CHAPTER I.

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Transcriber's note

Some of the spellings and hyphenations in the original are unusual; they

have not been changed. Minor punctuation errors have been corrected

without notice. A few obvious typographical errors have been corrected,

and they are listed at the end of this book.

STARLIGHT RANCH

AND

OTHER STORIES OF ARMY

LIFE ON THE FRONTIER.

BY

CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.,

AUTHOR OF

"MARION'S FAITH," "THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER," ETC.

PHILADELPHIA:

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.

1891.

Copyright, 1890, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

STARLIGHT RANCH 7

WELL WON; OR, FROM THE PLAINS TO "THE POINT" 40

FROM "THE POINT" TO THE PLAINS 116

THE WORST MAN IN THE TROOP 201

VAN 234

STARLIGHT RANCH.

We were crouching round the bivouac fire, for the night was chill, and

we were yet high up along the summit of the great range. We had been

scouting through the mountains for ten days, steadily working southward,

and, though far from our own station, our supplies were abundant, and it

was our leader's purpose to make a clean sweep of the line from old

Sandy to the Salado, and fully settle the question as to whether the

renegade Apaches had betaken themselves, as was possible, to the heights

of the Matitzal, or had made a break for their old haunts in the Tonto

Basin or along the foot-hills of the Black Mesa to the east. Strong

scouting-parties had gone thitherward, too, for "the Chief" was bound to

bring these Tontos to terms; but our orders were explicit: "Thoroughly

scout the east face of the Matitzal." We had capital Indian allies with

us. Their eyes were keen, their legs tireless, and there had been bad

blood between them and the tribe now broken away from the reservation.

They asked nothing better than a chance to shoot and kill them; so we

could feel well assured that if "Tonto sign" appeared anywhere along our

path it would instantly be reported. But now we were south of the

confluence of Tonto Creek and the Wild Rye, and our scouts declared that

beyond that point was the territory of the White Mountain Apaches,

where we would not be likely to find the renegades.

East of us, as we lay there in the sheltered nook whence the glare of

our fire could not be seen, lay the deep valley of the Tonto brawling

along its rocky bed on the way to join the Salado, a few short marches

farther south. Beyond it, though we could not see them now, the peaks

and "buttes" of the Sierra Ancha rolled up as massive foot-hills to the

Mogollon. All through there our scouting-parties had hitherto been able

to find Indians whenever they really wanted to. There were some officers

who couldn't find the Creek itself if they thought Apaches lurked along

its bank, and of such, some of us thought, was our leader.

In the dim twilight only a while before I had heard our chief packer

exchanging confidences with one of the sergeants,--

"I tell you, Harry, if the old man were trying to steer clear of all

possibility of finding these Tontos, he couldn't have followed a better

track than ours has been. And he made it, too; did you notice? Every

time the scouts tried to work out to the left he would herd them all

back--up-hill."

"We never did think the lieutenant had any too much sand," answered the

sergeant, grimly; "but any man with half an eye can see that orders to

thoroughly scout the east face of a range does not mean keep on top of

it as we've been doing. Why, in two more marches we'll be beyond their

stamping-ground entirely, and then it's only a slide down the west face

to bring us to those ranches in the Sandy Valley. Ever seen them?"

"No. I've never been this far down; but what do you want to bet that

_that's_ what the lieutenant is aiming at? He wants to get a look at

that pretty girl all the fellows at Fort Phoenix are talking about."

"Dam'd old gray-haired rip! It would be just like him. With a wife and

kids up at Sandy too."

There were officers in the party, junior in years of life and years of

service to the gray-headed subaltern whom some odd fate had assigned to

the command of this detachment, nearly two complete "troops" of cavalry

with a pack-train of sturdy little mules to match. We all knew that, as

organized, one of our favorite captains had been assigned the command,

and that between "the Chief," as we called our general, and him a

perfect understanding existed as to just how thorough and searching this

scout should be. The general himself came down to Sandy to superintend

the start of the various commands, and rode away after a long interview

with our good old colonel, and after seeing the two parties destined for

the Black Mesa and the Tonto Basin well on their way. We were to move at

nightfall the following day, and within an hour of the time of starting

a courier rode in from Prescott with despatches (it was before our

military telegraph line was built), and the commander of the

division--the superior of our Arizona chief--ordered Captain Tanner to

repair at once to San Francisco as witness before an important

court-martial. A groan went up from more than one of us when we heard

the news, for it meant nothing less than that the command of the most

important expedition of all would now devolve upon the senior first

lieutenant, Gleason; and so much did it worry Mr. Blake, his junior by

several files, that he went at once to Colonel Pelham, and begged to be

relieved from duty with that column and ordered to overtake one of the

others. The colonel, of course, would listen to nothing of the kind, and

to Gleason's immense and evident gratification we were marched forth

under his command. There had been no friction, however. Despite his gray

beard, Gleason was not an old man, and he really strove to be courteous

and conciliatory to his officers,--he was always considerate towards his

men; but by the time we had been out ten days, having accomplished

nothing, most of us were thoroughly disgusted. Some few ventured to

remonstrate. Angry words passed between the commander and Mr. Blake, and

on the night on which our story begins there was throughout the command

a feeling that we were simply being trifled with.

The chat between our chief packer and Sergeant Merrick ceased instantly

as I came forward and passed them on the way to look over the herd guard

of the little battalion, but it set me to thinking. This was not the

first that the officers of the Sandy garrison had heard of those two new

"ranches" established within the year down in the hot but fertile

valley, and not more than four hours' easy gallop from Fort Phoenix,

where a couple of troops of "Ours" were stationed. The people who had so

confidently planted themselves there were evidently well to do, and they

brought with them a good-sized retinue of ranch- and herdsmen,--mainly

Mexicans,--plenty of "stock," and a complete "camp outfit," which served

them well until they could raise the adobe walls and finish their

homesteads. Curiosity led occasional parties of officers or enlisted

men to spend a day in saddle and thus to visit these enterprising

neighbors. Such parties were always civilly received, invited to

dismount, and soon to take a bite of luncheon with the proprietors,

while their horses were promptly led away, unsaddled, rubbed down, and

at the proper time fed and watered. The officers, of course, had

introduced themselves and proffered the hospitality and assistance of

the fort. The proprietors had expressed all proper appreciation, and

declared that if anything should happen to be needed they would be sure

to call; but they were too busy, they explained, to make social visits.

They were hard at work, as the gentlemen could see, getting up their

houses and their corrals, for, as one of them expressed it, "We've come

to stay." There were three of these pioneers; two of them, brothers

evidently, gave the name of Crocker. The third, a tall, swarthy,

all-over-frontiersman, was introduced by the others as Mr. Burnham.

Subsequent investigations led to the fact that Burnham was first cousin

to the Crockers. "Been long in Arizona?" had been asked, and the elder

Crocker promptly replied, "No, only a year,--mostly prospecting."

The Crockers were building down towards the stream; but Burnham, from

some freak which he did not explain, had driven his stakes and was

slowly getting up his walls half a mile south of the other homestead,

and high up on a spur of foot-hill that stood at least three hundred

feet above the general level of the valley. From his "coigne of vantage"

the whitewashed walls and the bright colors of the flag of the fort

could be dimly made out,--twenty odd miles down stream.

"Every now and then," said Captain Wayne, who happened up our way on a

general court, "a bull-train--a small one--went past the fort on its way

up to the ranches, carrying lumber and all manner of supplies, but they

never stopped and camped near the post either going or coming, as other

trains were sure to do. They never seemed to want anything, even at the

sutler's store, though the Lord knows there wasn't much there they

_could_ want except tanglefoot and tobacco. The bull-train made perhaps

six trips in as many months, and by that time the glasses at the fort

could make out that Burnham's place was all finished, but never once had

either of the three proprietors put in an appearance, as invited, which

was considered not only extraordinary but unneighborly, and everybody

quit riding out there."

"But the funniest thing," said Wayne, "happened one night when I was

officer of the day. The road up-stream ran within a hundred yards of the

post of the sentry on No. 3, which post was back of the officer's

quarters, and a quarter of a mile above the stables, corrals, etc. I was

making the rounds about one o'clock in the morning. The night was bright

and clear, though the moon was low, and I came upon Dexter, one of the

sharpest men in my troop, as the sentry on No. 3. After I had given him

the countersign and was about going on,--for there was no use in asking

_him_ if he knew his orders,--he stopped me to ask if I had authorized

the stable-sergeant to let out one of the ambulances within the hour.

Of course I was amazed and said no. 'Well,' said he, 'not ten minutes

ago a four-mule ambulance drove up the road yonder going full tilt, and

I thought something was wrong, but it was far beyond my challenge

limit.' You can understand that I went to the stables on the jump, ready

to scalp the sentry there, the sergeant of the guard, and everybody

else. I sailed into the sentry first and he was utterly astonished; he

swore that every horse, mule, and wagon was in its proper place. I

routed out the old stable-sergeant and we went through everything with

his lantern. There wasn't a spoke or a hoof missing. Then I went back to

Dexter and asked him what he'd been drinking, and he seemed much hurt. I

told him every wheel at the fort was in its proper rut and that nothing

could have gone out. Neither could there have been a four-mule ambulance

from elsewhere. There wasn't a civilized corral within fifty miles

except those new ranches up the valley, and _they_ had no such rig. All

the same, Dexter stuck to his story, and it ended in our getting a

lantern and going down to the road. By Gad! he was right. There, in the

moist, yielding sand, were the fresh tracks of a four-mule team and a

Concord wagon or something of the same sort. So much for _that_ night!

"Next evening as a lot of us were sitting out on the major's piazza,

and young Briggs of the infantry was holding forth on the

constellations,--you know he's a good deal of an astronomer,--Mrs.

Powell suddenly turned to him with 'But you haven't told us the name of

that bright planet low down there in the northern sky,' and we all

turned and looked where she pointed. Briggs looked too. It was only a

little lower than some stars of the second and third magnitude that he

had been telling about only five minutes before, only it shone with a

redder or yellower glare,--orange I suppose was the real color,--and was

clear and strong as the light of Jupiter.

"'That?' says Briggs. 'Why, that must be----Well, I own up. I declare I

never knew there was so big a star in that part of the firmament!'

"'Don't worry about it, Briggs, old boy,' drawled the major, who had

been squinting at it through a powerful glass he owns. 'That's terra

firmament. That planet's at the new ranch up on the spur of the

Matitzal.'

"But that wasn't all. Two days after, Baker came in from a scout. He had

been over across the range and had stopped at Burnham's on his way down.

He didn't see Burnham; he wasn't invited in, but he was full of his

subject. 'By _Jove!_ fellows. Have any of you been to the ranches

lately? No? Well, then, I want to get some of the ladies to go up there

and call. In all my life I never saw so pretty a girl as was sitting

there on the piazza when I rode around the corner of the house.

_Pretty!_ She's lovely. Not Mexican. No, indeed! A real American

girl,--a young lady, by Gad!'" That, then, explained the new light.

"And did that give the ranch the name by which it is known to you?" we

asked Wayne.

"Yes. The ladies called it 'Starlight Ranch' from that night on. But not

one of them has seen the girl. Mrs. Frazer and Mrs. Jennings actually

took the long drive and asked for the ladies, and were civilly told

that there were none at home. It was a Chinese servant who received

them. They inquired for Mr. Burnham and he was away too. They asked how

many ladies there were, and the Chinaman shook his head--'No sabe.' 'Had

Mr. Burnham's wife and daughter come?' 'No sabe.' 'Were Mr. Burnham and

the ladies over at the other ranch?' 'No sabe,' still affably grinning,

and evidently personally pleased to see the strange ladies; but that

Chinaman was no fool; he had his instructions and was carrying them out;

and Mrs. Frazer, whose eyes are very keen, was confident that she saw

the curtains in an upper window gathered just so as to admit a pair of

eyes to peep down at the fort wagon with its fair occupants. But the

face of which she caught a glimpse was not that of a young woman. They

gave the Chinaman their cards, which he curiously inspected and was

evidently at a loss what to do with, and after telling him to give them

to the ladies when they came home they drove over to the Crocker Ranch.

Here only Mexicans were visible about the premises, and, though Mrs.

Frazer's Spanish was equal to the task of asking them for water for

herself and friend, she could not get an intelligible reply from the

swarthy Ganymede who brought them the brimming glasses as to the

ladies--_Las senoras_--at the other ranch. They asked for the Crockers,

and the Mexican only vaguely pointed up the valley. It was in defeat and

humiliation that the ladies with their escort, Mr. Baker, returned to

the fort, but Baker rode up again and took a comrade with him, and they

both saw the girl with the lovely face and form this time, and had

almost accosted her when a sharp, stern voice called her within. A

fortnight more and a dozen men, officers or soldiers, had rounded that

ranch and had seen two women,--one middle-aged, the other a girl of

about eighteen who was fair and bewitchingly pretty. Baker had bowed to

her and she had smiled sweetly on him, even while being drawn within

doors. One or two men had cornered Burnham and began to ask questions.

'Gentlemen,' said he, 'I'm a poor hand at talk. I've no education. I've

lived on the frontier all my life. I mean no offence, but I cannot

answer your questions and I cannot ask you into my house. For

explanation, I refer you to Mr. Crocker.' Then Baker and a chum of his

rode over and called on the elder Crocker, and asked for the

explanation. That only added to the strangeness of the thing.

"'It is true, gentlemen, that Mr. Burnham's wife and child are now with

him; but, partially because of her, his wife's, infirm health, and

partially because of a most distressing and unfortunate experience in

his past, our kinsman begs that no one will attempt to call at the

ranch. He appreciates all the courtesy the gentlemen and ladies at the

fort would show, and have shown, but he feels compelled to decline all

intercourse. We are beholden, in a measure, to Mr. Burnham, and have to

be guided by his wishes. We are young men compared to him, and it was

through him that we came to seek our fortune here, but he is virtually

the head of both establishments.' Well. There was nothing more to be

said, and the boys came away. One thing more transpired. Burnham gave it

out that he had lived in Texas before the war, and had fought all the

way through in the Confederate service. He thought the officers ought

to know this. It was the major himself to whom he told it, and when the

major replied that he considered the war over and that that made no

difference, Burnham, with a clouded face replied, 'Well, mebbe it

don't--to you.' Whereupon the major fired up and told him that if he

chose to be an unreconstructed reb, when Union officers and gentlemen

were only striving to be civil to him, he might 'go ahead and be d--d,'

and came away in high dudgeon." And so matters stood up to the last we

had heard from Fort Phoenix, except for one letter which Mrs. Frazer

wrote to Mrs. Turner at Sandy, perhaps purely out of feminine mischief,

because a year or so previous Baker, as a junior second lieutenant, was

doing the devoted to Mrs. Turner, a species of mildly amatory

apprenticeship which most of the young officers seemed impelled to serve

on first joining. "We are having such a romance here at Phoenix. You

have doubtless heard of the beautiful girl at 'Starlight Ranch,' as we

call the Burnham place, up the valley. Everybody who called has been

rebuffed; but, after catching a few glimpses of her, Mr. Baker became

completely infatuated and rode up that way three or four times a week.

Of late he has ceased going in the daytime, but it is known that he

rides out towards dusk and gets back long after midnight, sometimes not

till morning. Of course it takes four hours, nearly, to come from there

full-speed, but though Major Tracy will admit nothing, it must be that

Mr. Baker has his permission to be away at night. We all believe that it

is another case of love laughing at locksmiths and that in some way they

contrive to meet. One thing is certain,--Mr. Baker is desperately in

love and will permit no trifling with him on the subject." Ordinarily, I

suppose, such a letter would have been gall and wormwood to Mrs. Turner,

but as young Hunter, a new appointment, was now a devotee, and as it was

a piece of romantic news which interested all Camp Sandy, she read the

letter to one lady after another, and so it became public property. Old

Catnip, as we called the colonel, was disposed to be a little worried on

the subject. Baker was a youngster in whom he had some interest as being

a distant connection of his wife's, but Mrs. Pelham had not come to

Arizona with us, and the good old fellow was living _en garcon_ with the

Mess, where, of course, the matter was discussed in all its bearings.

All these things recurred to me as I pottered around through the herds

examining side-lines, etc., and looking up the guards. Ordinarily our

scouting parties were so small that we had no such thing as an

officer-of-the-day,--nor had we now when Gleason could have been excused

for ordering one, but he evidently desired to do nothing that might

annoy his officers. He _might_ want them to stand by him when it came to

reporting the route and result of the scout. All the same, he expected

that the troop officers would give personal supervision to their

command, and especially to look after their "herds," and it was this

duty that took me away from the group chatting about the bivouac fire

preparatory to "turning in" for the night.

When I got back, a tall, gray-haired trooper was "standing attention" in

front of the commanding officer, and had evidently just made some

report, for Mr. Gleason nodded his head appreciatively and then said,

kindly,--

"You did perfectly right, corporal. Instruct your men to keep a lookout

for it, and if seen again to-night to call me at once. I'll bring my

field-glass and we'll see what it is."

The trooper raised his left hand to the "carried" carbine in salute and

turned away. When he was out of earshot, Gleason spoke to the silent

group,--

"Now, there's a case in point. If I had command of a troop and could get

old Potts into it I could make something of him, and I know it."

Gleason had consummate faith in his "system" with the rank and file, and

no respect for that of any of the captains. Nobody said anything. Blake

hated him and puffed unconcernedly at his pipe, with a display of

absolute indifference to his superior's views that the latter did not

fail to note. The others knew what a trial "old Potts" had been to his

troop commander, and did not believe that Gleason could "reform" him at

will. The silence was embarrassing, so I inquired,--

"What had he to report?"

"Oh, nothing of any consequence. He and one of the sentries saw what

they took to be an Indian signal-fire up Tonto Creek. It soon smouldered

away,--but I always make it a point to show respect to these old

soldiers."

"You show d--d little respect for their reports all the same," said

Blake, suddenly shooting up on a pair of legs that looked like stilts.

"An Indian signal-fire is a matter of a heap of consequence in my

opinion;" and he wrathfully stalked away.

For some reason Gleason saw fit to take no notice of this piece of

insubordination. Placidly he resumed his chat,--

"Now, you gentlemen seem skeptical about Potts. Do any of you know his

history?"

"Well, I know he's about the oldest soldier in the regiment; that he

served in the First Dragoons when they were in Arizona twenty years ago,

and that he gets drunk as a boiled owl every pay-day," was an immediate

answer.

"Very good as far as it goes," replied Gleason, with a superior smile;

"but I'll just tell you a chapter in his life he never speaks of and I

never dreamed of until the last time I was in San Francisco. There I met

old General Starr at the 'Occidental,' and almost the first thing he did

was to inquire for Potts, and then he told me about him. He was one of

the finest sergeants in Starr's troop in '53,--a dashing, handsome

fellow,--and while in at Fort Leavenworth he had fallen in love with,

won, and married as pretty a young girl as ever came into the regiment.

She came out to New Mexico with the detachment with which he served, and

was the belle of all the '_bailes_' given either by the 'greasers' or

the enlisted men. He was proud of her as he could be, and old Starr

swore that the few ladies of the regiment who were with them at old Fort

Fillmore or Stanton were really jealous of her. Even some of the young

officers got to saying sweet things to her, and Potts came to the

captain about it, and he had it stopped; but the girl's head was turned.

There was a handsome young fellow in the sutler's store who kept making

her presents on the sly, and when at last Potts found it out he nearly

hammered the life out of him. Then came that campaign against the

Jicarilla Apaches, and Potts had to go with his troop and leave her at

the cantonment, where, to be sure, there were ladies and plenty of

people to look after her; and in the fight at Cieneguilla poor Potts was

badly wounded, and it was some months before they got back; and meantime

the sutler fellow had got in his work, and when the command finally came

in with its wounded they had skipped, no one knew where. If Potts hadn't

been taken down with brain fever on top of his wound he would have

followed their trail, desertion or no desertion, but he was a broken man

when he got out of hospital. The last thing old Starr said to me was,

'Now, Gleason, I want you to be kind to my old sergeant; he served all

through the war, and I've never forgiven them in the First for going

back on him and refusing to re-enlist him; but the captains, one and

all, said it was no use; he had sunk lower and lower; was perfectly

unreliable; spent nine-tenths of his time in the guard-house and all his

money in whiskey; and one after another they refused to take him.'"

"How'd we happen to get him, then?" queried one of our party.

"He showed up at San Francisco, neat as a new pin; exhibited several

fine discharges, but said nothing of the last two, and was taken into

the regiment as we were going through. Of course, its pretty much as

they said in the First when we're in garrison, but, once out scouting,

days away from a drop of 'tanglefoot,' and he does first rate. That's

how he got his corporal's chevrons."

"He'll lose 'em again before we're back at Sandy forty-eight hours,"

growled Blake, strolling up to the party again.

But he did not. Prophecies failed this time, and old Potts wore those

chevrons to the last.

He was a good prophet and a keen judge of human nature as exemplified in

Gleason, who said that "the old man" was planning for a visit to the new

ranches above Fort Phoenix. A day or two farther we plodded along down

the range, our Indian scouts looking reproachfully--even sullenly--at

the commander at every halt, and then came the order to turn back. Two

marches more, and the little command went into bivouac close under the

eaves of Fort Phoenix and we were exchanging jovial greetings with our

brother officers at the post. Turning over the command to Lieutenant

Blake, Mr. Gleason went up into the garrison with his own particular

pack-mule; billeted himself on the infantry commanding officer--the

major--and in a short time appeared freshly-shaved and in the neatest

possible undress uniform, ready to call upon the few ladies at the post,

and of course to make frequent reference to "my battalion," or "my

command," down beyond the dusty, dismal corrals. The rest of us, having

come out for business, had no uniforms, nothing but the rough field,

scouting rig we wore on such duty, and every man's chin was bristling

with a two-weeks'-old beard.

"I'm going to report Gleason for this thing," swore Blake; "you see if I

don't, the moment we get back."

The rest of us were "hopping mad," too, but held our tongues so long as

we were around Phoenix. We did not want them there to believe there

was dissension and almost mutiny impending. Some of us got permission

from Blake to go up to the post with its hospitable officers, and I was

one who strolled up to "the store" after dark. There we found the major,

and Captain Frazer, and Captain Jennings, and most of the youngsters,

but Baker was absent. Of course the talk soon drifted to and settled on

"Starlight Ranch," and by tattoo most of the garrison crowd were talking

like so many Prussians, all at top-voice and all at once. Every man

seemed to have some theory of his own with regard to the peculiar

conduct of Mr. Burnham, but no one dissented from the quiet remark of

Captain Frazer:

"As for Baker's relations with the daughter, he is simply desperately in

love and means to marry her. He tells my wife that she is educated and

far more refined than her surroundings would indicate, but that he is

refused audience by both Burnham and his wife, and it is only at extreme

risk that he is able to meet his lady-love at all. Some nights she is

entirely prevented from slipping out to see him."

Presently in came Gleason, beaming and triumphant from his round of

calls among the fair sex, and ready now for the game he loved above all

things on earth,--poker. For reasons which need not be elaborated here

no officer in our command would play with him, and an ugly rumor was

going the rounds at Sandy, just before we came away, that, in a game at

Olsen's ranch on the Aqua Fria about three weeks before, he had had his

face slapped by Lieutenant Ray of our own regiment. But Ray had gone to

his lonely post at Camp Cameron, and there was no one by whom we could

verify it except some ranchmen, who declared that Gleason had cheated at

cards, and Ray "had been a little too full," as they put it, to detect

the fraud until it seemed to flash upon him all of a sudden. A game

began, however, with three local officers as participants, so presently

Carroll and I withdrew and went back to bivouac.

"Have you seen anything of Corporal Potts?" was the first question asked

by Mr. Blake.

"Not a thing. Why? Is he missing?"

"Been missing for an hour. He was talking with some of these garrison

soldiers here just after the men had come in from the herd, and what I'm

afraid of is that he'll go up into the post and get bilin' full there.

I've sent other non-commissioned officers after him, but they cannot

find him. He hasn't even looked in at the store, so the bar-tender

swears."

"The sly old rascal!" said Carroll. "He knows perfectly well how to get

all the liquor he wants without exposing himself in the least. No doubt

if the bar-tender were asked if he had not filled some flasks this

evening he would say yes, and Potts is probably stretched out

comfortably in the forage-loft of one of the stables, with a canteen of

water and his flask of bug-juice, prepared to make a night of it."

Blake moodily gazed into the embers of the bivouac-fire. Never had we

seen him so utterly unlike himself as on this burlesque of a scout, and

now that we were virtually homeward-bound, and empty-handed too, he was

completely weighed down by the consciousness of our lost opportunities.

If something could only have happened to Gleason before the start, so

that the command might have devolved on Blake, we all felt that a very

different account could have been rendered; for with all his rattling,

ranting fun around the garrison, he was a gallant and dutiful soldier in

the field. It was now after ten o'clock; most of the men, rolled in

their blankets, were sleeping on the scant turf that could be found at

intervals in the half-sandy soil below the corrals and stables. The

herds of the two troops and the pack-mules were all cropping peacefully

at the hay that had been liberally distributed among them because there

was hardly grass enough for a "burro." We were all ready to turn in, but

there stood our temporary commander, his long legs a-straddle, his hands

clasped behind him, and the flickering light of the fire betraying in

his face both profound dejection and disgust.

"I wouldn't care so much," said he at last, "but it will give Gleason a

chance to say that things always go wrong when he's away. Did you see

him up at the post?" he suddenly asked. "What was he doing, Carroll?"

"Poker," was the sententious reply.

"What?" shouted Blake. "Poker? 'I thank thee, good Tubal,--good

news,--good news!'" he ranted, with almost joyous relapse into his old

manner. "'O Lady Fortune, stand you auspicious', for those fellows at

Phoenix, I mean, and may they scoop our worthy chieftain of his last

ducat. See what it means, fellows. Win or lose, he'll play all night,

he'll drink much if it go agin' him, and I pray it may. He'll be too

sick, when morning comes, to join us, and, by my faith, we'll leave his

horse and orderly and march away without him. As for Potts,--an he

appear not,--we'll let him play hide-and-seek with his would-be

reformer. Hullo! What's that?"

There was a sound of alternate shout and challenge towards where the

horses were herded on the level stretch below us. The sergeant of the

guard was running rapidly thither as Carroll and I reached the corner of

the corral. Half a minute's brisk spurt brought us to the scene.

"What's the trouble, sentry?" panted the sergeant.

"One of our fellows trying to take a horse. I was down on this side of

the herd when I seen him at the other end trying to loose a side-line.

It was just light enough by the moon to let me see the figure, but I

couldn't make out who 'twas. I challenged and ran and yelled for the

corporal, too, but he got away through the horses somehow. Murphy, who's

on the other side of the herds, seen him and challenged too."

"Did he answer?"

"Not a word, sir."

"Count your horses, sergeant, and see if all are here," was ordered.

Then we hurried over to Murphy's post.

"Who was the man? Could you make him out?"

"Not plainly, sir; but I think it was one of our own command," and poor

Murphy hesitated and stammered. He hated to "give away," as he expressed

it, one of his own troop. But his questioners were inexorable.

"What man did this one most look like, so far as you could judge?"

"Well, sir, I hate to suspicion anybody, but 'twas more like Corporal

Potts he looked. Sure, if 'twas him, he must ha' been drinkin', for the

corporal's not the man to try and run off a horse when he's in his sober

sinses."

The waning moon gave hardly enough light for effective search, but we

did our best. Blake came out and joined us, looking very grave when he

heard the news. Eleven o'clock came, and we gave it up. Not a sign of

the marauder could we find. Potts was still absent from the bivouac when

we got back, but Blake determined to make no further effort to find him.

Long before midnight we were all soundly sleeping, and the next thing I

knew my orderly was shaking me by the arm and announcing breakfast.

Reveille was just being sounded up at the garrison. The sun had not yet

climbed high enough to peep over the Matitzal, but it was broad

daylight. In ten minutes Carroll and I were enjoying our coffee and

_frijoles_; Blake had ridden up into the garrison. Potts was still

absent; and so, as we expected, was Mr. Gleason.

Half an hour more, and in long column of twos, and followed by our

pack-train, the command was filing out along the road whereon "No. 3"

had seen the ambulance darting by in the darkness. Blake had come back

from the post with a flush of anger on his face and with lips

compressed. He did not even dismount. "Saddle up at once" was all he

said until he gave the commands to mount and march. Opposite the

quarters of the commanding officer we were riding at ease, and there he

shook his gauntleted fist at the whitewashed walls, and had recourse to

his usual safety-valve,--

"'Take heed, my lords, the welfare of us all

Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man,'

and may the devil fly away with him! What d'ye think he told me when I

went to hunt him up?"

There was no suitable conjecture.

"He said to march ahead, leaving his horse, Potts's, and his orderly's,

also the pack-mule: he would follow at his leisure. He had given Potts

authority to wait and go with him, but did not consider it necessary to

notify me."

"Where was he?"

"Still at the store, playing with the trader and some understrappers.

Didn't seem to be drunk, either."

And that was the last we heard of our commander until late in the

evening. We were then in bivouac on the west bank of the Sandy within

short rifle-range of the buildings of Crocker's Ranch on the other side.

There the lights burned brightly, and some of our people who had gone

across had been courteously received, despite a certain constraint and

nervousness displayed by the two brothers. At "Starlight," however,

nearly a mile away from us, all was silence and darkness. We had studied

it curiously as we marched up along the west shore, and some of the men

had asked permission to fall out and ride over there, "just to see it,"

but Blake had refused. The Sandy was easily fordable on horseback

anywhere, and the Crockers, for the convenience of their ranch people,

had placed a lot of bowlders and heaps of stones in such position that

they served as a foot-path opposite their corrals. But Blake said he

would rather none of his people intruded at "Starlight," and so it

happened that we were around the fire when Gleason rode in about nine

o'clock, and with him Lieutenant Baker, also the recreant Potts.

"You may retain command, Mr. Blake," said the former, thickly. "I have

an engagement this evening."

In an instant Baker was at my side. We had not met before since he was

wearing the gray at the Point.

"For God's sake, don't let him follow me,--but _you_,--come if you

possibly can. I'll slip off into the willows up-stream as soon as I can

do so without his seeing."

I signalled Blake to join us, and presently he sauntered over our way,

Gleason meantime admonishing his camp cook that he expected to have the

very best hot supper for himself and his friend, Lieutenant Baker, ready

in twenty minutes,--twenty minutes, for they had an important

engagement, an _affaire de coor_, by Jove!

"You fellows know something of this matter," said Baker, hurriedly; "but

I cannot begin to tell you how troubled I am. Something is wrong with

_her_. She has not met me once this week, and the house is still as a

grave. I must see her. She is either ill or imprisoned by her people, or

carried away. God only knows why that hound Burnham forbids me the

house. I cannot see him. I've never seen his wife. The door is barred

against me and I cannot force an entrance. For a while she was able to

slip out late in the evening and meet me down the hill-side, but they

must have detected her in some way. I do not even know that she is

there, but to-night I _mean_ to know. If she is within those walls--and

alive--she will answer my signal. But for heaven's sake keep that

drunken wretch from going over there. He's bent on it. The major gave

me leave again for to-night, provided I would see Gleason safely to your

camp, and he has been maundering all the way out about how _he_ knew

more'n I did,--he and Potts, who's half-drunk too,--and how he meant to

see me through in this matter."

"Well, here," said Blake, "there's only one thing to be done. You two

slip away at once; get your horses, and ford the Sandy well below camp.

I'll try and keep him occupied."

In three minutes we were off, leading our steeds until a hundred yards

or so away from the fires, then mounting and moving at rapid walk.

Following Baker's lead, I rode along, wondering what manner of adventure

this was apt to be. I expected him to make an early crossing of the

stream, but he did not. "The only fords I know," said he, "are down

below Starlight," and so it happened that we made a wide _detour_; but

during that dark ride he told me frankly how matters stood. Zoe Burnham

had promised to be his wife, and had fully returned his love, but she

was deeply attached to her poor mother, whose health was utterly broken,

and who seemed to stand in dread of her father. The girl could not bear

to leave her mother, though he had implored her to do so and be married

at once. "She told me the last time I saw her that old Burnham had sworn

to kill me if he caught me around the place, so I have to come armed,

you see;" and he exhibited his heavy revolver. "There's something shady

about the old man, but I don't know what it is."

At last we crossed the stream, and soon reached a point where we

dismounted and fastened our horses among the willows; then slowly and

cautiously began the ascent to the ranch. The slope here was long and

gradual, and before we had gone fifty yards Baker laid his hand on my

arm.

"Wait. Hush!" he said.

Listening, we could distinctly hear the crunching of horses' hoofs, but

in the darkness (for the old moon was not yet showing over the range to

the east) we could distinguish nothing. One thing was certain: those

hoofs were going towards the ranch.

"Heavens!" said Baker. "Do you suppose that Gleason has got the start of

us after all? There's no telling what mischief he may do. He swore he

would stand inside those walls to-night, for there was no Chinaman on

earth whom he could not bribe."

We pushed ahead at the run now, but within a minute I plunged into some

unseen hollow; my Mexican spurs tangled, and down I went heavily upon

the ground. The shock was severe, and for an instant I lay there

half-stunned. Baker was by my side in the twinkling of an eye full of

anxiety and sympathy. I was not injured in the slightest, but the breath

was knocked out of me, and it was some minutes before I could forge

ahead again. We reached the foot of the steep slope; we clambered

painfully--at least I did--to the crest, and there stood the black

outline of Starlight Ranch, with only a glimmer of light shining through

the windows here and there where the shades did not completely cover the

space. In front were three horses held by a cavalry trooper.

"Whose horses are these?" panted Baker.

"Lieutenant Gleason's, sir. Him and Corporal Potts has gone round

behind the ranch with a Chinaman they found takin' in water."

And then, just at that instant, so piercing, so agonized, so fearful

that even the three horses started back snorting and terrified, there

rang out on the still night air the most awful shriek I ever heard, the

wail of a woman in horror and dismay. Then dull, heavy blows; oaths,

curses, stifled exclamations; a fall that shook the windows; Gleason's

voice commanding, entreating; a shrill Chinese jabber; a rush through

the hall; more blows; gasps; curses; more unavailing orders in Gleason's

well-known voice; then a sudden pistol shot, a scream of "Oh, my God!"

then moans, and then silence. The casement on the second floor was

thrown open, and a fair young face and form were outlined upon the

bright light within; a girlish voice called, imploringly,--

"Harry! Harry! Oh, help, if you are there! They are killing father!"

But at the first sound Harry Baker had sprung from my side and

disappeared in the darkness.

"We are friends," I shouted to her,--"Harry Baker's friends. He has gone

round to the rear entrance." Then I made a dash for the front door,

shaking, kicking, and hammering with all my might. I had no idea how to

find the rear entrance in the darkness. Presently it was opened by the

still chattering, jabbering Chinaman, his face pasty with terror and

excitement, and the sight that met my eyes was one not soon to be

forgotten.

A broad hall opened straight before me, with a stairway leading to the

second floor. A lamp with burnished reflector was burning brightly

midway down its length. Another just like it fully lighted a big room to

my left,--the dining-room, evidently,--on the floor of which, surrounded

by overturned chairs, was lying a woman in a deathlike swoon. Indeed, I

thought at first she was dead. In the room to my right, only dimly

lighted, a tall man in shirt-sleeves was slowly crawling to a sofa,

unsteadily assisted by Gleason; and as I stepped inside, Corporal Potts,

who was leaning against the wall at the other end of the room pressing

his hand to his side and with ashen face, sank suddenly to the floor,

doubled up in a pool of his own blood. In the dining-room, in the hall,

everywhere that I could see, were the marks of a fearful struggle. The

man on the sofa gasped faintly, "Water," and I ran into the dining-room

and hastened back with a brimming goblet.

"What does it all mean?" I demanded of Gleason.

Big drops of sweat were pouring down his pallid face. The fearful scene

had entirely sobered him.

"Potts has found the man who robbed him of his wife. That's she on the

floor yonder. Go and help her."

But she was already coming to and beginning to stare wildly about her. A

glass of water helped to revive her. She staggered across the hall, and

then, with a moan of misery and horror at the sight, threw herself upon

her knees, not beside the sofa where Burnham lay gasping, but on the

floor where lay our poor old corporal. In an instant she had his head in

her lap and was crooning over the senseless clay, swaying her body to

and fro as she piteously called to him,--

"Frank, Frank! Oh, for the love of Jesus, speak to me! Frank, dear

Frank, my husband, my own! Oh, for God's sake, open your eyes and look

at me! I wasn't as wicked as they made me out, Frank, God knows I

wasn't. I tried to get back to you, but Pierce there swore you were

dead,--swore you were killed at Cieneguilla. Oh, Frank, Frank, open your

eyes! _Do_ hear me, husband. O God, don't let him die! Oh, for pity's

sake, gentlemen, can't you do something? Can't you bring him to? He must

hear me! He must know how I've been lied to all these years!"

"Quick! Take this and see if you can bring him round," said Gleason,

tossing me his flask. I knelt and poured the burning spirit into his

open mouth. There were a few gurgles, half-conscious efforts to swallow,

and then--success. He opened his glazing eyes and looked up into the

face of his wife. His lips moved and he called her by name. She raised

him higher in her arms, pillowing his head upon her bosom, and covered

his face with frantic kisses. The sight seemed too much for "Burnham."

His face worked and twisted with rage; he ground out curses and

blasphemy between his clinched teeth; he even strove to rise from the

sofa, but Gleason forced him back. Meantime, the poor woman's wild

remorse and lamentations were poured into the ears of the dying man.

"Tell me you believe me, Frank. Tell me you forgive me. O God! you don't

know what my life has been with him. When I found out that it was all a

lie about your being killed at Cieneguilla, he beat me like a slave. He

had to go and fight in the war. They made him; they conscripted him; and

when he got back he brought me papers to show you were killed in one of

the Virginia battles. I gave up hope then for good and all."

Just then who should come springing down the stairs but Baker, who had

evidently been calming and soothing his lady-love aloft. He stepped

quickly into the parlor.

"Have you sent for a surgeon?" he asked.

The sound of his voice seemed to rouse "Burnham" to renewed life and

raging hate.

"Surgeons be damned!" he gasped. "I'm past all surgery; but thank God

I've given that ruffian what'll send him to hell before I get there! And

you--_you_"--and here he made a frantic grab for the revolver that lay

upon the floor, but Gleason kicked it away--"you, young hound, I meant

to have wound you up before I got through. But I can jeer at

you--God-forsaken idiot--I can triumph over you;" and he stretched forth

a quivering, menacing arm and hand. "You _would_ have your way--damn

you!--so take it. You've given your love to a bastard,--that's what Zoe

is."

Baker stood like one turned suddenly into stone. But from the other end

of the room came prompt, wrathful, and with the ring of truth in her

earnest protest, the mother's loud defence of her child.

"It's a lie,--a fiendish and malignant lie,--and he knows it. Here lies

her father, my own husband, murdered by that scoundrel there. Her

baptismal certificate is in my room. I've kept it all these years where

he never could get it. No, Frank, she's your own, your own baby, whom

you never saw. Go--go and bring her. He _must_ see his baby-girl. Oh,

my darling, don't--don't go until you see her." And again she covered

the ashen face with her kisses. I knelt and put the flask to his lips

and he eagerly swallowed a few drops. Baker had turned and darted

up-stairs. "Burnham's" late effort had proved too much for him. He had

fainted away, and the blood was welling afresh from several wounds.

A moment more and Baker reappeared, leading his betrothed. With her

long, golden hair rippling down her back, her face white as death, and

her eyes wild with dread, she was yet one of the loveliest pictures I

ever dreamed of. Obedient to her mother's signal, she knelt close beside

them, saying no word.

"Zoe, darling, this is your own father; the one I told you of last

winter."

Old Potts seemed struggling to rise; an inexpressible tenderness shone

over his rugged, bearded face; his eyes fastened themselves on the

lovely girl before him with a look almost as of wonderment; his lips

seemed striving to whisper her name. His wife raised him still higher,

and Baker reverently knelt and supported the shoulder of the dying man.

There was the silence of the grave in the dimly-lighted room. Slowly,

tremulously the arm in the old blue blouse was raised and extended

towards the kneeling girl. Lowly she bent, clasping her hands and with

the tears now welling from her eyes. One moment more and the withered

old hand that for quarter of a century had grasped the sabre-hilt in the

service of our common country slowly fell until it rested on that

beautiful, golden head,--one little second or two, in which the lips

seemed to murmur a prayer and the fast glazing eyes were fixed in

infinite tenderness upon his only child. Then suddenly they sought the

face of his sobbing wife,--a quick, faint smile, a sigh, and the hand

dropped to the floor. The old trooper's life had gone out in

benediction.

* * * * *

Of course there was trouble all around before that wretched affair was

explained. Gleason came within an ace of court-martial, but escaped it

by saying that he knew of "Burnham's" threats against the life of

Lieutenant Baker, and that he went to the ranch in search of the latter

and to get him out of danger. They met the Chinaman outside drawing

water, and he ushered them in the back way because it was the nearest.

Potts asked to go with him that he might see if this was his long-lost

wife,--so said Gleason,--and the instant she caught sight of him she

shrieked and fainted, and the two men sprang at each other like tigers.

Knives were drawn in a minute. Then Burnham fled through the hall,

snatched a revolver from its rack, and fired the fatal shot. The surgeon

from Fort Phoenix reached them early the next morning, a messenger

having been despatched from Crocker's ranch before eleven at night, but

all his skill could not save "Burnham," now known to be Pierce, the

ex-sutler clerk of the early Fifties. He had prospered and made money

ever since the close of the war, and Zoe had been thoroughly well

educated in the East before the poor child was summoned to share her

mother's exile. His mania seemed to be to avoid all possibility of

contact with the troops, but the Crockers had given such glowing

accounts of the land near Fort Phoenix, and they were so positively

assured that there need be no intercourse whatever with that post, that

he determined to risk it. But, go where he would, his sin had found him

out.

The long hot summer followed, but it often happened that before many

weeks there were interchanges of visits between the fort and the ranch.

The ladies insisted that the widow should come thither for change and

cheer, and Zoe's appearance at Phoenix was the sensation of the year.

Baker was in the seventh heaven. "Burnham," it was found, had a certain

sense of justice, for his will had been made long before, and everything

he possessed was left unreservedly to the woman whom he had betrayed

and, in his tigerish way, doubtless loved, for he had married her in

'65, the instant he succeeded in convincing her that Potts was really

dead.

So far from combating the will, both the Crockers were cordial in their

support. Indeed, it was the elder brother who told the widow of its

existence. They had known her and her story many a year, and were ready

to devote themselves to her service now. The junior moved up to the

"Burnham" place to take general charge and look after matters, for the

property was every day increasing in value. And so matters went until

the fall, and then, one lovely evening, in the little wooden chapel at

the old fort, there was a gathering such as its walls had never known

before; and the loveliest bride that Arizona ever saw, blushing,

smiling, and radiantly happy, received the congratulations of the entire

garrison and of delegations from almost every post in the department.

A few years ago, to the sorrow of everybody in the regiment, Mr. and

Mrs. Harry Baker bade it good-by forever. The fond old mother who had so

long watched over the growing property for "her children," as she called

them, had no longer the strength the duties required. Crocker had taken

unto himself a helpmate and was needed at his own place, and our gallant

and genial comrade with his sweet wife left us only when it became

evident to all at Phoenix that a new master was needed at Starlight

Ranch.

WELL WON;

OR,

FROM THE PLAINS TO "THE POINT."

CHAPTER I.

RALPH MCCREA.

The sun was going down, and a little girl with big, dark eyes who was

sitting in the waiting-room of the railway station was beginning to look

very tired. Ever since the train came in at one o'clock she had been

perched there between the iron arms of the seat, and now it was after

six o'clock of the long June day, and high time that some one came for

her.

A bonny little mite she was, with a wealth of brown hair tumbling down

her shoulders and overhanging her heavy eyebrows. She was prettily

dressed, and her tiny feet, cased in stout little buttoned boots, stuck

straight out before her most of the time, as she sat well back on the

broad bench.

She was a silent little body, and for over two hours had hardly opened

her lips to any one,--even to the doll that now lay neglected on the

seat beside her. Earlier in the afternoon she had been much engrossed

with that blue-eyed, flaxen-haired, and overdressed beauty; but, little

by little, her interest flagged, and when a six-year-old girlie loses

interest in a brand-new doll something serious must be the matter.

Something decidedly serious was the matter now. The train that came up

from Denver had brought this little maiden and her father,--a handsome,

sturdy-looking ranchman of about thirty years of age,--and they had been

welcomed with jubilant cordiality by two or three stalwart men in

broad-brimmed slouch hats and frontier garb. They had picked her up in

their brawny arms and carried her to the waiting-room, and seated her

there in state and fed her with fruit and dainties, and made much of

her. Then her father had come in and placed in her arms this wonderful

new doll, and while she was still hugging it in her delight, he laid a

heavy satchel on the seat beside her and said,--

"And now, baby, papa has to go up-town a ways. He has lots of things to

get to take home with us, and some new horses to try. He may be gone a

whole hour, but will you stay right here--you and dolly--and take good

care of the satchel?"

She looked up a little wistfully. She did not quite like to be left

behind, but she felt sure papa could not well take her,--he was always

so loving and kind,--and then, there was dolly; and there were other

children with their mothers in the room. So she nodded, and put up her

little face for his kiss. He took her in his arms a minute and hugged

her tight.

"That's my own little Jessie!" he said. "She's as brave as her mother

was, fellows, and it's saying a heap."

With that he set her down upon the bench, and they put dolly in her

arms again and a package of apples within her reach; and then the jolly

party started off.

They waved their hands to her through the window and she smiled shyly at

them, and one of them called to a baggage-man and told him to have an

eye on little Jessie in there. "She is Farron's kid."

For a while matters did not go so very badly. Other children, who came

to look at that marvellous doll and to make timid advances, kept her

interested. But presently the east-bound train was signalled and they

were all whisked away.

Then came a space of over an hour, during which little Jessie sat there

all alone in the big, bare room, playing contentedly with her new toy

and chattering in low-toned, murmurous "baby talk" to her, and pointing

out the wonderful sunbeams that came slanting in through the dust of the

western windows. She had had plenty to eat and a big glass of milk

before papa went away, and was neither hungry nor thirsty; but all the

same, it seemed as if that hour were getting very, very long; and every

time the tramp of footsteps was heard on the platform outside she looked

up eagerly.

Then other people began to come in to wait for a train, and whenever the

door opened, the big, dark eyes glanced quickly up with such a hopeful,

wistful gaze, and as each new-comer proved to be a total stranger the

little maiden's disappointment was so evident that some kind-hearted

women came over to speak to her and see if all was right.

But she was as shy as she was lonely, poor little mite, and hung her

head and hugged her doll, and shrank away when they tried to take her in

their arms. All they could get her to say was that she was waiting for

papa and that her name was Jessie Farron.

At last their train came and they had to go, and a new set appeared; and

there were people to meet and welcome them with joyous greetings and

much homely, homelike chatter, and everybody but one little girl seemed

to have friends. It all made Jessie feel more and more lonely, and to

wonder what could have happened to keep papa so very long.

Still she was so loyal, so sturdy a little sentinel at her post. The

kind-hearted baggage-man came in and strove to get her to go with him to

his cottage "a ways up the road," where his wife and little ones were

waiting tea for him; but she shook her head and shrank back even from

him.

Papa had told her to stay there and she would not budge. Papa had placed

his satchel in her charge, and so she kept guard over it and watched

every one who approached.

The sun was getting low and shining broadly in through those western

windows and making a glare that hurt her eyes, and she longed to change

her seat. Between the sun glare and the loneliness her eyes began to

fill with big tears, and when once they came it was so hard to force

them back; so it happened that poor little Jessie found herself crying

despite all her determination to be "papa's own brave daughter."

The windows behind her opened out to the north, and by turning around

she could see a wide, level space between the platform and the hotel,

where wagons and an omnibus or two, and a four-mule ambulance had been

coming and going.

Again and again her eyes had wandered towards this space in hopeful

search for father's coming, only to meet with disappointment. At last,

just as she had turned and was kneeling on the seat and gazing through

the tears that trickled down her pretty face, she saw a sight that made

her sore little heart bound high with hope.

First there trotted into the enclosure a span of handsome bay horses

with a low phaeton in which were seated two ladies; and directly after

them, at full gallop, came two riders on spirited, mettlesome sorrels.

Little Jessie knew the horsemen at a glance. One was a tall, bronzed,

dark-moustached trooper in the fatigue uniform of a cavalry sergeant;

the other was a blue-eyed, faired-haired young fellow of sixteen years,

who raised his cap and bowed to the ladies in the carriage, as he reined

his horse up close to the station platform.

He was just about to speak to them when he heard a childish voice

calling, "Ralph! Ralph!" and, turning quickly around, he caught sight of

a little girl stretching out her arms to him through the window, and

crying as if her baby heart would break.

In less time than it takes me to write five words he sprang from his

horse, bounded up the platform into the waiting-room, and gathered the

child to his heart, anxiously bidding her tell him what was the trouble.

For a few minutes she could only sob in her relief and joy at seeing

him, and snuggle close to his face. The ladies wondered to see Ralph

McCrea coming towards them with a strange child in his arms, but they

were all sympathy and loving-kindness in a moment, so attractive was her

sweet face.

"Mrs. Henry, this is Jessie Farron. You know her father; he owns a ranch

up on the Chugwater, right near the Laramie road. The station-master

says she has been here all alone since he went off at one o'clock with

some friends to buy things for the ranch and try some horses. It must

have been his party Sergeant Wells and I saw way out by the fort."

He paused a moment to address a cheering word to the little girl in his

arms, and then went on: "Their team had run away over the prairie--a man

told us--and they were leading them in to the quartermaster's corral as

we rode from the stables. I did not recognize Farron at the distance,

but Sergeant Wells will gallop out and tell him Jessie is all right.

_Would_ you mind taking care of her a few minutes? Poor little girl!" he

added, in lower and almost beseeching tones, "she hasn't any mother."

"_Would_ I mind!" exclaimed Mrs. Henry, warmly. "Give her to me, Ralph.

Come right here, little daughter, and tell me all about it," and the

loving woman stood up in the carriage and held forth her arms, to which

little Jessie was glad enough to be taken, and there she sobbed, and was

soothed and petted and kissed as she had not been since her mother died.

Ralph and the station-master brought to the carriage the wonderful

doll--at sight of whose toilet Mrs. Henry could not repress a

significant glance at her lady friend, and a suggestive exclamation of

"Horrors!"--and the heavy satchel. These were placed where Jessie could

see them and feel that they were safe, and then she was able to answer a

few questions and to look up trustfully into the gentle face that was

nestled every little while to hers, and to sip the cup of milk that

Ralph fetched from the hotel. She had certainly fallen into the hands of

persons who had very loving hearts.

"Poor little thing! What a shame to leave her all alone! How long has

her mother been dead, Ralph?" asked the other lady, rather indignantly.

"About two years, Mrs. Wayne. Father and his officers knew them very

well. Our troop was camped up there two whole summers near them,--last

summer and the one before,--but Farron took her to Denver to visit her

mother's people last April, and has just gone for her. Sergeant Wells

said he stopped at the ranch on the way down from Laramie, and Farron

told him, then, he couldn't live another month without his little girl,

and was going to Denver for her at once."

"I remember them well, now," said Mrs. Henry, "and we saw him sometimes

when our troop was at Laramie. What was the last news from your father,

Ralph, and when do you go?"

"No news since the letter that met me here. You know he has been

scouting ever since General Crook went on up to the Powder River

country. Our troop and the Grays are all that are left to guard that

whole neighborhood, and the Indians seem to know it. They are 'jumping'

from the reservation all the time."

"But the Fifth Cavalry are here now, and they will soon be up there to

help you, and put a stop to all that,--won't they?"

"I don't know. The Fifth say that they expect orders to go to the Black

Hills, so as to get between the reservations and Sitting Bull's people.

Only six troops--half the regiment--have come. Papa's letter said I was

to start for Laramie with them, but they have been kept waiting four

days already."

"They will start now, though," said the lady. "General Merritt has just

got back from Red Cloud, where he went to look into the situation, and

he has been in the telegraph office much of the afternoon wiring to

Chicago, where General Sheridan is. Colonel Mason told us, as we drove

past camp, that they would probably march at daybreak."

"That means that Sergeant Wells and I go at the same time, then," said

Ralph, with glistening eyes. "Doesn't it seem odd, after I've been

galloping all over this country from here to the Chug for the last three

years, that now father won't let me go it alone. I never yet set eyes on

a war party of Indians, or heard of one south of the Platte."

"All the same they came, Ralph, and it was simply to protect those

settlers that your father's company was there so much. This year they

are worse than ever, and there has been no cavalry to spare. If you were

my boy, I should be worried half to death at the idea of your riding

alone from here to Laramie. What does your mother think of it?"

"It was mother, probably, who made father issue the order. She writes

that, eager as she is to see me, she wouldn't think of letting me come

alone with Sergeant Wells. Pshaw! He and I would be safer than the old

stage-coach any day. That is never 'jumped' south of Laramie, though it

is chased now and then above there. Of course the country's full of

Indians between the Platte and the Black Hills, but we shouldn't be

likely to come across any."

There was a moment's silence. Nestled in Mrs. Henry's arms the weary

little girl was dropping off into placid slumber, and forgetting all her

troubles. Both the ladies were wives of officers of the army, and were

living at Fort Russell, three miles out from Cheyenne, while their

husbands were far to the north with their companies on the Indian

campaign, which was just then opening.

It was an anxious time. Since February all of the cavalry and much of

the infantry stationed in Nebraska and Wyoming had been out in the wild

country above the North Platte River, between the Big Horn Mountains and

the Black Hills. For two years previous great numbers of the young

warriors had been slipping away from the Sioux reservations and joining

the forces of such vicious and intractable chiefs as Sitting Bull, Gall,

and Rain-in-the-face, it could scarcely be doubted, with hostile intent.

Several thousands of the Indians were known to be at large, and

committing depredations and murders in every direction among the

settlers. Now, all pacific means having failed, the matter had been

turned over to General Crook, who had recently brought the savage

Apaches of Arizona under subjection, to employ such means as he found

necessary to defeat their designs.

General Crook found the Sioux and their allies armed with the best

modern breech-loaders, well supplied with ammunition and countless herds

of war ponies, and far too numerous and powerful to be handled by the

small force at his command.

One or two sharp and savage fights occurred in March, while the mercury

was still thirty degrees below zero, and then the government decided on

a great summer campaign. Generals Terry and Gibbon were to hem the

Indians from the north along the Yellowstone, while at the same time

General Crook was to march up and attack them from the south.

When June came, four regiments of cavalry and half a dozen infantry

regiments were represented among the forces that scouted to and fro in

the wild and beautiful uplands of Wyoming, Dakota, and Eastern Montana,

searching for the Sioux.

The families of the officers and soldiers remained at the barracks from

which the men were sent, and even at the exposed stations of Forts

Laramie, Robinson, and Fetterman, many ladies and children remained

under the protection of small garrisons of infantry. Among the ladies at

Laramie was Mrs. McCrea, Ralph's mother, who waited for the return of

her boy from a long absence at school.

A manly, sturdy fellow was Ralph, full of health and vigor, due in great

part to the open-air life he had led in his early boyhood. He had

"backed" an Indian pony before he was seven, and could sit one like a

Comanche by the time he was ten. He had accompanied his father on many a

long march and scout, and had ridden every mile of the way from the Gila

River in Arizona, across New Mexico, and so on up into Nebraska.

He had caught brook trout in the Cache la Poudre, and shot antelope

along the Loup Fork of the Platte. With his father and his father's men

to watch and keep him from harm, he had even charged his first buffalo

herd and had been fortunate enough to shoot a bull. The skin had been

made into a robe, which he carefully kept.

Now, all eager to spend his vacation among his favorite haunts,--in the

saddle and among the mountain streams,--Ralph McCrea was going back to

his army home, when, as ill-luck would have it, the great Sioux war

broke out in the early summer of our Centennial Year, and promised to

greatly interfere with, if it did not wholly spoil, many of his

cherished plans.

Fort Laramie lay about one hundred miles north of Cheyenne, and Sergeant

Wells had come down with the paymaster's escort a few days before,

bringing Ralph's pet, his beautiful little Kentucky sorrel "Buford," and

now the boy and his faithful friend, the sergeant, were visiting at Fort

Russell, and waiting for a safe opportunity to start for home.

Presently, as they chatted in low tones so as not to disturb the little

sleeper, there came the sound of rapid hoof-beats, and Sergeant Wells

cantered into the enclosure and, riding up to the carriage, said to

Ralph,--

"I found him, sir, all safe; but their wagon was being patched up, and

he could not leave. He is so thankful to Mrs. Henry for her kindness,

and begs to know if she would mind bringing Jessie out to the fort. The

men are trying very hard to persuade him not to start for the Chug in

the morning."

"Why not, sergeant?"

"Because the telegraph despatches from Laramie say there must be a

thousand Indians gone out from the reservation in the last two days.

They've cut the wires up to Red Cloud, and no more news can reach us."

Ralph's face grew very pale.

"Father is right in the midst of them, with only fifty men!"

CHAPTER II.

CAVALRY ON THE MARCH.

It was a lovely June morning when the Fifth Cavalry started on its

march. Camp was struck at daybreak, and soon after five o'clock, while

the sun was still low in the east and the dew-drops were sparkling on

the buffalo grass, the long column was winding up the bare, rolling

"divide" which lay between the valleys of Crow and Lodge Pole Creeks. In

plain view, only thirty miles away to the west, were the summits of the

Rocky Mountains, but such is the altitude of this upland prairie,

sloping away eastward between the two forks of the Platte River, that

these summits appear to be nothing more than a low range of hills

shutting off the western horizon.

Looking southward from the Laramie road, all the year round one can see

the great peaks of the range--Long's and Hahn's and Pike's--glistening

in their mantles of snow, and down there near them, in Colorado, the

mountains slope abruptly into the Valley of the South Platte.

Up here in Wyoming the Rockies go rolling and billowing far out to the

east, and the entire stretch of country, from what are called the "Black

Hills of Wyoming," in contradistinction to the Black Hills of Dakota,

far east as the junction of the forks of the Platte, is one vast

inclined plane.

The Union Pacific Railway winds over these Black Hills at Sherman,--the

lowest point the engineers could find,--and Sherman is over eight

thousand feet above the sea.

From Sherman, eastward, in less than an hour's run the cars go sliding

down with smoking brakes to Cheyenne, a fall of two thousand feet. But

the wagon-road from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie twists and winds among the

ravines and over the divides of this lofty prairie; so that Ralph and

his soldier friends, while riding jauntily over the hard-beaten track

this clear, crisp, sunshiny, breezy morning, were twice as high above

the sea as they would have been at the tiptop of the Catskills and

higher even than had they been at the very summit of Mount Washington.

The air at this height, though rare, is keen and exhilarating, and one

needs no second look at the troopers to see how bright are their eyes

and how nimble and elastic is the pace of their steeds.

The commanding officer, with his adjutant and orderlies and a little

group of staff sergeants, had halted at the crest of one of these ridges

and was looking back at the advancing column. Beside the winding road

was strung a line of wires,--the military telegraph to the border

forts,--and with the exception of those bare poles not a stick of timber

was anywhere in sight.

The whole surface is destitute of bush or tree, but the thick little

bunches of gray-green grass that cover it everywhere are rich with juice

and nutriment. This is the buffalo grass of the Western prairies, and

the moment the horses' heads are released down go their nozzles, and

they are cropping eagerly and gratefully.

Far as the eye can see to the north and east it roams over a rolling,

tumbling surface that seems to have become suddenly petrified. Far to

the south are the snow-shimmering peaks; near at hand, to the west, are

the gloomy gorges and ravines and wide wastes of upland of the Black

Hills of Wyoming; and so clear is the air that they seem but a short

hour's gallop away.

There is something strangely deceptive about the distances in an

atmosphere so rare and clear as this.

A young surgeon was taking his first ride with a cavalry column in the

wide West, and, as he looked back into the valley through which they had

been marching for over half an hour, his face was clouded with an

expression of odd perplexity.

"What's the matter, doctor?" asked the adjutant, with a grin on his

face. "Are you wondering whether those fellows really are United States

regulars?" and the young officer nodded towards the long column of

horsemen in broad-brimmed slouch hats and flannel shirts or fanciful

garb of Indian tanned buckskin. Even among the officers there was hardly

a sign of the uniform or trappings which distinguish the soldiers in

garrison.

"No, it isn't _that_. I knew that you fellows who had served so long in

Arizona had got out of the way of wearing uniform in the field against

Indians. What I can't understand is that ridge over there. I thought we

had been down in a hollow for the last half-hour, yet look at it; we

must have come over that when I was thinking of something else."

"Not a bit of it, doctor," laughed the colonel. "That's where we

dismounted and took a short rest and gave the horses a chance to pick a

bit."

"Why, but, colonel! that must have been two miles back,--full half an

hour ago: you don't mean that ridge is two miles away? I could almost

hit that man riding down the road towards us."

"It would be a wonderful shot, doctor. That man is one of the teamsters

who went back after a dropped pistol. He is a mile and a half away."

The doctor's eyes were wide open with wonder.

"Of course you must know, colonel, but it is incomprehensible to me."

"It is easily proved, doctor. Take these two telegraph poles nearest us

and tell me how far they are apart."

The doctor looked carefully from one pole to another. Only a single wire

was strung along the line, and the poles were stout and strong. After a

moment's study he said, "Well, they are just about seventy-five yards

apart."

"More than that, doctor. They are a good hundred yards. But even at your

estimate, just count the poles back to that ridge--of course they are

equidistant, or nearly so, all along--and tell me how far you make it."

The doctor's eyes began to dilate again as he silently took account of

the number.

"I declare, there are over twenty to the rear of the wagon-train and

nearly forty across the ridge! I give it up."

"And now look here," said the colonel, pointing out to the eastward

where some lithe-limbed hounds were coursing over the prairie with Ralph

on his fleet sorrel racing in pursuit. "Look at young McCrea out there

where there are no telegraph poles to help you judge the distance. If he

were an Indian whom you wanted to bring down what would you set your

sights at, providing you had time to set them at all?" and the veteran

Indian fighter smiled grimly.

The doctor shook his head.

"It is too big a puzzle for me," he answered. "Five minutes ago I would

have said three hundred at the utmost, but I don't know now."

"How about that, Nihil?" asked the colonel, turning to a soldier riding

with the head-quarters party.

Nihil's brown hand goes up to the brim of his scouting hat in salute,

but he shook his head.

"The bullet would kick up a dust this side of him, sir," was the answer.

"People sometimes wonder why it is we manage to hit so few of these

Cheyennes or Sioux in our battles with them," said the colonel. "Now you

can get an idea of one of the difficulties. They rarely come within six

hundred yards of us when they are attacking a train or an infantry

escort, and are always riding full tilt, just as you saw Ralph just now.

It is next to impossible to hit them."

"I understand," said the doctor. "How splendidly that boy rides!"

"Ralph? Yes. He's a genuine trooper. Now, there's a boy whose whole

ambition is to go to West Point. He's a manly, truthful, dutiful young

fellow, born and raised in the army, knows the plains by heart, and just

the one to make a brilliant and valuable cavalry officer, but there

isn't a ghost of a chance for him."

"Why not?"

"Why not? Why! how is he to get an appointment? If he had a home

somewhere in the East, and his father had influence with the Congressman

of the district, it might be done; but the sons of army officers have

really very little chance. The President used to have ten appointments a

year, but Congress took them away from him. They thought there were too

many cadets at the Point; but while they were virtuously willing to

reduce somebody else's prerogatives in that line, it did not occur to

them that they might trim a little on their own. Now the President is

allowed only ten 'all told,' and can appoint no boy until some of his

ten are graduated or otherwise disposed of. It really gives him only two

or three appointments a year, and he has probably a thousand applicants

for every one. What chance has an army boy in Wyoming against the son of

some fellow with Senators and Representatives at his back in Washington?

If the army could name an occasional candidate, a boy like Ralph would

be sure to go, and we would have more soldiers and fewer scientists in

the cavalry."

By this time the head of the compact column was well up, and the captain

of the leading troop, riding with his first lieutenant in front of his

sets of fours, looked inquiringly at the colonel, as though half

expectant of a signal to halt or change the gait. Receiving none, and

seeing that the colonel had probably stopped to look over his command,

the senior troop leader pushed steadily on.

Behind him, four abreast, came the dragoons,--a stalwart, sunburned,

soldierly-looking lot. Not a particle of show or glitter in their attire

or equipment. Utterly unlike the dazzling hussars of England or the

European continent, when the troopers of the United States are out on

the broad prairies of the West "for business," as they put it, hardly a

brass button, even, is to be seen.

The colonel notes with satisfaction the nimble, active pace of the

horses as they go by at rapid walk, and the easy seat of the men in

their saddles.

First the bays of "K" Troop trip quickly past; then the beautiful, sleek

grays of "B," Captain Montgomery's company; then more bays in "I" and

"A" and "D," and then some sixty-five blacks, "C" Troop's color.

There are two sorrel troops in the regiment and more bays, and later in

the year, when new horses were obtained, the Fifth had a roan and a

dark-brown troop; but in June, when they were marching up to take their

part in the great campaign that followed, only two of their companies

were not mounted on bright bay horses, and one and all they were in the

pink of condition and eager for a burst "'cross country."

It was, however, their colonel's desire to take them to their

destination in good trim, and he permitted no "larking."

They had several hundred miles of weary marching before them. Much of

the country beyond the Platte was "Bad Lands," where the grass is scant

and poor, the soil ashen and spongy, and the water densely alkaline. All

this would tell very sensibly upon the condition of horses that all

winter long had been comfortably stabled, regularly groomed and

grain-fed, and watered only in pure running streams flushed by springs

or melting snow.

It was all very well for young Ralph to be coursing about on his fleet,

elastic sorrel, radiant with delight as the boy was at being again "out

on the plains" and in the saddle; but the cavalry commander's first care

must be to bring his horses to the scene of action in the most effective

state of health and soundness. The first few days' marching, therefore,

had to be watched with the utmost care.

As the noon hour approached, the doctor noted how the hills off to the

west seemed to be growing higher, and that there were broader vistas of

wide ranges of barren slopes to the east and north.

The colonel was riding some distance ahead of the battalion, his little

escort close beside, and Ralph was giving Buford a resting spell, and

placidly ambling alongside the doctor.

Sergeant Wells was riding somewhere in the column with some chum of old

days. He belonged to another regiment, but knew the Fifth of old. The

hounds had tired of chasing over a waterless country, and with lolling

tongues were trotting behind their masters' horses.

The doctor was vastly interested in what he had heard of Ralph, and

engaged him in talk. Just as they came in sight of the broad, open

valley in which runs the sparkling Lodge Pole, a two-horse wagon rumbled

up alongside, and there on the front seat was Farron, the ranchman, with

bright-eyed, bonny-faced little Jessie smiling beside him.

"We've caught you, Ralph," he laughed, "though we left Russell an hour

or more behind you. I s'pose you'll all camp at Lodge Pole for the

night. We're going on to the Chug."

"Hadn't you better see the colonel about that?" asked Ralph, anxiously.

"Oh, it's all right! I got telegrams from Laramie and the Chug, both,

just before we left Russell. Not an Indian's been heard of this side of

the Platte, and your father's troop has just got in to Laramie."

"Has he?" exclaimed Ralph, with delight. "Then he knows I've started,

and perhaps he'll come on to the Chug or Eagle's Nest and meet me."

"More'n likely," answered Farron. "You and the sergeant had better come

ahead and spend the night with me at the ranch."

"I've no doubt the colonel will let us go ahead with you," answered

Ralph, "but the ranch is too far off the road. We would have to stay at

Phillips's for the night. What say you, sergeant?" he asked, as Wells

came loping up alongside.

"The very plan, I think. Somebody will surely come ahead to meet us, and

we can make Laramie two days before the Fifth."

"Then, good-by, doctor; I must ask the colonel first, but we'll see you

at Laramie."

"Good-by, Ralph, and good luck to you in getting that cadetship."

"Oh, well! I _must_ trust to luck for that. Father says it all depends

on my getting General Sheridan to back me. If _he_ would only ask for

me, or if I could only do something to make him glad to ask; but what

chance is there?"

What chance, indeed? Ralph McCrea little dreamed that at that very

moment General Sheridan--far away in Chicago--was reading despatches

that determined him to go at once, himself, to Red Cloud Agency; that in

four days more the general would be there, at Laramie, and that in two

wonderful days, meantime--but who was there who dreamed what would

happen meantime?

CHAPTER III.

DANGER IN THE AIR.

When the head of the cavalry column reached the bridge over Lodge Pole

Creek a march of about twenty-five miles had been made, which is an

average day's journey for cavalry troops when nothing urgent hastens

their movements.

Filing to the right, the horsemen moved down the north bank of the

rapidly-running stream, and as soon as the rearmost troop was clear of

the road and beyond reach of its dust, the trumpets sounded "halt" and

"dismount," and in five minutes the horses, unsaddled, were rolling on

the springy turf, and then were driven out in herds, each company's by

itself, to graze during the afternoon along the slopes. Each herd was

watched and guarded by half a dozen armed troopers, and such horses as

were notorious "stampeders" were securely "side-lined" or hobbled.

Along the stream little white tents were pitched as the wagons rolled in

and were unloaded; and then the braying mules, rolling and kicking in

their enjoyment of freedom from harness, were driven out and disposed

upon the slopes at a safe distance from the horses. The smokes of little

fires began to float into the air, and the jingle of spoon and

coffee-pot and "spider" and skillet told that the cooks were busy

getting dinner for the hungry campaigners.

Such appetites as those long-day marches give! Such delight in life and

motion one feels as he drinks in that rare, keen mountain air! Some of

the soldiers--old plainsmen--are already prone upon the turf, their

heads pillowed on their saddles, their slouch hats pulled down over

their eyes, snatching half an hour's dreamless sleep before the cooks

shall summon them to dinner.

One officer from each company is still in saddle, riding around the

horses of his own troop to see that the grass is well chosen and that

his guards are properly posted and on the alert. Over at the road there

stands a sort of frontier tavern and stage station, at which is a

telegraph office, and the colonel has been sending despatches to

Department Head-Quarters to announce the safe arrival of his command at

Lodge Pole _en route_ for Fort Laramie. Now he is talking with Ralph.

"It isn't that, my boy. I do not suppose there is an Indian anywhere

near the Chugwater; but if your father thought it best that you should

wait and start with us, I think it was his desire that you should keep

in the protection of the column all the way. Don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I do. The only question now is, will he not come or send

forward to the Chug to meet me, and could I not be with mother two days

earlier that way? Besides, Farron is determined to go ahead as soon as

he has had dinner, and--I don't like to think of little Jessie being up

there at the Chug just now. Would you mind my telegraphing to father at

Laramie and asking him?"

"No, indeed, Ralph. Do so."

And so a despatch was sent to Laramie, and in the course of an hour,

just as they had enjoyed a comfortable dinner, there came the reply,--

"All right. Come ahead to Phillips's Ranch. Party will meet you there at

eight in the morning. They stop at Eagle's Nest to-night."

Ralph's eyes danced as he showed this to the colonel who read it gravely

and replied,--

"It is all safe, I fancy, or your father would not say so. They have

patrols all along the bank of the Platte to the southeast, and no

Indians can cross without its being discovered in a few hours. I suppose

they never come across between Laramie and Fetterman, do they, Ralph?"

"Certainly not of late years, colonel. It is so far off their line to

the reservations where they have to run for safety after their

depredations."

"I know that; but now that all but two troops of cavalry have gone up

with General Crook they might be emboldened to try a wider sweep. That's

all I'm afraid of."

"Even if the Indians came, colonel, they've got those ranch buildings so

loop-holed and fortified at Phillips's that we could stand them off a

week if need be, and you would reach there by noon at latest."

"Yes. We make an early start to-morrow morning, and 'twill be just

another twenty-five miles to our camp on the Chug. If all is well you

will be nearly to Eagle's Nest by the time we get to Phillips's, and you

will be at Laramie before the sunset-gun to-morrow. Well, give my

regards to your father, Ralph, and keep your eye open for the main

chance. We cavalry people want you for our representative at West Point,

you know."

"Thank you for that, colonel," answered Ralph, with sparkling eyes. "I

sha'n't forget it in many a day."

So it happened that late that afternoon, with Farron driving his load of

household goods; with brown-haired little Jessie lying sound asleep with

her head on his lap; with Sergeant Wells cantering easily alongside and

Ralph and Buford scouting a little distance ahead, the two-horse wagon

rolled over the crest of the last divide and came just at sunset in

sight of the beautiful valley with the odd name of Chugwater.

Farther up the stream towards its sources among the pine-crested Black

Hills, there were many places where the busy beavers had dammed its

flow. The Indians, bent on trapping these wary creatures, had listened

in the stillness of the solitudes to the battering of those wonderful

tails upon the mud walls of their dams and forts, and had named the

little river after its most marked characteristic, the constant "_chug,

chug_" of those cricket-bat caudals.

On the west of the winding stream, in the smiling valley with tiny

patches of verdure, lay the ranch with its out-buildings, corrals, and

the peacefully browsing stock around it, and little Jessie woke at her

father's joyous shout and pointed out her home to Ralph.

There where the trail wound away from the main road the wagon and

horsemen must separate, and Ralph reined close alongside and took Jessie

in his arms and was hugged tight as he kissed her bonny face. Then he

and the sergeant shook hands heartily with Farron, set spurs to their

horses, and went loping down northeastward to the broader reaches of the

valley.

On their right, across the lowlands, ran the long ridge ending in an

abrupt precipice, that was the scene of the great buffalo-killing by the

Indians many a long year ago. Straight ahead were the stage station, the

forage sheds, and the half dozen buildings of Phillips's. All was as

placid and peaceful in the soft evening light as if no hostile Indian

had ever existed.

Yet there were to be seen signs of preparation for Indian attack. The

herder whom the travellers met two miles south of the station was

heavily armed and his mate was only short rifle-shot away. The men waved

their hats to Ralph and his soldier comrade, and one of them called out,

"Whar'd ye leave the cavalry?" and seemed disappointed to hear they were

as far back as Lodge Pole.

At the station, they found the ranchmen prepared for their coming and

glad to see them. Captain McCrea had telegraphed twice during the

afternoon and seemed anxious to know of their arrival.

"He's in the office at Laramie now," said the telegraph agent, with a

smile, "and I wired him the moment we sighted you coming down the hill.

Come in and send him a few words. It will please him more than anything

I can say."

So Ralph stepped into the little room with its solitary instrument and

lonely operator. In those days there was little use for the line except

for the conducting of purely military business, and the agents or

operators were all soldiers detailed for the purpose. Here at "The Chug"

the instrument rested on a little table by the loop-hole of a window in

the side of the log hut. Opposite it was the soldier's narrow camp-bed

with its brown army blankets and with his heavy overcoat thrown over the

foot. Close at hand stood his Springfield rifle, with the belt of

cartridges, and over the table hung two Colt's revolvers.

All through the rooms of the station the same war-like preparations were

visible, for several times during the spring and early summer war

parties of Indians had come prowling up the valley, driving the herders

before them; but, having secured all the beef cattle they could handle,

they had hurried back to the fords of the Platte and, except on one or

two occasions, had committed no murders.

Well knowing the pluck of the little community at Phillips's, the

Indians had not come within long rifle range of the ranch, but on the

last two visits the warriors seemed to have grown bolder. While most of

the Indians were rounding up cattle and scurrying about in the valley,

two miles below the ranch, it was noted that two warriors, on their

nimble ponies, had climbed the high ridge on the east that overlooked

the ranches in the valley beyond and above Phillips's, and were

evidently taking deliberate note of the entire situation.

One of the Indians was seen to point a long, bare arm, on which silver

wristlets and bands flashed in the sun, at Farron's lonely ranch four

miles up-stream.

That was more than the soldier telegrapher could bear patiently. He took

his Springfield rifle out into the fields, and opened a long range fire

on these adventurous redskins.

The Indians were a good mile away, but that honest "Long Tom" sent its

leaden missiles whistling about their ears, and kicking up the dust

around their ponies' heels, until, after a few defiant shouts and such

insulting and contemptuous gestures as they could think of, the two had

ducked suddenly out of sight behind the bluffs.

All this the ranch people told Ralph and the sergeant, as they were

enjoying a hot supper after the fifty-mile ride of the day. Afterwards

the two travellers went out into the corral to see that their horses

were secure for the night.

Buford looked up with eager whinny at Ralph's footstep, pricked his

pretty ears, and looked as full of life and spirit as if he had never

had a hard day's gallop in his life. Sergeant Wells had given him a

careful rubbing down while Ralph was at the telegraph office, and

later, when the horses were thoroughly cool, they were watered at the

running stream and given a hearty feed of oats.

Phillips came out to lock up his stable while they were petting Buford,

and stood there a moment admiring the pretty fellow.

"With your weight I think he could make a race against any horse in the

cavalry, couldn't he, Mr. Ralph?" he asked.

"I'm not quite sure, Phillips; the colonel of the Fifth Cavalry has a

horse that I might not care to race. He was being led along behind the

head-quarters escort to-day. Barring that horse Van, I would ride Buford

against any horse I've ever seen in the service for any distance from a

quarter of a mile to a day's march."

"But those Indian ponies, Mr. Ralph, couldn't they beat him?"

"Over rough ground--up hill and down dale--I suppose some of them could.

I saw their races up at Red Cloud last year, and old Spotted Tail

brought over a couple of ponies from Camp Sheridan that ran like a

streak, and there was a Minneconjou chief there who had a very fast

pony. Some of the young Ogallallas had quick, active beasts, but, take

them on a straight-away run, I wouldn't be afraid to try my luck with

Buford against the best of them."

"Well, I hope you'll never have to ride for your life on him. He's

pretty and sound and fast, but those Indians have such wind and bottom;

they never seem to give out."

A little later--at about half after eight o'clock--Sergeant Wells, the

telegraph operator, and one or two of the ranchmen sat tilted back in

their rough chairs on the front porch of the station enjoying their

pipes. Ralph had begun to feel a little sleepy, and was ready to turn in

when he was attracted by the conversation between the two soldiers; the

operator was speaking, and the seriousness of his tone caused the boy to

listen.

"It isn't that we have any particular cause to worry just here. With our

six or seven men we could easily stand off the Indians until help came,

but it's Farron and little Jessie I'm thinking of. He and his two men

would have no show whatever in case of a sudden and determined attack.

They have not been harmed so far, because the Indians always crossed

below Laramie and came up to the Chug, and so there was timely warning.

Now, they have seen Farron's place up there all by itself. They can

easily find out, by hanging around the traders at Red Cloud, who lives

there, how many men he has, and about Jessie. Next to surprising and

killing a white man in cold blood, those fellows like nothing better

than carrying off a white child and concealing it among them. The

gypsies have the same trait. Now, they know that so long as they cross

below Laramie the scouts are almost sure to discover it in an hour or

two, and as soon as they strike the Chug Valley some herders come

tumbling in here and give the alarm. They have come over regularly every

moon, since General Crook went up in February, _until now_."

The operator went on impressively:

"The moon's almost on the wane, and they haven't shown up yet. Now, what

worries me is just this. Suppose they _should_ push out westward from

the reservation, cross the Platte somewhere about Bull Bend or even

nearer Laramie, and come down the Chug from the north. Who is to give

Farron warning?"

"They're bound to hear it at Laramie and telegraph you at once,"

suggested one of the ranchmen.

"Not necessarily. The river isn't picketed between Fetterman and

Laramie, simply because the Indians have always tried the lower

crossings. The stages go through three times a week, and there are

frequent couriers and trains, but they don't keep a lookout for pony

tracks. The chances are that their crossing would not be discovered for

twenty-four hours or so, and as to the news being wired to us here,

those reds would never give us a chance. The first news we got of their

deviltry would be that they had cut the line ten or twelve miles this

side of Laramie as they came sweeping down.

"I tell you, boys," continued the operator, half rising from his chair

in his earnestness, "I hate to think of little Jessie up there to-night.

I go in every few minutes and call up Laramie or Fetterman just to feel

that all is safe, and stir up Lodge Pole, behind us, to realize that

we've got the Fifth Cavalry only twenty-five miles away; but the Indians

haven't missed a moon yet, and there's only one more night of this."

Even as his hearers sat in silence, thinking over the soldier's words,

there came from the little cabin the sharp and sudden clicking of the

telegraph. "It's my call," exclaimed the operator, as he sprang to his

feet and ran to his desk.

Ralph and Sergeant Wells were close at his heels; he had clicked his

answering signal, seized a pencil, and was rapidly taking down a

message. They saw his eyes dilate and his lips quiver with suppressed

excitement. Once, indeed, he made an impulsive reach with his hand, as

if to touch the key and shut off the message and interpose some idea of

his own, but discipline prevailed.

"It's for you," he said, briefly, nodding up to Ralph, while he went on

to copy the message.

It was a time of anxious suspense in the little office. The sergeant

paced silently to and fro with unusual erectness of bearing and a

firmly-compressed lip. His appearance and attitude were that of the

soldier who has divined approaching danger and who awaits the order for

action. Ralph, who could hardly control his impatience, stood watching

the rapid fingers of the operator as they traced out a message which was

evidently of deep moment.

At last the transcript was finished, and the operator handed it to the

boy. Ralph's hand was trembling with excitement as he took the paper and

carried it close to the light. It read as follows:

"RALPH MCCREA, Chugwater Station:

"Black Hills stage reports having crossed trail of large war party

going west, this side of Rawhide Butte. My troop ordered at once in

pursuit. Wait for Fifth Cavalry.

"GORDON MCCREA."

"Going west, this side of Rawhide Butte," said Ralph, as calmly as he

could. "That means that they are twenty miles north of Laramie, and on

the other side of the Platte."

"It means that they knew what they were doing when they crossed just

behind the last stage so as to give no warning, and that their trail was

nearly two days old when seen by the down stage this afternoon. It means

that they crossed the stage road, Ralph, but how long ago was that, do

you think, and where are they now? It is my belief that they crossed the

Platte above Laramie last night or early this morning, and will be down

on us to-night."

"Wire that to Laramie, then, at once," said Ralph. "It may not be too

late to turn the troop this way."

"I can only say what I think to my fellow-operator there, and can't even

do that now; the commanding officer is sending despatches to Omaha, and

asking that the Fifth Cavalry be ordered to send forward a troop or two

to guard the Chug. But there's no one at the head-quarters this time o'

night. Besides, if we volunteer any suggestions, they will say we were

stampeded down here by a band of Indians that didn't come within

seventy-five miles of us."

"Well, father won't misunderstand me," said Ralph, "and I'm not afraid

to ask him to think of what you say; wire it to him in my name."

There was a long interval, twenty minutes or so, before the operator

could "get the line." When at last he succeeded in sending his despatch,

he stopped short in the midst of it.

"It's no use, Ralph. Your father's troop was three miles away before his

message was sent. There were reports from Red Cloud that made the

commanding officer believe there were some Cheyennes going up to attack

couriers or trains between Fetterman and the Big Horn. He is away north

of the Platte."

Another few minutes of thoughtful silence, then Ralph turned to his

soldier friend,--

"Sergeant, I have to obey father's orders and stay here, but it's my

belief that Farron should be put on his guard at once. What say you?"

"If you agree, sir, I'll ride up and spend the night with him."

"Then go by all means. I know father would approve it."

CHAPTER IV.

CUT OFF.

It was after ten o'clock when the waning moon came peering over the

barrier ridge at the east. Over an hour had passed since Sergeant Wells,

on his big sorrel, had ridden away up the stream on the trail to

Farron's.

Phillips had pressed upon him a Henry repeating rifle, which he had

gratefully accepted. It could not shoot so hard or carry so far as the

sergeant's Springfield carbine, the cavalry arm; but to repel a sudden

onset of yelling savages at close quarters it was just the thing, as it

could discharge sixteen shots without reloading. His carbine and the

belt of copper cartridges the sergeant left with Ralph.

Just before riding away he took the operator and Ralph to the back of

the corral, whence, far up the valley, they could see the twinkling

light at Farron's ranch.

"We ought to have some way of signalling," he had said as they went out

of doors. "If you get news during the night that the Indians are surely

this side of the Platte, of course we want to know at once; if, on the

other hand, you hear they are nowhere within striking distance, it will

be a weight off my mind and we can all get a good night's rest up there.

Now, how shall we fix it?"

After some discussion, it was arranged that Wells should remain on the

low porch in front of Farron's ranch until midnight. The light was to be

extinguished there as soon as he arrived, as an assurance that all was

well, and it should not again appear during the night unless as a

momentary answer to signals they might make.

If information were received at Phillips's that the Indians were south

of the Platte, Ralph should fire three shots from his carbine at

intervals of five seconds; and if they heard that all was safe, he

should fire one shot to call attention and then start a small blaze out

on the bank of the stream, where it could be plainly seen from Farron's.

Wells was to show his light half a minute when he recognized the signal.

Having arrived at this understanding, the sergeant shook the hand of

Ralph and the operator and rode towards Farron's.

"What I wish," said the operator, "is that Wells could induce Farron to

let him bring Jessie here for the night; but Farron is a bull-headed

fellow and thinks no number of Indians could ever get the better of him

and his two men. He knows very little of them and is hardly alive to the

danger of his position. I think he will be safe with Wells, but, all

the same, I wish that a troop of the Fifth Cavalry had been sent forward

to-night."

After they had gone back to the office the operator "called up" Laramie.

"All quiet," was the reply, and nobody there seemed to think the Indians

had come towards the Platte.

Then the operator signalled to his associate at Lodge Pole, who wired

back that nobody there had heard anything from Laramie or elsewhere

about the Indians; that the colonel and one or two of his officers had

been in the station a while during the evening and had sent messages to

Cheyenne and Omaha and received one or two, but that they had all gone

out to camp. Everything was quiet; "taps" had just sounded and they were

all going to bed.

"Lodge Pole" announced for himself that some old friends of his were on

the guard that night, and he was going over to smoke a pipe and have a

chat with them.

To this "Chug" responded that he wished he wouldn't leave the office.

There was no telling what might turn up or how soon he'd be wanted.

But "Lodge Pole" said the operators were not required to stay at the

board after nine at night; he would have the keeper of the station

listen for his call, and would run over to camp for an hour; would be

back at half-past ten and sleep by his instrument. Meantime, if needed,

he could be called in a minute,--the guard tents were only three hundred

yards away,--and so he went.

Ralph almost wished that he had sent a message to the colonel to tell

him of their suspicions and anxiety. He knew well that every officer

and every private in that sleeping battalion would turn out eagerly and

welcome the twenty-five-mile trot forward to the Chug on the report that

the Sioux were out "on the war-path" and might be coming that way.

Yet, army boy that he was, he hated to give what might be called a false

alarm. He knew the Fifth only by reputation, and while he would not have

hesitated to send such a message to his father had he been camped at

Lodge Pole, or to his father's comrades in their own regiment, he did

not relish the idea of sending a despatch that would rout the colonel

out of his warm blankets, and which might be totally unnecessary.

So the telegraph operator at Lodge Pole was permitted to go about his

own devices, and once again Ralph and his new friend went out into the

night to look over their surroundings and the situation.

The light still burned at Farron's, and Phillips, coming out with a

bundle of kindling-wood for the little beacon fire, chuckled when he saw

it,--

"Wells must be there by this time, but I'll just bet Farron is giving

the boys a little supper, or something, to welcome Jessie home, and now

he's got obstinate and won't let them douse the glim."

"It's a case that Wells will be apt to decide for himself," answered

Ralph. "He won't stand fooling, and will declare martial law.--There!

What did I tell you?"

The light went suddenly out in the midst of his words. They carried the

kindling and made a little heap of dry sticks out near the bank of the

stream; then stood a while and listened. In the valley, faintly lighted

by the moon, all was silence and peace; not even the distant yelp of

coyote disturbed the stillness of the night. Not a breath of air was

stirring. A light film of cloud hung about the horizon and settled in a

cumulus about the turrets of old Laramie Peak, but overhead the

brilliant stars sparkled and the planets shone like little globes of

molten gold.

Hearing voices, Buford, lonely now without his friend, the sergeant's

horse, set up a low whinny, and Ralph went in and spoke to him, patting

his glossy neck and shoulder. When he came out he found that a third man

had joined the party and was talking eagerly with Phillips.

Ralph recognized the man as an old trapper who spent most of his time in

the hills or farther up in the neighborhood of Laramie Peak. He had

often been at the fort to sell peltries or buy provisions, and was a

mountaineer and plainsman who knew every nook and cranny in Wyoming.

Cropping the scant herbage on the flat behind the trapper was a lank,

long-limbed horse from which he had just dismounted, and which looked

travel-stained and weary like his master. The news the man brought was

worthy of consideration, and Ralph listened with rapt attention and with

a heart that beat hard and quick, though he said no word and gave no

sign.

"Then you haven't seen or heard a thing?" asked the new-comer. "It's

mighty strange. I've scoured these hills--man and boy--nigh onto thirty

years and ought to know Indian smokes when I see 'em. I don't think I

can be mistaken about this. I was way up the range about four o'clock

this afternoon and could see clear across towards Rawhide Butte, and

three smokes went up over there, sure. What startled me," the trapper

continued, "was the answer. Not ten miles above where I was there went

up a signal smoke from the foot-hills of the range,--just in here to the

northwest of us, perhaps twenty miles west of Eagle's Nest. It's the

first time I've seen Indian smokes in there since the month they killed

Lieutenant Robinson up by the peak. You bet I came down. _Sure_ they

haven't seen anything at Laramie?"

"Nothing. They sent Captain McCrea with his troop up towards Rawhide

just after dark, but they declare nothing has been seen or heard of

Indians this side of the Platte. I've been talking with Laramie most of

the evening. The Black Hills stage coming down reported trail of a big

war party out, going west just this side of the Butte, and some of them

may have sent up the smokes you saw in that direction. I was saying to

Ralph, here, that if that trail was forty-eight hours old, they would

have had time to cross the Platte at Bull Bend, and be down here

to-night."

"They wouldn't come here first. They know this ranch too well. They'd go

in to Eagle's Nest to try and get the stage horses and a scalp or two

there. You're too strong for 'em here."

"Ay; but there's Farron and his little kid up there four miles above

us."

"You don't tell me! Thought he'd taken her down to Denver."

"So he did, and fetched her back to-day. Sergeant Wells has gone up

there to keep watch with them, and we are to signal if we get important

news. All you tell me only adds to what we suspected. How I wish we had

known it an hour ago! Now, will you stay here with us or go up to

Farron's and tell Wells what you've seen?"

"I'll stay here. My horse can't make another mile, and you may believe I

don't want any prowling round outside of a stockade this night. No, if

you can signal to him go ahead and do it."

"What say you, Ralph?"

Ralph thought a moment in silence. If he fired his three shots, it meant

that the danger was imminent, and that they had certain information that

the Indians were near at hand. He remembered to have heard his father

and other officers tell of sensational stories this same old trapper had

inflicted on the garrison. Sergeant Wells himself used to laugh at

"Baker's yarns." More than once the cavalry had been sent out to where

Baker asserted he had certainly seen a hundred Indians the day before,

only to find that not even the vestige of a pony track remained on the

yielding sod. If he fired the signal shots it meant a night of vigil for

everybody at Farron's and then how Wells would laugh at him in the

morning, and how disgusted he would be when he found that it was

entirely on Baker's assurances that he had acted!

It was a responsible position for the boy. He would much have preferred

to mount Buford and ride off over the four miles of moonlit prairie to

tell the sergeant of Baker's report and let him be the judge of its

authenticity. It was lucky he had that level-headed soldier operator to

advise him. Already he had begun to fancy him greatly, and to respect

his judgment and intelligence.

"Suppose we go in and stir up Laramie, and tell them what Mr. Baker

says," he suggested; and, leaving the trapper to stable his jaded horse

under Phillips's guidance, Ralph and his friend once more returned to

the station.

"If the Indians are south of the Platte," said the operator, "I shall no

longer hesitate about sending a despatch direct to the troops at Lodge

Pole. The colonel ought to know. He can send one or two companies right

along to-night. There is no operator at Eagle's Nest, or I'd have him up

and ask if all was well there. That's what worries me, Ralph. It was

back of Eagle's Nest old Baker says he saw their smokes, and it is

somewhere about Eagle's Nest that I should expect the rascals to slip in

and cut our wire. I'll bet they're all asleep at Laramie by this time.

What o'clock is it?"

The boy stopped at the window of the little telegraph room where the

light from the kerosene lamp would fall upon his watch-dial. The soldier

passed on around to the door. Glancing at his watch, Ralph followed on

his track and got to the door-way just as his friend stretched forth his

hand to touch the key.

"It's just ten-fifty now."

"Ten-fifty, did you say?" asked the soldier, glancing over his shoulder.

"Ralph!" he cried, excitedly, "_the wire's cut!_"

"Where?" gasped Ralph. "Can you tell?"

"No, somewhere up above us,--near the Nest, probably,--though who can

tell? It may be just round the bend of the road, for all we know. No

doubt about there being Indians now, Ralph, give 'em your signal. Hullo!

Hoofs!"

Leaping out from the little tenement, the two listened intently. An

instant before the thunder of horse's feet upon wooden planking had been

plainly audible in the distance, and now the coming clatter could be

heard on the roadway.

Phillips and Baker, who had heard the sounds, joined them at the

instant. Nearer and nearer came a panting horse; a shadowy rider loomed

into sight up the road, and in another moment a young ranchman galloped

up to the very doors.

"All safe, fellows? Thank goodness for that! I've had a ride for it, and

we're dead beat. _Indians?_ Why, the whole country's alive with 'em

between here and Hunton's. I promised I'd go over to Farron's if they

ever came around that way, but they may beat me there yet. How many men

have you here?"

"Seven now, counting Baker and Ralph; but I'll wire right back to Lodge

Pole and let the Fifth Cavalry know. Quick, Ralph, give 'em your signal

now!"

Ralph seized his carbine and ran out on the prairie behind the corral,

the others eagerly following him to note the effect. Bang! went the gun

with a resounding roar that echoed from the cliffs at the east and came

thundering back to them just in time to "fall in" behind two other

ringing reports at short, five-second intervals.

Three times the flash lighted up the faces of the little party; set and

stern and full of pluck they were. Then all eyes were turned to the

dark, shadowy, low-lying objects far up the stream, the roofs of

Farron's threatened ranch.

Full half a minute they watched, hearts beating high, breath coming

thick and fast, hands clinching in the intensity of their anxiety.

Then, hurrah! Faint and flickering at first, then shining a few seconds

in clear, steady beam, the sergeant's answering signal streamed out upon

the night, a calm, steadfast, unwavering response, resolute as the

spirit of its soldier sender, and then suddenly disappeared.

"He's all right!" said Ralph, joyously, as the young ranchman put spurs

to his panting horse and rode off to the west. "Now, what about Lodge

Pole?"

Just as they turned away there came a sound far out on the prairie that

made them pause and look wonderingly a moment in one another's eyes. The

horseman had disappeared from view. They had watched him until he had

passed out of sight in the dim distance. The hoof-beats of his horse had

died away before they turned to go.

Yet now there came the distant thunder of an hundred hoofs bounding over

the sod.

Out from behind a jutting spur of a bluff a horde of shadows sweep forth

upon the open prairie towards the trail on which the solitary rider has

disappeared. Here and there among them swift gleams, like silver

streaks, are plainly seen, as the moonbeams glint on armlet or bracelet,

or the nickel plating on their gaudy trappings.

Then see! a ruddy flash! another! another! the muffled bang of

fire-arms, and the vengeful yell and whoops of savage foeman float down

to the breathless listeners at the station on the Chug. The Sioux are

here in full force, and a score of them have swept down on that brave,

hapless, helpless fellow riding through the darkness alone.

Phillips groaned. "Oh, why did we let him go? Quick, now! Every man to

the ranch, and you get word to Lodge Pole, will you?"

"Ay, ay, and fetch the whole Fifth Cavalry here at a gallop!"

But when Ralph ran into the telegraph station a moment later, he found

the operator with his head bowed upon his arms and his face hidden from

view.

"What's the matter,--quick?" demanded Ralph.

It was a ghastly face that was raised to the boy, as the operator

answered,--

"It--it's all my fault. I've waited too long. _They've cut the line

behind us!_"

CHAPTER V.

AT FARRON'S RANCH.

When Sergeant Wells reached Farron's ranch that evening little Jessie

was peacefully sleeping in the room that had been her mother's. The

child was tired after the long, fifty-mile drive from Russell, and had

been easily persuaded to go to bed.

Farron himself, with the two men who worked for him, was having a

sociable smoke and chat, and the three were not a little surprised at

Wells's coming and the unwelcome news he bore. The ranchman was one of

the best-hearted fellows in the world, but he had a few infirmities of

disposition and one or two little conceits that sometimes marred his

better judgment. Having lived in the Chug Valley a year or two before

the regiment came there, he had conceived it to be his prerogative to

adopt a somewhat patronizing tone to its men, and believed that he knew

much more about the manners and customs of the Sioux than they could

possibly have learned.

The Fifth Cavalry had been stationed not far from the Chug Valley when

he first came to the country, and afterwards were sent out to Arizona

for a five-years' exile. It was all right for the Fifth to claim

acquaintance with the ways of the Sioux, Farron admitted, but as for

these fellows of the --th,--that was another thing. It did not seem to

occur to him that the guarding of the neighboring reservations for about

five years had given the new regiment opportunities to study and observe

these Indians that had not been accorded to him.

Another element which he totally overlooked in comparing the relative

advantages of the two regiments was a very important one that radically

altered the whole situation. When the Fifth was on duty watching the

Sioux, it was just after breech-loading rifles had been introduced into

the army, and before they had been introduced among the Sioux.

Through the mistaken policy of the Indian Bureau at Washington this

state of affairs was now changed and, for close fighting, the savages

were better armed than the troops. Nearly every warrior had either a

magazine rifle or a breech-loader, and many of them had two revolvers

besides. Thus armed, the Sioux were about ten times as formidable as

they had been before, and the task of restraining them was far more

dangerous and difficult than it had been when the Fifth guarded them.

The situation demanded greater vigilance and closer study than in the

old days, and Farron ought to have had sense enough to see it. But he

did not. He had lived near the Sioux so many years; these soldiers had

been near them so many years less; therefore they must necessarily know

less about them than he did. He did not take into account that it was

the soldiers' business to keep eyes and ears open to everything relating

to the Indians, while the information which he had gained came to him

simply as diversion, or to satisfy his curiosity.

So it happened that when Wells came in that night and told Farron what

was feared at Phillips's, the ranchman treated his warning with

good-humored but rather contemptuous disregard.

"Phillips gets stampeded too easy," was the way he expressed himself,

"and when you fellows of the Mustangs have been here as long as I have

you'll get to know these Indians better. Even if they did come, Pete and

Jake here, and I, with our Henry rifles, could stand off fifty of 'em.

Why, we've done it many a time."

"How long ago?" asked the sergeant, quietly.

"Oh, I don't know. It was before you fellows came. Why, you don't begin

to know anything about these Indians! You never see 'em here nowadays,

but when I first came here to the Chug there wasn't a week they didn't

raid us. They haven't shown up in three years, except just this spring

they've run off a little stock. But you never see 'em."

"_You_ may never see them, Farron, but we do,--see them day in and day

out as we scout around the reservation; and while I may not know what

they were ten years ago, I know what they are _now_, and that's more to

the purpose. You and Pete might have stood off a dozen or so when they

hadn't 'Henrys' and 'Winchesters' as they have now, but you couldn't do

it to-day, and it's all nonsense for you to talk of it. Of course, so

long as you keep inside here you may pick them off, but look out of this

window! What's to prevent their getting into your corral out there, and

then holding you here! They can set fire to your roof over your head,

man, and you can't get out to extinguish it."

"What makes you think they've spotted me, anyhow?" asked Farron.

"They looked you over the last time they came up the valley, and you

know it. Now, if you and the men want to stay here and make a fight for

it, all right,--I'd rather do that myself, only we ought to have two or

three men to put in the corral,--but here's little Jessie. Let me take

her down to Phillips's; she's safe there. He has everything ready for a

siege and you haven't."

"Why, she's only just gone to sleep, Wells; I don't want to wake her up

out of a warm bed and send her off four miles a chilly night like

this,--all for a scare, too. The boys down there would laugh at

me,--just after bringing her here from Denver, too."

"They're not laughing down there _this_ night, Farron, and they're not

the kind that get stampeded either. Keep Jessie, if you say so, and I'll

stay through the night; but I've fixed some signals with them down at

the road and you've got to abide by them. They can see your light plain

as a beacon, and it's got to go out in fifteen minutes."

Farron had begun by pooh-poohing the sergeant's views, but he already

felt that they deserved serious consideration. He was more than half

disposed to adopt Wells's plan and let him take Jessie down to the safer

station at Phillips's, but she looked so peaceful and bonny, sleeping

there in her little bed, that he could not bear to disturb her. He was

ashamed, too, of the appearance of yielding.

So he told the sergeant that while he would not run counter to any

arrangement he had made as to signals, and was willing to back him up in

any project for the common defence, he thought they could protect Jessie

and the ranch against any marauders that might come along. He didn't

think it was necessary that they should all sit up. One man could watch

while the others slept.

As a first measure Farron and the sergeant took a turn around the ranch.

The house itself was about thirty yards from the nearest side of the

corral, or enclosure, in which Farron's horses were confined. In the

corral were a little stable, a wagon-shed, and a poultry-house. The back

windows of the stable were on the side towards the house, and should

Indians get possession of the stable they could send fire-arrows, if

they chose, to the roof of the house, and with their rifles shoot down

any persons who might attempt to escape from the burning building.

This fault of construction had long since been pointed out to Farron,

but the man who called his attention to it, unluckily, was an officer of

the new regiment, and the ranchman had merely replied, with a

self-satisfied smile, that he guessed he'd lived long enough in that

country to know a thing or two about the Indians.

Sergeant Wells shook his head as he looked at the stable, but Farron

said that it was one of his safe-guards.

"I've got two mules in there that can smell an Indian five miles off,

and they'd begin to bray the minute they did. That would wake me up, you

see, because their heads are right towards me. Now, if they were way

across the corral I mightn't hear 'em at all. Then it's close to the

house, and convenient for feeding in winter. Will you put your horse in

to-night?"

Sergeant Wells declined. He might need him, he said, and would keep him

in front of the house where he was going to take his station to watch

the valley and look out for signals. He led the horse to the stream and

gave him a drink, and asked Farron to lay out a hatful of oats. "They

might come in handy if I have to make an early start."

However lightly Farron might estimate the danger, his men regarded it as

a serious matter. Having heard the particulars from Sergeant Wells,

their first care was to look over their rifles and see that they were in

perfect order and in readiness for use. When at last Farron had

completed a leisurely inspection of his corral and returned to the

house, he found Wells and Pete in quiet talk at the front, and the

sergeant's horse saddled close at hand.

"Oh, well!" he said, "if you're as much in earnest as all that, I'll

bring my pipe out here with you, and if any signal should come, it'll be

time enough then to wake Jessie, wrap her in a blanket, and you gallop

off to Phillips's with her."

And so the watchers went on duty. The light in the ranch was

extinguished, and all about the place was as quiet as the broad, rolling

prairie itself. Farron remained wakeful a little while, then said he was

sleepy and should go in and lie down without undressing. Pete, too,

speedily grew drowsy and sat down on the porch, where Wells soon caught

sight of his nodding head just as the moon came peeping up over the

distant crest of the "Buffalo Hill."

How long Farron slept he had no time to ask, for the next thing he knew

was that a rude hand was shaking his shoulder, and Pete's voice said,--

"Up with you, Farron! The signal's fired at Phillips's. Up quick!"

As Farron sprang to the floor, Pete struck a light, and the next minute

the kerosene lamp, flickering and sputtering at first, was shining in

the eastward window. Outside the door the ranchman found Wells

tightening his saddle-girths, while his horse, snorting with excitement,

pricked up his ears and gazed down the valley.

"Who fired?" asked Farron, barely awake.

"I don't know; Ralph probably. Better get Jessie for me at once. The

Indians are this side of the Platte sure, and they may be near at hand.

I don't like the way Spot's behaving,--see how excited he is. I don't

like to leave you short-handed if there's to be trouble. If there's time

I'll come back from Phillips's. Come, man! Wake Jessie."

"All right. There's plenty of time, though. They must be miles down the

valley yet. If they'd come from the north, the telegraph would have

given warning long ago. And Dick Warner--my brother-in-law, Jessie's

uncle--always promised he'd be down to tell me first thing, if they came

any way that he could hear of it. You bet he'll be with us before

morning, unless they're between him and us now."

With that he turned into the house, and in a moment reappeared with the

wondering, sleepy-eyed, half-wakened little maid in his strong arms.

Wells was already in saddle, and Spot was snorting and prancing about in

evident excitement.

"I'll leave the 'Henry' with Pete. I can't carry it and Jessie, too.

Hand her up to me and snuggle her well in the blanket."

Farron hugged his child tight in his arms one moment. She put her little

arms around his neck and clung to him, looking piteously into his face,

yet shedding no tears. Something told her there was danger; something

whispered "Indians!" to the childish heart; but she stifled her words of

fear and obeyed her father's wish.

"You are going down to Phillips's where Ralph is, Jessie, darling.

Sergeant Wells is going to carry you. Be good and perfectly quiet. Don't

cry, don't make a particle of noise, pet. Whatever you do, don't make

any noise. Promise papa."

As bravely as she had done when she waited that day at the station at

Cheyenne, the little woman choked back the rising sob. She nodded

obedience, and then put up her bonny face for her father's kiss. Who can

tell of the dread, the emotion he felt as he clung to the trusting

little one for that short moment?

"God guard you, my baby," he muttered, as he carefully lifted her up to

Wells, who circled her in his strong right arm, and seated her on the

overcoat that was rolled at his pommel.

Farron carefully wrapped the blanket about her tiny feet and legs, and

with a prayer on his lips and a clasp of the sergeant's bridle hand he

bade him go. Another moment, and Wells and little Jessie were loping

away on Spot, and were rapidly disappearing from view along the dim,

moonlit trail.

For a moment the three ranchmen stood watching them. Far to the

northeast a faint light could be seen at Phillips's, and the roofs and

walls were dimly visible in the rays of the moon. The hoof-beats of old

Spot soon died away in the distance, and all seemed as still as the

grave. Anxious as he was, Farron took heart. They stood there silent a

few moments after the horseman, with his precious charge, had faded from

view, and then Farron spoke,--

"They'll make it all safe. If the Indians were anywhere near us those

mules of mine would have given warning by this time."

The words were hardly dropped from his lips when from the other side of

the house--from the stable at the corral--there came, harsh and loud and

sudden, the discordant bray of mules. The three men started as if

stung.

"Quick! Pete. Fetch me any one of the horses. I'll gallop after him.

Hear those mules? That means the Indians are close at hand!" And he

sprang into the house for his revolvers, while Pete flew round to the

stable.

It was not ten seconds before Farron reappeared at the front door. Pete

came running out from the stable, leading an astonished horse by the

snaffle. There was not even a blanket on the animal's back, or time to

put one there.

Farron was up and astride the horse in an instant, but before he could

give a word of instruction to his men, there fell upon their ears a

sound that appalled them,--the distant thunder of hundreds of bounding

hoofs; the shrill, vengeful yells of a swarm of savage Indians; the

crack! crack! of rifles; and, far down the trail along which Wells had

ridden but a few moments before, they could see the flash of fire-arms.

"O God! save my little one!" was Farron's agonized cry as he struck his

heels to his horse's ribs and went tearing down the valley in mad and

desperate ride to the rescue.

Poor little Jessie! What hope to save her now?

CHAPTER VI.

A NIGHT OF PERIL.

For one moment the telegraph operator was stunned and inert. Then his

native pluck and the never-say-die spirit of the young American came to

his aid. He rose to his feet, seized his rifle, and ran out to join

Phillips and the few men who were busily at work barricading the corral

and throwing open the loop-holes in the log walls.

Ralph had disappeared, and no one knew whither he had gone until, just

as the men were about to shut the heavy door of the stable, they heard

his young voice ring cheerily out through the darkness,--

"Hold on there! Wait till Buford and I get out!"

"Where on earth are you going?" gasped Phillips, in great astonishment,

as the boy appeared in the door-way, leading his pet, which was bridled

and saddled.

"Going? Back to Lodge Pole, quick as I can, to bring up the cavalry."

"Ralph," said the soldier, "it will never do. Now that Wells is gone I

feel responsible for you, and your father would never forgive me if

anything befell you. We can't let you go?"

Ralph's eyes were snapping with excitement and his cheeks were flushed.

It was a daring, it was a gallant, thought,--the idea of riding back all

alone through a country that might be infested by savage foes; but it

was the one chance.

Farron and Wells and the men might be able to hold out a few hours at

the ranch up the valley, and keep the Indians far enough away to prevent

their burning them out. Of course the ranch could not stand a long siege

against Indian ingenuity, but six hours, or eight at the utmost, would

be sufficient time in which to bring rescue to the inmates. By that time

he could have an overwhelming force of cavalry in the valley, and all

would be safe.

If word were not sent to them it would be noon to-morrow before the

advance of the Fifth would reach the Chug. By that time all would be

over with Farron.

Ralph's brave young heart almost stopped beating as he thought of the

hideous fate that awaited the occupants of the ranch unless help came to

them. He felt that nothing but a light rider and a fast horse could

carry the news in time. He knew that he was the lightest rider in the

valley; that Buford was the fastest horse; that no man at the station

knew all the "breaks" and ravines, the ridges and "swales" of the

country better than he did.

Farron's lay to the southwest, and thither probably all the Indians were

now riding. He could gallop off to the southeast, make a long _detour_,

and so reach Lodge Pole unseen. If he could get there in two hours and a

half, the cavalry could be up and away in fifteen minutes more, and in

that case might reach the Chug at daybreak or soon afterwards.

One thing was certain, that to succeed he must go instantly, before the

Indians could come down and put a watch around Phillips's.

Of course it was a plan full of fearful risk. He took his life in his

hands. Death by the cruelest of tortures awaited him if captured, and it

was a prospect before which any boy and many a man might shrink in

dismay.

But he had thought of little Jessie; the plan and the estimation of the

difficulties and dangers attending its execution had flashed through his

mind in less than five seconds, and his resolution was instantly made.

He was a soldier's son, was Ralph, and saying no word to any one he had

run to the stable, saddled and bridled Buford, and with his revolver at

his hip was ready for his ride.

"It's no use of talking; I'm going," was all he said. "I know how to

dodge them just as well as any man here, and, as for father, he'd be

ashamed of me if I didn't go."

Waiting for no reply,--before they could fully realize what he

meant,--the boy had chirruped to his pawing horse and away they darted

round the corner of the station, across the moonlit road, and then

eastward down the valley.

"Phillips," exclaimed the soldier, "I never should have let him go. I

ought to have gone myself; but he's away before a man can stop him."

"You're too heavy to ride that horse, and there's none other here to

match him. That boy's got the sense of a plainsman any day, I tell you,

and he'll make it all right. The Indians are all up the valley and we'll

hear 'em presently at Farron's. He's keeping off so as to get round east

of the bluffs, and then he'll strike across country southward and not

try for the road until he's eight or ten miles away. Good for Ralph!

It's a big thing he's doing, and his father will be proud of him for

it."

But the telegraph operator was heavy-hearted. The men were all anxious,

and clustered again at the rear of the station. All this had taken place

in the space of three minutes, and they were eagerly watching for the

next demonstration from the marauders.

Of the fate of poor Warner there could be little doubt. It was evident

that the Indians had overwhelmed and killed him. There was a short

struggle and the rapidly concentrating fire of rifles and revolvers for

a minute or two; then the yells had changed to triumphant whoops, and

then came silence.

"They've got his scalp, poor fellow, and no man could lend a hand to

help him. God grant they're all safe inside up there at Farron's," said

one of the party; it was the only comment made on the tragedy that had

been enacted before them.

"Hullo! What's that?"

"It's the flash of rifles again. They've sighted Ralph!" cried the

soldier.

"Not a bit of it. Ralph's off here to the eastward. They're firing and

chasing up the valley. Perhaps Warner got away after all. _Look_ at 'em!

See! The flashes are getting farther south all the time! They've headed

him off from Farron's, whoever it is, and he's making for the road. The

cowardly hounds! There's a hundred of 'em, I reckon, on one poor hunted

white man, and here we are with our hands tied!"

For a few minutes more the sound of shots and yells and thundering

hoofs came vividly through the still night air. All the time it was

drifting away southward, and gradually approached the road. One of the

ranchmen begged Phillips to let him have a horse and go out in the

direction of the firing to reconnoitre and see what had happened, but it

would have been madness to make the attempt, and the request was met

with a prompt refusal.

"We shall need every man here soon enough at the rate things are going,"

was the answer. "That may have been Warner escaping, or it may have been

one of Farron's men trying to get through to us or else riding off

southward to find the cavalry. Perhaps it was Sergeant Wells. Whoever it

was, they've had a two- or three-mile chase and have probably got him by

this time. The firing in that direction is all over. Now the fun will

begin up at the ranch. Then they'll come for us."

"It's my fault!" groaned the operator. "What a night,--and all my fault!

I ought to have told them at Lodge Pole when I could."

"Tell them what?" said Phillips. "You didn't know a thing about their

movements until Warner got here! What could you have said if you'd had

the chance? The cavalry can't move on mere rumors or ideas that any

chance man has who comes to the station in a panic. It has just come all

of a sudden, in a way we couldn't foresee.

"All I'm worrying about now is little Jessie, up there at Farron's. I'm

afraid Warner's gone, and possibly some one else; but if Farron can only

hold out against these fellows until daylight I think he and his little

one will be safe. Watch here, two of you, now, while I go back to the

house a moment."

And so, arms at hand and in breathless silence, the little group watched

and waited. All was quiet at the upper ranch. Farron's light had been

extinguished soon after it had replied to the signal from below, but his

roofs and walls were dimly visible in the moonlight. The distance was

too great for the besiegers to be discerned if any were investing his

place.

The quiet lasted only a few moments. Then suddenly there came from up

the valley and close around those distant roofs the faint sound of rapid

firing. Paled by the moonlight into tiny, ruddy flashes, the flame of

each report could be seen by the sharper eyes among the few watchers at

Phillips's. The attack had indeed begun at Farron's.

One of the men ran in to tell the news to Phillips, who presently came

out and joined the party. No sign of Indians had yet been seen around

them, but as they crouched there by the corral, eagerly watching the

flashes that told of the distant struggle, and listening to the sounds

of combat, there rose upon the air, over to the northward and apparently

just at the base of the line of bluffs, the yelps and prolonged bark of

the coyote. It died away, and then, far on to the southward, somewhere

about the slopes where the road climbed the divide, there came an

answering yelp, shrill, querulous, and prolonged.

"Know what that is, boys?" queried Phillips.

"Coyotes, I s'pose," answered one of the men,--a comparatively new hand.

"Coyotes are scarce in this neighborhood nowadays. Those are Sioux

signals, and we are surrounded. No man in this crowd could get out now.

Ralph ain't out a moment too soon. God speed him! If Farron don't owe

his life and little Jessie's to that boy's bravery, it'll be because

nobody could get to them in time to save them. Why _didn't_ he send her

here?"

Bad as was the outlook, anxious as were all their hearts, what was their

distress to what it would have been had they known the truth,--that

Warner lay only a mile up the trail, stripped, scalped, gashed, and

mutilated! Still warm, yet stone dead! And that all alone, with little

Jessie in his arms, Sergeant Wells had ridden down that trail into the

very midst of the thronging foe! Let us follow him, for he is a soldier

who deserves the faith that Farron placed in him.

For a few moments after leaving the ranch the sergeant rides along at

rapid lope, glancing keenly over the broad, open valley for any sign

that might reveal the presence of hostile Indians, and then hopefully at

the distant light at the station. He holds little Jessie in firm but

gentle clasp, and speaks in fond encouragement every moment or two. She

is bundled like a pappoose in the blanket, but her big, dark eyes look

up trustfully into his, and once or twice she faintly smiles. All seems

so quiet; all so secure in the soldier's strong clasp.

"That's my brave little girl!" says the sergeant. "Papa was right when

he told us down at Russell that he had the pluckiest little daughter in

all Wyoming. It isn't every baby that would take a night ride with an

old dragoon so quietly."

He bends down and softly kisses the thick, curling hair that hangs over

her forehead. Then his keen eye again sweeps over the valley, and he

touches his charger's flank with the spur.

"_Looks_ all clear," he mutters, "but I've seen a hundred Indians spring

up out of a flatter plain than that. They'll skulk behind the smallest

kind of a ridge, and not show a feather until one runs right in among

them. There might be dozens of them off there beyond the Chug at this

moment, and I not be able to see hair or hide of 'em."

Almost half way to Phillips's, and still all is quiet. Then he notes

that far ahead the low ridge, a few hundred yards to his left, sweeps

round nearly to the trail, and dips into the general level of the

prairie within short pistol-shot of the path along which he is riding.

He is yet fully three-quarters of a mile from the place where the ridge

so nearly meets the trail, but it is plainly visible now in the silvery

moonlight.

"If they should have come down, and should be all ranged behind that

ridge now, 'twould be a fearful scrape for this poor little mite," he

thinks, and then, soldier-like, sets himself to considering what his

course should be if the enemy were suddenly to burst upon him from

behind that very curtain.

"Turn and run for it, of course!" he mutters. "Unless they should cut me

off, which they couldn't do unless some of 'em were far back along

behind the ridge. Hullo! A shadow on the trail! Coming this way. A

horseman. That's good! They've sent out a man to meet me."

The sound of iron-shod hoofs that came faintly across the wide distance

from the galloping shadow carried to the sergeant's practised ear the

assurance that the advancing horseman was not an Indian. After the

suspense of that lonely and silent ride, in the midst of unknown

dangers, Wells felt a deep sense of relief.

"The road is clear between here and Phillips's, that's certain," he

thought. "I'll take Jessie on to the station, and then go back to

Farron's. I wonder what news that horseman brings, that he rides so

hard."

Still on came the horseman. All was quiet, and it seemed that in five

minutes more he would have the news the stranger was bringing,--of

safety, he hoped. Jessie, at any rate, should not be frightened unless

danger came actually upon them. He quickened his horse's gait, and

looked smilingly down into Jessie's face.

"It's all right, little one! Somebody is coming up the trail from

Phillips's, so everything must be safe," he told her.

Then came a cruel awakening. Quick, sudden, thrilling, there burst upon

the night a mad chorus of shouts and shots and the accompaniment of

thundering hoofs. Out from the sheltering ridge by dozens, gleaming,

flashing through the moonlight, he saw the warriors sweep down upon the

hapless stranger far in front.

He reined instantly his snorting and affrighted horse, and little

Jessie, with one low cry of terror, tried to release her arms from the

circling blanket and throw them about his neck; but he held her tight.

He grasped the reins more firmly, gave one quick glance to his left and

rear, and, to his dismay, discovered that he, too, was well-nigh hemmed

in; that, swift and ruthless as the flight of hawks, a dozen warriors

were bounding over the prairie towards him, to cut off his escape.

He had not an instant to lose. He whirled his practised troop horse to

the right about, and sent him leaping madly through the night back for

Farron's ranch.

Even as he sped along, he bent low over his charger's neck, and, holding

the terror-stricken child to his breast, managed to speak a word to keep

up her courage.

"We'll beat them yet, my bonny bird!" he muttered, though at that

instant he heard the triumphant whoops that told him a scalp was taken

on the trail behind him, though at that very instant he saw that

warriors, dashing from that teeming ridge, had headed him; that he must

veer from the trail as he neared the ranch, and trust to Farron and his

men to drive off his pursuers.

Already the yells of his pursuers thrilled upon the ear. They had opened

fire, and their wide-aimed bullets went whizzing harmlessly into space.

His wary eye could see that the Indians on his right front were making a

wide circle, so as to meet him when close to the goal, and he was

burdened with that helpless child, and could not make fight even for his

own life.

Drop her and save himself? He would not entertain the thought. No,

though it be his only chance to escape!

His horse panted heavily, and still there lay a mile of open prairie

between him and shelter; still those bounding ponies, with their

yelping, screeching riders, were fast closing upon him, when suddenly

through the dim and ghostly light there loomed another shadow, wild and

daring,--a rider who came towards him at full speed.

Because of the daring of the feat to ride thus alone into the teeth of a

dozen foemen, the sergeant was sure, before he could see the man, that

the approaching horseman was Farron, rushing to the rescue of his child.

Wells shouted a trooper's loud hurrah, and then, "Rein up, Farron! Halt

where you are, and open fire! That'll keep 'em off!"

Though racing towards him at thundering speed, Farron heard and

understood his words, for in another moment his "Henry" was barking its

challenge at the foe, and sending bullet after bullet whistling out

across the prairie.

The flashing, feather-streaming shadows swerved to right and left, and

swept away in big circles. Then Farron stretched out his arms,--no time

for word of any kind,--and Wells laid in them the sobbing child, and

seized in turn the brown and precious rifle.

"Off with you, Farron! Straight for home now. I'll keep 'em back." And

the sergeant in turn reined his horse, fronted the foe, and opened rapid

fire, though with little hope of hitting horse or man.

Disregarding the bullets that sang past his ears, he sent shot after

shot at the shadowy riders, checked now, and circling far out on the

prairie, until once more he could look about him, and see that Farron

had reached the ranch, and had thrown himself from his horse.

Then slowly he turned back, fronting now and then to answer the shots

that came singing by him, and to hurrah with delight when, as the

Indians came within range of the ranch, its inmates opened fire on them,

and a pony sent a yelping rider flying over his head, as he stumbled and

plunged to earth, shot through the body.

Then Wells turned in earnest and made a final dash for the corral. Then

his own good steed, that had borne them both so bravely, suddenly

wavered and tottered under him. He knew too well that the gallant horse

had received his death-blow even before he went heavily to ground within

fifty yards of the ranch.

Wells was up in an instant, unharmed, and made a rush, stooping low.

Another moment, and he was drawn within the door-way, panting and

exhausted, but safe. He listened with amazement to the outward sounds of

shots and hoofs and yells dying away into the distance southward.

"What on earth is that?" he asked.

"It's that scoundrel, Pete. He's taken my horse and deserted!" was

Farron's breathless answer. "I hope they'll catch and kill him! I

despise a coward!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE RESCUE.

All the time, travelling at rapid lope, but at the same time saving

Buford's strength for sudden emergency, Ralph McCrea rode warily through

the night. He kept far to east of the high ridge of the "Buffalo

Hill,"--Who knew what Indian eyes might be watching there?--and mile

after mile he wound among the ravines and swales which he had learned so

well in by-gone days when he little dreamed of the value that his

"plainscraft" might be to him.

For a while his heart beat like a trip-hammer; every echo of his

courser's footfall seemed to him to be the rush of coming warriors, and

time and again he glanced nervously over his shoulder, dreading pursuit.

But he never wavered in his gallant purpose.

The long ridge was soon left to his right rear, and now he began to edge

over towards the west, intending in this way to reach the road at a

point where there would lie before him a fifteen-mile stretch of good

"going ground." Over that he meant to send Buford at full speed.

Since starting he had heard no sound of the fray; the ridge and the

distance had swallowed up the clamor; but he knew full well that the

raiding Indians would do their utmost this night to burn the Farron

ranch and kill or capture its inmates. Every recurring thought of the

peril of his beleaguered friends prompted him to spur his faithful

steed, but he had been reared in the cavalry and taught never to drive a

willing horse to death.

The long, sweeping, elastic strides with which Buford bore him over the

rolling prairie served their needs far better than a mad race of a mile

or two, ending in a complete break-down, would have done.

At last, gleaming in the moonlight, he sighted the hard-beaten road as

it twisted and wound over the slopes, and in a few moments more rode

beneath the single wire of the telegraph line, and then gave Buford a

gentle touch of the steel. He had made a circuit of ten miles or more to

reach this point, and was now, he judged, about seven miles below the

station and five miles from Farron's ranch.

He glanced over his right shoulder and anxiously searched the sky and

horizon. Intervening "divides" shut him off from a view of the valley,

but he saw that as yet no glare of flames proceeded from it.

"Thus far the defence has held its own," he said, hopefully, to himself.

"Now, if Buford and I can only reach Lodge Pole unmolested there may yet

be time."

Ascending a gentle slope he reined Buford down to a walk, so that his

pet might have a little breathing spell. As he arrived at the crest he

cast an eager glance over the next "reach" of prairie landscape, and

then--his heart seemed to leap to his throat and a chill wave to rush

through his veins.

Surely he saw a horseman dart behind the low mound off to the west. This

convinced him that the Indians had discovered and pursued him. After

the Indian fashion they had not come squarely along his trail and thus

driven him ahead at increased speed, but with the savage science of

their warfare, they were working past him, far to his right, intending

to head him off.

To his left front the country was clear, and he could see over it for a

considerable distance. The road, after winding through some intermediate

ravines ahead, swept around to the left. He had almost determined to

leave the trail and make a bee-line across country, and so to outrun the

foeman to his right, when, twice or thrice, he caught the gleam of steel

or silver or nickel-plate beyond the low ground in the very direction in

which he had thought to flee.

His heart sank low now, for the sight conveyed to his mind but one

idea,--that the gleams were the flashing of moonbeams on the barbaric

ornaments of Indians, as he had seen them flash an hour ago when the

warriors raced forth into the valley of the Chug. Were the Indians ahead

of him then, and on both sides of the road?

One thing he had to do, and to do instantly: ride into the first hollow

he could find, dismount, crawl to the ridge and peer around him,--study

which way to ride if he should have to make a race for his own life

now,--and give Buford time to gather himself for the effort.

The boy's brave spirit was wrought well-nigh to the limit. His eyes

clouded as he thought of his father and the faithful troop, miles and

miles away and all unconscious of his deadly peril; of his anxious and

loving mother, wakeful and watching at Laramie, doubtless informed of

the Indian raid by this time; powerless to help him, but praying God to

watch over her boy.

He looked aloft at the starry heavens and lifted his heart in one brief

prayer: "God guard and guide me. I've tried to do my duty as a soldier's

son." And somehow he felt nerved and strengthened.

He grasped the handle of his cavalry revolver as he guided Buford down

to the right where there seemed to be a hollow among the slopes. Just as

he came trotting briskly round a little shoulder of the nearest ridge

there was a rush and patter of hoofs on the other side of it, an

exclamation, half-terror, half-menace, a flash and a shot that whizzed

far over his head. A dark, shadowy horseman went scurrying off into

space as fast as a spurred and startled horse could carry him; a

broad-brimmed slouch hat was blown back to him as a parting _souvenir_,

and Ralph McCrea shouted with relief and merriment as he realized that

some man--a ranchman doubtless--had taken him for an Indian and had

"stampeded," scared out of his wits.

Ralph dismounted, picked up the hat, swung himself again into saddle,

and with rejoicing heart sped away again on his mission. There were

still those suspicious flashes off to the east that he must dodge, and

to avoid them he shaped his course well to the west.

Let us turn for a moment to the camp of the cavalry down in Lodge Pole

Valley. We have not heard from them since early evening when the

operator announced his intention of going over to have a smoke and a

chat with some of his friends on guard.

"Taps," the signal to extinguish lights and go to bed, had sounded early

and, so far as the operator at Lodge Pole knew when he closed his

instrument, the battalion had gladly obeyed the summons.

It happened, however, that the colonel had been talking with one of his

most trusted captains as they left the office a short time before, and

the result of that brief talk was that the latter walked briskly away

towards the bivouac fires of his troop and called "Sergeant Stauffer!"

A tall, dark-eyed, bronzed trooper quickly arose, dropped his pipe, and

strode over to where his captain stood in the flickering light, and,

saluting, "stood attention" and waited.

"Sergeant, let the quartermaster-sergeant and six men stay here to load

our baggage in the morning. Mount the rest of the troop at once, without

any noise,--fully equipped."

The sergeant was too old a soldier even to look surprised. In fifteen

minutes, with hardly a sound of unusual preparation, fifty horsemen had

"led into line," had mounted, and were riding silently off northward.

The colonel said to the captain, as he gave him a word of good-by,--

"I don't know that you'll find anything out of the way at all, but, with

such indications, I believe it best to throw forward a small force to

look after the Chug Valley until we come up. We'll be with you by

dinner-time."

Two hours later, when the telegraph operator, breathless and excited,

rushed into the colonel's tent and woke him with the news that his wire

was cut up towards the Chug, the colonel was devoutly thankful for the

inspiration that prompted him to send "K" Troop forward through the

darkness. He bade his adjutant, the light-weight of the officers then on

duty, take his own favorite racer, Van, and speed away on the trail of

"K" Troop, tell them that the line was cut,--that there was trouble

ahead; to push on lively with what force they had, and that two more

companies would be hurried to their support.

At midnight "K" Troop, riding easily along in the moonlight, had

travelled a little over half the distance to Phillips's ranch. The

lieutenant, who with two or three troopers was scouting far in advance,

halted at the crest of a high ridge over which the road climbs, and

dismounted his little party for a brief rest while he went up ahead to

reconnoitre.

Cavalrymen in the Indian country never ride into full view on top of a

"divide" until after some one of their number has carefully looked over

the ground beyond.

There was nothing in sight that gave cause for long inspection, or that

warranted the officer's taking out his field-glasses. He could see the

line of hills back of the Chugwater Valley, and all was calm and placid.

The valley itself lay some hundreds of feet below his point of

observation, and beginning far off to his left ran northeastward until

one of its branches crossed the trail along which the troop was riding.

Returning to his party, the lieutenant's eye was attracted, for the

fifth or sixth time since they had left Lodge Pole, by little gleams and

flashes of light off in the distance, and he muttered, in a somewhat

disparaging manner, to some of the members of his own troop,--

"Now, what the dickens can those men be carrying to make such a streak

as that? One would suppose that Arizona would have taken all the

nonsense out of 'em, but that glimmer must come from bright bits or

buckles, or something of the kind, for we haven't a sabre with us. What

makes those little flashes, sergeant?" he asked, impatiently.

"It's some of the tin canteens, sir. The cloth is all worn off a dozen

of 'em, and when the moonlight strikes 'em it makes a flash almost like

a mirror."

"Indeed it does, and would betray our coming miles away of a moonlit

night. We'll drop all those things at Laramie. Hullo! Mount, men,

lively!"

The young officer and his party suddenly sprang to saddle. A clatter of

distant hoofs was heard rapidly approaching along the hard-beaten road.

Nearer, nearer they came at tearing gallop. The lieutenant rode

cautiously forward to where he could peer over the crest.

"Somebody riding like mad!" he muttered. "Hatless and demoralized. Who

comes _there_?" he shouted aloud. "Halt, whoever you are!"

Pulling up a panting horse, pale, wide-eyed, almost exhausted, a young

ranchman rode into the midst of the group. It was half a minute before

he could speak. When at last he recovered breath, it was a marvellous

tale that he told.

"The Chug's crammed with Indians. They've killed all down at Phillips's,

and got all around Farron's,--hundreds of 'em. Sergeant Wells tried to

run away with Jessie, but they cut him off, and he'd have been killed

and Jessie captured but for me and Farron. We charged through 'em, and

got 'em back to the ranch. Then the Indians attacked us there, and there

was only four of us, and some one had to cut his way out. Wells said you

fellows were down at Lodge Pole, but he da'sn't try it. I had to." Here

"Pete" looked important, and gave his pistol-belt a hitch.

"I must 'a' killed six of 'em," he continued. "Both my revolvers empty,

and I dropped one of 'em on the trail. My hat was shot clean off my

head, but they missed me, and I got through. They chased me every inch

of the way up to a mile back over yonder. I shot the last one there. But

how many men you got?"

"About fifty," answered the lieutenant. "We'll push ahead at once. You

guide us."

"I ain't going ahead with no fifty. I tell you there's a thousand

Indians there. Where's the rest of the regiment?"

"Back at Lodge Pole. Go on, if you like, and tell them your story.

Here's the captain now."

With new and imposing additions, Pete told the story a second time.

Barely waiting to hear it through, the captain's voice rang along the

eager column,--

"Forward, trot, _march_!"

Away went the troop full tilt for the Chug, while the ranchman rode

rearward until he met the supporting squadron two hours behind. Ten

minutes after parting with their informant, the officers of "K" Troop,

well out in front of their men, caught sight of a daring horseman

sweeping at full gallop down from some high bluffs to their left and

front.

"Rides like an Indian," said the captain; "but no Sioux would come down

at us like that, waving a hat, too. By Jupiter! It's Ralph McCrea! How

are you, boy? What's wrong at the Chug?"

"Farron's surrounded, and I believe Warner's killed!" said Ralph,

breathless. "Thank God, you're here so far ahead of where I expected to

find you! We'll get there in time now;" and he turned his panting horse

and rode eagerly along by the captain's side.

"And you've not been chased? You've seen nobody?" was the lieutenant's

question.

"Nobody but a white man, worse scared than I was, who left his hat

behind when I ran upon him a mile back here."

Even in the excitement and urgent haste of the moment, there went up a

shout of laughter at the expense of Pete; but as they reached the next

divide, and got another look well to the front, the laughter gave place

to the grinding of teeth and muttered malediction. A broad glare was in

the northern sky, and smoke and flame were rolling up from the still

distant valley of the Chug, and now the word was "Gallop!"

Fifteen minutes of hard, breathless riding followed. Horses snorted and

plunged in eager race with their fellows; officers warned even as they

galloped, "Steady, there! Keep back! Keep your places, men!" Bearded,

bright-eyed troopers, with teeth set hard together and straining

muscles, grasped their ready carbines, and thrust home the grim copper

cartridges. On and on, as the flaring beacon grew redder and fiercer

ahead; on and on, until they were almost at the valley's edge, and then

young Ralph, out at the front with the veteran captain, panted to him,

in wild excitement that he strove manfully to control,--

"Now keep well over to the left, captain! I know the ground well. It's

all open. We can sweep down from behind that ridge, and they'll never

look for us or think of us till we're right among them. Hear them yell!"

"Ay, ay, Ralph! Lead the way. Ready now, men!" He turned in his saddle.

"Not a word till I order 'Charge!' Then yell all you want to."

Down into the ravine they thunder; round the moonlit slope they sweep;

swift they gallop through the shadows of the eastward bluffs; nearer and

nearer they come, manes and tails streaming in the night wind; horses

panting hard, but never flagging.

Listen! Hear those shots and yells and war-whoops! Listen to the hideous

crackling of the flames! Mark the vengeful triumph in those savage

howls! Already the fire has leaped from the sheds to the rough

shingling. The last hope of the sore-besieged is gone.

Then, with sudden blare of trumpet, with ringing cheer, with thundering

hoof and streaming pennon and thrilling rattle of carbine and pistol;

with one magnificent, triumphant burst of speed the troop comes whirling

out from the covert of the bluff and sweeps all before it down the

valley.

Away go Sioux and Cheyenne; away, yelling shrill warning, go warrior and

chief; away, down stream, past the stiffening form of the brave fellow

they killed; away past the station where the loop-holes blaze with

rifle-shots and ring with exultant cheers; away across the road and down

the winding valley, and so far to the north and the sheltering arms of

the reservation,--and one more Indian raid is over.

But at the ranch, while willing hands were dashing water on the flames,

Ralph and the lieutenant sprang inside the door-way just as Farron

lifted from a deep, cellar-like aperture in the middle of the floor a

sobbing yet wonderfully happy little maiden. She clung to him

hysterically, as he shook hands with one after another of the few

rescuers who had time to hurry in.

Wells, with bandaged head and arm, was sitting at his post, his "Henry"

still between his knees, and he looked volumes of pride and delight into

his young friend's sparkling eyes. Pete, of course, was nowhere to be

seen. Jake, with a rifle-bullet through his shoulder, was grinning pale

gratification at the troopers who came in, and then there was a moment's

silence as the captain entered.

Farron stepped forward and held forth his hand. Tears were starting from

his eyes.

"You've saved me and my little girl, captain. I never can thank you

enough."

"Bosh! Never mind us. Where's Ralph McCrea? There's the boy you can

thank for it all. _He_ led us!"

And though hot blushes sprang to the youngster's cheeks, and he, too,

would have disclaimed any credit for the rescue, the soldiers would not

have it so. 'Twas Ralph who dared that night-ride to bring the direful

news; 'twas Ralph who guided them by the shortest, quickest route, and

was with the foremost in the charge. And so, a minute after, when Farron

unclasped little Jessie's arms from about his own neck, he whispered in

her ear,--

"'Twas Ralph who saved us, baby. You must thank him for me, too."

And so, just as the sun was coming up, the little girl with big, dark

eyes whom we saw sitting in the railway station at Cheyenne, waiting

wearily and patiently for her father's coming, and sobbing her relief

and joy when she finally caught sight of Ralph, was once more nestling a

tear-wet face to his and clasping him in her little arms, and thanking

him with all her loyal, loving heart for the gallant rescue that had

come to them just in time.

Four days later there was a gathering at Laramie. The general had come;

the Fifth were there in camp, and a group of officers had assembled on

the parade after the brief review of the command. The general turned

from his staff, and singled out a captain of cavalry who stood close at

hand.

"McCrea, I want to see that boy of yours. Where is he?"

An orderly sped away to the group of spectators and returned with a

silent and embarrassed youth, who raised his hat respectfully, but said

no word. The general stepped forward and held out both his hands.

"I'm proud to shake hands with you, young gentleman. I've heard all

about you from the Fifth. You ought to go to West Point and be a cavalry

officer."

"There's nothing I so much wish, general," stammered Ralph, with beaming

eyes and burning cheeks.

"Then we'll telegraph his name to Washington this very day, gentlemen. I

was asked to designate some young man for West Point who thoroughly

deserved it, and is not this appointment well won?"

FROM "THE POINT" TO THE PLAINS.

CHAPTER I.

A CADET'S SISTER.

She was standing at the very end of the forward deck, and, with flushing

cheeks and sparkling eyes, gazing eagerly upon the scene before her.

Swiftly, smoothly rounding the rugged promontory on the right, the

steamer was just turning into the highland "reach" at Fort Montgomery

and heading straight away for the landings on the sunset shore. It was

only mid-May, but the winter had been mild, the spring early, and now

the heights on either side were clothed in raiment of the freshest,

coolest green; the vines were climbing in luxuriant leaf all over the

face of the rocky scarp that hemmed the swirling tide of the Hudson; the

radiance of the evening sunshine bathed all the eastern shores in mellow

light and left the dark slopes and deep gorges of the opposite range all

the deeper and darker by contrast. A lively breeze had driven most of

the passengers within doors as they sped through the broad waters of the

Tappan Zee, but, once within the sheltering traverses of Dunderberg and

the heights beyond, many of their number reappeared upon the promenade

deck, and first among them was the bonnie little maid now clinging to

the guard-rail at the very prow, and, heedless of fluttering skirt or

fly-away curl, watching with all her soul in her bright blue eyes for

the first glimpse of the haven where she would be. No eyes on earth look

so eagerly for the grim, gray _facade_ of the riding-hall or the domes

and turrets of the library building as those of a girl who has spent the

previous summer at West Point.

Utterly absorbed in her watch, she gave no heed to other passengers who

presently took their station close at hand. One was a tall, dark-eyed,

dark-haired young lady in simple and substantial travelling-dress. With

her were two men in tweeds and Derby hats, and to these companions she

constantly turned with questions as to prominent objects in the rich and

varied landscape. It was evident that she was seeing for the first time

sights that had been described to her time and again, for she was

familiar with every name. One of the party was a man of over fifty

years,--bronzed of face and gray of hair, but with erect carriage and

piercing black eyes that spoke of vigor, energy, and probably of a life

in the open air. It needed not the tri-colored button of the Loyal

Legion in the lapel of his coat to tell that he was a soldier. Any one

who chose to look--and there were not a few--could speedily have seen,

too, that these were father and daughter.

The other man was still taller than the dark, wiry, slim-built soldier,

but in years he was not more than twenty-eight or nine. His eyes, brows,

hair, and the heavy moustache that drooped over his mouth were all of a

dark, soft brown. His complexion was clear and ruddy; his frame powerful

and athletic. Most of the time he stood a silent but attentive listener

to the eager talk between the young lady and her father, but his kindly

eyes rarely left her face; he was ready to respond when she turned to

question him, and when he spoke it was with the unmistakable intonation

of the South.

The deep, mellow tones of the bell were booming out their landing signal

as the steamer shot into the shadow of a high, rocky cliff. Far aloft on

the overhanging piazzas of a big hotel, fluttering handkerchiefs greeted

the passengers on the decks below. Many eyes were turned thither in

recognition of the salute, but not those of the young girl at the bow.

One might, indeed, have declared her resentful of this intermediate

stop. The instant the gray walls of the riding-school had come into view

she had signalled, eagerly, with a wave of her hand, to a gentleman and

lady seated in quiet conversation under the shelter of the deck.

Presently the former, a burly, broad-shouldered man of forty or

thereabouts, came sauntering forward and stood close behind her.

"Well, Nan! Most there, I see. Think you can hold on five minutes

longer, or shall I toss you over and let you swim for it?"

For answer Miss Nan clasps a wooden pillar in her gray-gloved hands, and

tilts excitedly on the toes of her tiny boots, never once relaxing her

gaze on the dock a mile or more away up-stream.

"Just think of being so near Willy--and all of them--and not seeing one

to speak to until after parade," she finally says.

"Simply inhuman!" answers her companion with commendable gravity, but

with humorous twinkle about his eyes. "Is it worth all the long

journey, and all the excitement in which your mother tells me you've

been plunged for the past month?"

"Worth it, Uncle Jack?" and the blue eyes flash upon him indignantly.

"Worth it? You wouldn't ask if you knew it all, as I do."

"Possibly not," says Uncle Jack, whimsically. "I haven't the advantage

of being a girl with a brother and a baker's dozen of beaux in bell

buttons and gray. I'm only an old fossil of a 'cit,' with a scamp of a

nephew and that limited conception of the delights of West Point which

one can derive from running up there every time that versatile youngster

gets into a new scrape. You'll admit my opportunities have been

frequent."

"It isn't Willy's fault, and you know it, Uncle Jack, though we all know

how good you've been; but he's had more bad luck and--and--injustice

than any cadet in the corps. Lots of his classmates told me so."

"Yes," says Uncle Jack, musingly. "That is what your blessed mother,

yonder, wrote me when I went up last winter, the time Billy submitted

that explanation to the commandant with its pleasing reference to the

fox that had lost its tail--you doubtless recall the incident--and came

within an ace of dismissal in consequence."

"I don't care!" interrupts Miss Nan, with flashing eyes. "Will had

provocation enough to say much worse things; Jimmy Frazer wrote me so,

and said the whole class was sticking up for him."

"I do not remember having had the honor of meeting Jimmy Frazer,"

remarks Uncle Jack, with an aggravating drawl that is peculiar to him.

"Possibly he was one of the young gentlemen who didn't call, owing to

some temporary impediment in the way of light prison----"

"Yes; and all because he took Will's part, as I believe," is the

impetuous reply. "Oh! I'll be so thankful when they're out of it all."

"So will they, no doubt. 'Sticking up'--wasn't that Mr. Frazer's

expression?--for Bill seems to have been an expensive luxury all round.

Wonder if sticking up is something they continue when they get to their

regiments? Billy has two or three weeks yet in which to ruin his chances

of ever reaching one, and he has exhibited astonishing aptitude for

tripping himself up thus far."

"Uncle Jack! How can you speak so of Willy, when he is so devoted to

you? When he gets to his regiment there won't be any Lieutenant Lee to

nag and worry him night and day. _He's_ the cause of all the trouble."

"That so?" drawls Uncle Jack. "I didn't happen to meet Mr. Lee,

either,--he was away on leave; but as Bill and your mother had some such

views, I looked into things a bit. It appears to be a matter of record

that my enterprising nephew had more demerit before the advent of Mr.

Lee than since. As for 'extras' and confinements, his stock was always

big enough to bear the market down to bottom prices."

The boat is once more under way, and a lull in the chat close at hand

induces Uncle Jack to look about him. The younger of the two men lately

standing with the dark-eyed girl has quietly withdrawn, and is now

shouldering his way to a point out of ear-shot. There he calmly turns

and waits; his glance again resting upon her whose side he has so

suddenly quitted. She has followed him with her eyes until he stops;

then with heightened color resumes a low-toned chat with her father.

Uncle Jack is a keen observer, and his next words are inaudible except

to his niece.

"Nan, my child, I apprehend that remarks upon the characteristics of the

officers at the Point had best be confined to the bosom of the family.

We may be in their very midst."

She turns, flushing, and for the first time her blue eyes meet the dark

ones of the older girl. Her cheeks redden still more, and she whirls

about again.

"I can't help it, Uncle Jack," she murmurs. "I'd just like to tell them

all what I think of Will's troubles."

"Oh! Candor is to be admired of all things," says Uncle Jack, airily.

"Still it is just as well to observe the old adage, 'Be sure you're

right,' etc. Now _I_ own to being rather fond of Bill, despite all the

worry he has given your mother, and all the bother he has been to

me----"

"All the worry that others have given _him_, you ought to say, Uncle

Jack."

"W-e-ll, har-d-ly. It didn't seem to me that the corps, as a rule,

thought Billy the victim of persecution."

"They all tell _me_ so, at least," is the indignant outburst.

"Do they, Nan? Well, of course, that settles it. Still, there were a few

who reluctantly admitted having other views when I pressed them

closely."

"Then they were no friends of Willy's, or mine either!"

"Now, do you know, I thought just the other way? I thought one of them,

especially, a very stanch friend of Billy's and yours, too, Nan, but

Billy seems to consider advisers in the light of adversaries."

A moment's pause. Then, with cheeks still red, and plucking at the rope

netting with nervous fingers, Miss Nan essays a tentative. Her eyes are

downcast as she asks,--

"I suppose you mean Mr. Stanley?"

"The very man, Nanette; very much of a man to my thinking."

The bronzed soldier standing near cannot but have heard the name and the

words. His face takes on a glow and the black eyes kindle.

"Mr. Stanley would not say to _me_ that Willy is to blame," pouts the

maiden, and her little foot is beating impatiently tattoo on the deck.

"Neither would I--just now--if I were Mr. Stanley; but all the same, he

decidedly opposed the view that Mr. Lee was 'down on Billy,' as your

mother seems to think."

"That's because Mr. Lee is tactical officer commanding the company, and

Mr. Stanley is cadet captain. Oh! I will take him to task if he has

been--been----"

But she does not finish. She has turned quickly in speaking, her hand

clutching a little knot of bell buttons hanging by a chain at the front

of her dress. She has turned just in time to catch a warning glance in

Uncle Jack's twinkling eyes, and to see a grim smile lurking under the

gray moustache of the gentleman with the Loyal Legion button who is

leading away the tall young lady with the dark hair. In another moment

they have rejoined the third member of their party,--he who first

withdrew,--and it is evident that something has happened which gives

them all much amusement. They are chatting eagerly together, laughing

not a little, although the laughter, like their words, is entirely

inaudible to Miss Nan. But she feels a twinge of indignation when the

tall girl turns and looks directly at her. There is nothing unkindly in

the glance. There even is merriment in the dark, handsome eyes and

lurking among the dimples around that beautiful mouth. Why did those

eyes--so heavily fringed, so thickly shaded--seem to her familiar as old

friends? Nan could have vowed she had somewhere met that girl before,

and now that girl was laughing at her. Not rudely, not aggressively, to

be sure,--she had turned away again the instant she saw that the little

maiden's eyes were upon her,--but all the same, said Nan to herself, she

_was_ laughing. They were all laughing, and it must have been because of

her outspoken defence of Brother Will and equally outspoken defiance of

his persecutors. What made it worse was that Uncle Jack was laughing

too.

"Do you know who they are?" she demands, indignantly.

"Not I, Nan," responds Uncle Jack. "Never saw them before in my life,

but I warrant we see them again, and at the Point, too. Come, child.

There's our bell, and we must start for the gangway. Your mother is

hailing us now. Never mind this time, little woman," he continues,

kindly, as he notes the cloud on her brow. "I don't think any harm has

been done, but it is just as well not to be impetuous in public speech.

Ah! I thought so. They are to get off here with us."

Three minutes more and a little stream of passengers flows out upon the

broad government dock, and, as luck would have it, Uncle Jack and his

charges are just behind the trio in which, by this time, Miss Nan is

deeply, if not painfully, interested. A soldier in the undress uniform

of a corporal of artillery hastens forward and, saluting, stretches

forth his hand to take the satchel carried by the tall man with the

brown moustache.

"The lieutenant's carriage is at the gate," he says, whereat Uncle Jack,

who is conducting her mother just in front, looks back over his shoulder

and nods compassionately at Nan.

"Has any despatch been sent down to meet Colonel Stanley?" she hears the

tall man inquire, and this time Uncle Jack's backward glance is a

combination of mischief and concern.

"Nothing, sir, and the adjutant's orderly is here now. This is all he

brought down," and the corporal hands to the inquirer a note, the

superscription of which the young officer quickly scans; then turns and,

while his soft brown eyes light with kindly interest and he bares his

shapely head, accosts the lady on Uncle Jack's arm,--

"Pardon me, madam. This note must be for you. Mrs. McKay, is it not?"

And as her mother smiles her thanks and the others turn away, Nan's

eager eyes catch sight of Will's well-known writing. Mrs. McKay rapidly

reads it as Uncle Jack is bestowing bags and bundles in the omnibus and

feeing the acceptive porter, who now rushes back to the boat in the nick

of time.

"Awful sorry I can't get up to the hotel to see you," says the

note, dolorously, but by no means unexpectedly. "I'm in confinement

and can't get a permit. Come to the officer-in-charge's office

right after supper, and he'll let me see you there awhile.

Stanley's officer of the day, and he'll be there to show the way.

In haste,

WILL."

"Now _isn't_ that poor Willy's luck every time!" exclaims Miss Nan, her

blue eyes threatening to fill with tears. "I _do_ think they might let

him off the day we get here."

"Unquestionably," answers Uncle Jack, with great gravity, as he assists

the ladies into the yellow omnibus. "You duly notified the

superintendent of your impending arrival, I suppose?"

Mrs. McKay smiles quietly. Hers is a sweet and gentle face, lined with

many a trace of care and anxiety. Her brother's whimsical ways are old

acquaintances, and she knows how to treat them; but Nan is young,

impulsive, and easily teased. She flares up instantly.

"Of course we _didn't_, Uncle Jack; how utterly absurd it would sound!

But Willy knew we were coming, and _he_ must have told him when he asked

for his permit, and it does seem too hard that he was refused."

"Heartless in the last degree," says Uncle Jack, sympathetically, but

with the same suggestive drawl. "Yonder go the father and sister of the

young gentleman whom you announced your intention to castigate because

he didn't agree that Billy was being abused, Nan. You will have a chance

this very evening, won't you? He's officer of the day, according to

Billy's note, and can't escape. You'll have wound up the whole family by

tattoo. Quite a good day's work. Billy's opposers will do well to take

warning and keep out of the way hereafter," he continues, teasingly.

"Oh--ah--_corporal_!" he calls, "who was the young officer who just

drove off in the carriage with the lady and gentleman?"

"That was Lieutenant Lee, sir."

Uncle Jack turns and contemplates his niece with an expression of the

liveliest admiration. "'Pon my word, Miss Nan, you are a most

comprehensive young person. You've indeed let no guilty man escape."