I
The sun was sinking low beyond the ford of the foaming Platte. The
distant bluffs commanding the broad valley of the Sweetwater stood sharp
and clear against the westward skies. The smoke from the camp-fires
along the stream rose in misty columns straight aloft, for not so much
as a breath of breeze had wafted down from the far snow fields of Cloud
Peak, or the sun-sheltered rifts of the Big Horn. The flag at the old
fort, on the neighboring height, clung to the staff with scarcely a
flutter, awaiting the evening salute of the trumpets and the roar of the
sunset gun.
The long June day had seemed unusually unconscionably long to the young
girl flitting restlessly about the vine-covered porch of the roadside
cottage. She laid the big binocular aside, for perhaps the twentieth
time within the hour, with a sigh of impatience, a piteous quiver about
the pretty, rosebud mouth, a wistful, longing look in the dark and
dreamy eyes. Ever since stable call, and her father's departure to his
never-neglected duty, she had hovered about that shaded nook, again and
again searching the northward slopes and ridges. The scouts had been in
three hours ago, reporting the squadron only a mile or so behind. It
should have dismounted, unsaddled, fed, watered, and groomed by this
time, and Rawdon should have been here at her side--Rawdon, whom she had
not seen for three mortal days--Rawdon, whom, for three mortal weeks
before the march, she had not missed seeing sometimes several times a
day, even when he was on guard--Rawdon, whom she had never set eyes on
before the first of April, and whom now she looked upon as the foremost
soldier of the regiment, when in point of fact he was but a private
trooper, serving the first part of his first enlistment, in the eyes of
his elders a mere recruit, and in those of Sergeant Fitzroy an
unspeakable thing.
Another long peep through the signal glasses, another sigh, and then she
came, this girl of seventeen, in her dainty white frock, and plumped
herself dejectedly down on the top step, with two very shapely, slender,
slippered feet displayed on the second below, two dimpled elbows planted
on her knees, two flushed, soft, rounded cheeks buried in two long and
slender hands. Away over at the stables she could hear the tap, tap, of
curry-comb on brush-back, as the First Squadron groomed its fidgety
mounts. Away up the valley the voices of the children in the Arapahoe
village rose gleefully on the air. Away up among the barracks and
quarters at the fort, the band of the Infantry was playing sweet melody.
Peace, content, and harmony were roundabout her, but the dark eyes,
welling with unshed tears, told of a troubled heart.
And then of a sudden the tears were dashed away and the girl sprang to
her feet. A blithe voice hailed her from within.
"Dey's comin', Miss Dora--two on 'em, at least--like enough to be twin
brudders."
The girl ran to the northward corner again and gazed out across the
rushing, swollen river. Not so much as a sign of a dust-cloud to tell of
marching cavalry, and she turned again, with rebuke ready on her tongue,
but again the voice from within:
"Comin' _t 'other_ way, chile. Must ha' took the lower fohd and rode
roun' back o' de stables," and, with the words, a laughing "mammy" came
bustling to the front door, a cool white pitcher in one hand, a tray
with glasses in the other.
"Ah know well 'nuff what brings de lieutenant round dis way. As for
dat--_trash_--wid him"--and here came a chuckle of delight at her own
wit--"he just cain't help hisself." But Dora was not listening. Light as
a bird she had flown to the other end of the little porch and was gazing
out through the honeysuckles with all her soul in her eyes.
Coming up the slope at easy canter rode a young officer, with
broad-brimmed hat and dusty field dress, alert, slender, sinewy, of only
medium height and not more than twenty-five years, with a handsome,
sun-tanned, smiling face, a picture of healthful, wholesome young
manhood. And behind him, at the regulation distance, came what Aunt
Chloe, in her "darky" dialect more than once had declared "the very spit
of him"--a young trooper in similar slouch hat and dusty field dress,
younger, probably, by three or four years, but to the full as alert and
active, as healthful and wholesome to look at, his face now all aglow
with a light that was sweet for girlish eyes to see.
The leader swung his hat and blithely shouted as he curbed his eager
horse. "Howdy, Miss Dora. Bless your heart, Aunt Chloe, I knew you'd
have the buttermilk ready! No, Rawdon, I shan't dismount"--this to the
young "orderly," who had sprung from saddle and, with his rein over his
arm, stood ready to take that of his officer. "Merciful saints! but
isn't that good after thirty miles of alkali!" He had swallowed a
brimming goblet of the cool, refreshing drink, and Chloe was delightedly
refilling. "Father home, Miss Dora?" he went on cheerily.
"Over at the stables, Mr. Lanier," was the smiling answer. The face of
the girl was sunshine and roses now, yet merely a glance or two had
passed, for Trooper Rawdon had instantly swung once more into saddle and
was reining back to his place.
"Stables going _yet_? Why, I thought it must be supper time. Colonel
sent me ahead to find him. Three of 'E' Troop horses act like they'd
been eating loco-weed. That's what kept us."
"Colonel Button's always findin' some way of sendin' you in ahaid, Marse
Lanier," grinned Chloe. "Ah don't wonder dey says _you_ can do anything
you like an' never get hauled up for it."
"You're a gossip, Auntie," laughed Lanier. "The colonel would cinch me
quick as the next man if I happened to rub his fur the wrong way. One
more swig now and I'm off. Tastes almost like the South again, doesn't
it?"
"Lak de _Souf_!" Aunt Chloe bristled, indignant. "Sho! Dat's no more lak
de buttermilk _we_ makes dan dat ar' hawse is lak de racers at Belle
Mead. Cows got to have white clover, Marse Lanier, an' white clover
don't grow in dis Gawd foh-saken country."
"It's good all the same. Thank you, heartily, Miss Dora. You, too,
Auntie. Er--Rawdon, you dismount and wait for Doctor Mayhew in case I
miss him. Give him the colonel's message and say the squadron should be
in by 7.30." And with that and a wave of his hand and a smiling
good-night, he took the rein of the troop horse and away they sped to
the stables.
Then Chloe vanished opportunely. The young trooper stood one instant
looking gratefully after his officer and those curvetting steeds, eager
to reach their home and supper. Dora, with glistening eyes and glowing
cheeks, retreated within the shelter of the bowered porch. Then,
bounding up the steps and turning with outstretched arms, thither Rawdon
followed.
Ten minutes later, at swift trot, came a third horse and rider, the
horse all that a cavalry horse should be in gait and build, the rider
well nigh as marked in build and proportions. He, too, was well-made and
muscular, though somewhat heavy and stocky; he was as soldierly, if not
as young, as the two so recently there in saddle. It was the face that
repelled, for it was black with wrath and suspicion. In front of the
little cottage of the veterinary surgeon he hurriedly dismounted, threw
the reins over the post at the horse-block, and strode, angering,
through the gate. The murmur of blissful voices had ceased at first
sight of him. Dora, her face paling, met him at the head of the steps.
Hardly noticing her by look or word, he brushed by, turned sharp to his
left, and in an instant the two men were face to face.
"Rawdon," spoke the new-comer, his tone curt, domineering, insolent,
"what do you mean by letting an officer lead your horse to stables? Go
you to yours at once! Take my horse, too, and groom _him_."
Rawdon flushed to his forehead, said not a word, came forth into the
light, and then turned squarely.
"My orders were from Lieutenant Lanier, sergeant, and they were
distinctly to stop here."
"Go you at once and do as I say," was the instant rejoinder, and the
veins in the sergeant's face were swelled almost to bursting. His eyes
were fiery, his lips were quivering in his wrath.
"Indeed, Sergeant Fitzroy," began the girl rebukefully, "those were
Lieutenant Lanier's orders."
"Hang Lieutenant Lanier's orders! No stripling sub can give such orders
in this regiment. How dare you delay there? Go, you townskip, or I'll
kick you through the ----"
But now with blazing eyes Dora Mayhew threw herself in front of him.
Tall, lithe, and slender herself, she seemed just the height of the
young trooper she defended. "If you raise hand or foot against Rawdon,
Sergeant Fitzroy, it's the last time you come inside our gate. No, I'll
_not_ stand aside! Before you strike him you'll have to strike me."
And then and there Sergeant Fitzroy realized that the fears and
forebodings of the past month were more than grounded. If angered
before, he was maddened now. Brushing her light form aside with one
sweep of his powerful arm, he sprang forward at the young soldier's
throat just as a tall, lean man, with grizzled beard but athletic build,
bounded up the steps and caught his wrist.
"None of that in my house, Fitzroy!" came the order, stern and
compelling. "In God's name, what does this mean?" And, still grasping
the sergeant's arm, the speaker, with his face nearly as white as his
stable frock, fairly backed the raging Englishman against the wooden
pillar and held him there.
"Let go, Mayhew!" raved the sergeant. "I've ordered that young rip to
stables, and he refuses to go."
"He was ordered to stay, papa, until you came," protested Dora, her eyes
ablaze. "Lieutenant Lanier--_that_ man's superior officer--gave him the
colonel's message to you."
"He was ordered to go by Lieutenant Lanier's superior, the
officer-of-the-day, whom I represent," was Fitzroy's answer; "and the
longer he stays the worse 't will be for him."
"No officer ever authorized you to come to my quarters and lay violent
hands on a man behaving like a gentleman, which _you_ are not," was the
cutting rejoinder of the older man, and it stung Fitzroy to fresh fury.
Was he, the model rider of the regiment, to be braved like this, and in
presence of the girl he loved?
"Let go! You _must_, Mayhew!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "You
have no authority. You are only a civilian. You can be broke and fired
if I report this--outrage--and what I know. Let go!" he shouted, freeing
himself by furious effort. "Now, you, Rawdon, come with me. No. Stop!
Corporal Watts!" he shouted, to a non-commissioned officer, swinging up
the pathway toward the guard-house on the bluff, four men of the guard
at his back. "Come this way," he continued, for at first no attention
was paid to his hail. "Come here and take charge of this man. It's the
order of the officer-of-the-day."
Doubtfully, reluctantly, leaving his patrol disgustedly waiting,
Corporal Watts slowly descended the incline, crossed the broad,
hard-beaten road, then, obviously embarrassed at the presence of Dora
Mayhew, demanded further information before he obeyed.
By this time, Rawdon, pale and silent, was standing at the foot of the
steps, indignation, resentment, and trouble all mingling in his face.
Too well he and other young soldiers had learned to know the weight of
Sergeant Fitzroy's spite. But the trouble in his eyes gave way to sudden
relief. Two officers were coming swiftly round the corner of the corral,
Lanier foremost.
"I say again, Corporal Watts, this man is to be taken in charge at once.
It is Captain Curbit's order as officer-of-the-day. I came direct from
him," was Fitzroy's final order. But it failed.
"Do nothing of the kind, Corporal Watts," said a quiet voice, at sound
of which Sergeant Fitzroy whirled about and turned, if a possible thing,
a full shade redder. There at the gate stood Lieutenant Lanier. There, a
dozen yards away, but trudging fast as dignity would permit, came the
officer-of-the-day.
A jerk of the head to the corporal, in response to his instant salute,
and that young soldier, much relieved, strode away to join his men. Then
Captain Curbit turned on Sergeant Fitzroy.
"You told me nothing of the facts in this case, sir. Lieutenant Lanier
says he _directed_ this man to wait here, with the colonel's message,
while he rode to stables. Pardon me, Miss Dora. Come this way,
sergeant."
And there was nothing for it but to obey. Abashed, humiliated, rebuked
and in _her_ presence, where he had looked but a moment before to
humble and humiliate his rival, Fitzroy, could only lift his hand in
salute, follow the captain out of earshot, and there make his plea as
best he could, leaving Lanier and the silent young trooper, Dora and her
grave-faced old father, in possession of the field.
For a moment they watched Fitzroy, eagerly gesticulating as he stood at
attention before his superior.
"He'll give you no more trouble, I fancy," said Lanier, in low tone, to
the veterinarian. "I'll say good-night again, Miss Dora;" and he walked
cheerily away, but Mayhew looked after him long and anxiously, then upon
the young people before him, then upon the still protesting sergeant
across the way.
"Maybe not--maybe not," he muttered, with sorrowing shake of the head;
"but few men can give more trouble than--him, when he's minded, and I
reckon he's minded now."