember Harry Frost's devoted manner--and when she

started home for those very holidays he was on the train.

It was Christmas eve that sent Dick Graham home happier than he had ever

been in his life, but in one short week the happiness had fled. Mr.

Frost had taken up his abode at the little tavern in the village; had

acquired some strange influence over old Morrow, and was playing the

devoted to Nellie in a way she too plainly liked. Early in January she

went back to school, but Frost remained. He had indeed gained a powerful

influence over the lonely old man--no one knew how--for Morrow invited

the stranger to his house to stay awhile, and, before January was over,

the tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, athletic man was occupying a desk in

the office of the old mill.

There was great speculation and conjecture and gossip all around

'Mahbin over this matter. The mill had been doing rather less business

than usual; no additional men were needed. The office required little

attention, for old Morrow had kept his own books and done his own

letter-writing for years. If a clerk were needed, why take in a stranger

whom nobody knew, they urged, when there was young Graham, whom

everybody liked and trusted? And yet, before spring had fairly set in,

old Morrow had turned over his bookkeeping and writing to this Mr.

Frost; and though the key of the little safe was never intrusted to any

hand but that of the master, and though there was one desk no one but

Morrow himself could open, Frost was soon as much at home in the mill as

though he had lived there a lifetime.

When the brief Easter holiday came an odd thing happened. Nellie Morrow

declined to go with any of her school-friends. She wrote that she wanted

to see dear old 'Mahbin again, and delightedly the miller brought her

home. It was a week of torment to poor Dick Graham; a holiday that

proved far from satisfactory to Morrow, for he saw with sudden start

that his bonny Nell was becoming vastly interested in Mr. Frost, whom he

was beginning to distrust.

When Frost had come to Nemahbin, in December, he had sought the old

miller, requested a confidential interview, told him, with all apparent

frankness, of his meeting with Nellie at the home of his uncle, near

Chicago, and of her telling him the sad story of Sam's disappearance.

"Mr. Morrow," said he, "I believe I met and knew your son on the

Pacific coast. What is more, I believe I can find him." The miller knew

that Frost's relations were people of high position, but did not know

that the man before him was very far from standing well in their esteem.

But he had been imposed upon more than once by people who sought to make

money from his eagerness to obtain any clue to the whereabouts of his

missing boy. He closely questioned Frost, and was speedily convinced

that there was no imposition here. He had known him, and known him well;

for, even in little tricks of speech and manner, Frost could describe

Sam to the life. The old man's first impulse was to take Frost with him

and start for the Pacific coast at once; but the latter pointed out to

him that the journey to mid Arizona was very long and expensive, and

that he had reason to believe Sam had left there and gone with miners to

Montana. He had friends and correspondents; he would write; he did

write, and showed Morrow the letters, and they went apparently to

Prescott, Arizona, but not for three months did answers come; and then

they were vague and indefinite, and meantime the old man's heart had

been torn with suspense and anxiety, and he rebelled at the restriction

placed upon him by Frost, that he should admit to nobody that they were

on the trail of his absent son--that Frost had known him well "in the

mines," as he said, though by another name. He disliked it still more

that there was so much of his own life while in the distant West of

which Frost gave varying accounts, and always avoided speaking; and now

it was plain that he was "making up" to Nellie; it was plain that she

was far from averse to the attentions of this handsome and distinguished

fellow, with his air of reserve and mystery; and it was plain that poor

Dick Graham was both miserable and suspicious. He had been set against

Frost from the very first.

Still there was a certain element with whom he had attained

popularity--the young men about the village, and especially those of the

large and thriving town over on the railway. He was a superb horseman,

and had ridden with grace and ease a horse that poor Dick had pronounced

utterly unmanageable. Then, one night during the Easter holidays, a

large party of the young people of Nemahbin had driven over to town to

attend the ball given by a local military organization. Nellie was the

belle on the occasion, and was coquetting promiscuously with the

officers and the members of the company, evidently to the annoyance of

that hitherto unrivalled Mr. Frost. Even gloomy Dick Graham found some

comfort in this, but his comfort gave way to dismay when, after a brief

and rather clumsily executed drill of his command, the captain had

suddenly turned over his sword to Mr. Frost, and the latter, as though

by previous arrangement, stepped forward, and, with all the ease of an

expert tactician and drill-master, and with stirring, martial voice and

bearing, put the company through one evolution after another with

surprising rapidity, and finally retired, the applauded and envied hero

of the occasion. Nellie had monopolized him the rest of the evening, and

all men held him in great esteem. Questioned as to his wonderful

proficiency, he laughingly answered, "Why, I soldiered through the last

two years of the war in the volunteers, and saw a good deal of the

regulars afterwards, out West--that is, I used to watch them with great

interest," and quickly changed the subject.

But Dick Graham's jealous eyes--and no eyes are so sharp as those whose

scrutiny is so whetted--marked that he had changed color, and that his

manner was nervous and embarrassed. From that day on he watched Frost

like a cat.

June came in with sunshine and roses, and a great centennial celebration

and exhibition in the far East, and a great convention for the

nomination of a president, and the country was so taken up with these

stirring events that, when June went out, precious little attention was

paid to an affair that, a year earlier or later, would have thrilled the

continent with horror. In one short, sharp, desperate struggle of a

quarter of an hour, Custer, the daring cavalry leader of the great

war--Custer, the yellow-haired, the brave, the dashing, the hero of

romance and fiction and soldierly story--Custer and his whole command

had been swept out of existence by an overwhelming force of Indians.

Nellie was home again, and Frost was now occupying a room in Sam

Morrow's little house. The old man had come to Dick but a short time

before her return, and, with something of his old kind and confidential

way, had said to him that Frost was to remain with them but a few weeks

longer, and that he was unwilling to have him under the same roof with

Nellie even during that little while. Morrow had begun to look on Frost

as a liar. He felt certain that he had known his lost boy, but doubted

now his pretensions as to his ability to find him. Indeed, Frost

admitted that he had lost the clue, and it was at this time that Morrow

at last told the minister of the matter. That he was being deceived in

more ways than one the old man was convinced, yet had nothing tangible

to work upon; but his worst suspicions had not really done justice to

the facts in the case. Morrow would have killed the man could he have

known the truth--that he knew well just where the missing son was to be

found, and would not tell--and that, virtually robbing the old miller of

one child, he had now well-nigh robbed him of the other. Between him and

Nellie letters had secretly passed, at regular intervals, ever since the

Christmas vacation. She was fascinated, yet she, too, distrusted. He

swore that he loved her--longed to make her his wife--yet forbade her

confessing to her father that such was the case. More than that, he had

cautioned her to look for an indifferent manner on his part on her

return. He explained that her father disliked him, and would send him

away instantly if their love were suspected. He even urged her to

encourage Dick Graham. He was playing a desperate game, indeed. He had

hoped to win the father's confidence with the daughter's love, and

secure his consent--and blessing--and fortune; but, as matters stood, he

knew that, though he might win Nellie, it would be in defiance of the

father's will, and that meant disinheritance and banishment for both.

By every art in his power he had striven, of late, to curry favor with

Graham, but without success. Dick was coldly civil, and would have been

thankful for an excuse at open rupture. He suspected Frost of having won

Nellie away from him, but could prove absolutely nothing. He believed

him to be a mere adventurer, and had urged the miller to write to those

connections of whom he had boasted--the Chicago relatives--and ascertain

his history; but Morrow had sternly silenced him with the information

that he knew it all--at least he knew enough. "Mr. Frost is here for a

purpose, and it is sufficient that I have brought him here," was the old

man's reply to further objections, and so poor Dick felt that nothing

more was to be said.

But with Nellie's return came a revival of hope. She was sweeter,

prettier than ever, and her manner to Dick was now as gentle, and even

confidential, as it had been careless and indifferent during the late

winter. She came home about the 15th of June, and for the fortnight that

followed it was Dick, not Mr. Frost, whom she seemed to favor. Graham

hardly dared believe the evidence of his senses, but was too blissful to

analyze matters. The old man, of late, had taken to spending some hours

in the evening down at his office in the mill, and Frost was generally

closeted there with him. Very surly and sad and irascible the miller had

grown. He was bitter and unjust to everybody. Several times he had

angrily reprimanded Graham in the presence of customers and mill-hands

for things that were entirely of Frost's doing. There had been errors

in the accounts, over which the farmers had growled not a little; and

one day, bursting from a group of men who had been calling his attention

to a matter of the kind, the old man stamped furiously into the office,

shut the door after him with a bang, and was heard to say, in loud and

angry tones, to some one, "Now the next time this happens, by God, you

go!"

A moment after, Dick Graham came from the office into the mill, and that

night it was told in Nemahbin that the old man had threatened to

discharge him. He and Graham seemed to get along very badly, and no man

could explain it.

But, gaining hope from Nellie's smiles, Dick was ready to bear up

against the old man's fit of rage. At heart, he knew the miller liked

and trusted him. There was much he could not fathom, but was content to

wait and watch. Meantime he kept his eye on Frost--noted how nervous and

ill at ease he was becoming, marked his labored attempts to win his

friendship, and withheld it the more guardedly.

One day, about a week after Nellie's return, business required that he

and Frost should go together to the neighboring town on the railway.

They were standing by the elevator on a side-track with a knot of young

men, when a train came rumbling in from the East, and as it drew up at

the station it was seen that the rear car was filled with soldiers.

"Hello!" shouted one of the party. "Let's go and have a look at the

regulars." Dick started with the rest, but suddenly stopped. An

indefinable sensation prompted him to look around for Frost, and Frost

was nowhere to be seen. Turning quickly back, he entered the open

doorway of the little warehouse, and there, in a dark corner, peering

through a knot-hole over towards the station, was his mysterious

companion. Dick approached him on tiptoe, and clapped him sharply on the

shoulder.

"Come, man! come and see the soldiers; some of your friends may be

there."

White as death was Frost's face as he turned with fearful start. Then,

seeing it was Graham, and suspecting it was a trick, he flushed crimson,

and angrily, though with trembling lips, replied,

"My friends! what do you mean? How the devil should I have friends among

them? Go yourself, if you want to see them, but leave me alone."

And Graham turned away, more than ever convinced that, in some way,

Frost's knowledge of soldiering was derived from personal experiences he

wished to conceal.