CHAPTER VIII.

CAPTURED.

How the tidings of that timely rescue thrill through every heart at old

Fort Warrener! There are gathered the wives and children of the

regiment. There is the colonel's home, silent and darkened for that one

long week, then ringing with joy and congratulation, with gladness and

thanksgiving. Miriam again is there, suddenly lifted from the depths of

sorrow to a wealth of bliss she had no words to express. Day and night

the little army coterie flocked about her to hear again and again the

story of Philip's peril and his final rescue, and then to exclaim over

Romney Lee's gallantry and devotion. It was all so bewildering. For a

week they had mourned their colonel's only son as dead and buried. The

wondrous tale of his discovery sounded simply fabulous, and yet was

simply true. Hurrying forward from the railway, the little party had

been joined by two young frontiersmen eager to obtain employment with

the scouts of Stanley's column. Halting just at sunset for brief rest at

Box Elder Springs, the lieutenant with Sergeant Harris had climbed the

bluffs to search for Indian signal fires. It was nearly dark when on

their return they were amazed to hear the sound of fire-arms in the

canyon, and were themselves suddenly attacked and completely cut off from

their comrades. Stanley's horse was shot; but Sergeant Harris, though

himself wounded, helped his young officer to mount behind him, and

galloped back into the darkness, where they evaded their pursuers by

turning loose their horse and groping in among the rocks. Here they hid

all night and all next day in the deep cleft where Lee had found them,

listening to the shouts and signals of a swarm of savage foes. At last

the sounds seemed to die away, the Indians to disappear, and then

hunger, thirst, and the feverish delirium of the sergeant, who was

tortured for want of water, drove Stanley forth in hopes of reaching

the canyon. Fired at, as he supposed, by Indians, he was speedily back in

his lair again, but was there almost as speedily tracked and besieged.

For a while he was able to keep the foe at bay, but Lee had come just in

the nick of time; only two cartridges were left, and poor Harris was

nearly gone.

A few weeks later, while the --th is still on duty rounding up the

Indians in the mountains, the wounded are brought home to Warrener.

There are not many, for only the first detachment of two small troops

had had any serious engagement; but the surgeons say that Mr. Lee's arm

is so badly crippled that he can do no field work for several months,

and he had best go in to the railway. And now he is at Warrener; and

here, one lovely moonlit summer's evening, he is leaning on the gate in

front of the colonel's quarters, utterly regardless of certain

injunctions as to avoiding exposure to the night air. Good Mrs. Wilton,

the major's wife,--who, army fashion, is helping Miriam keep house in

her father's absence,--has gone in before "to light up," she says,

though it is too late for callers; and they have been spending a long

evening at Captain Gregg's, "down the row." It is Miriam who keeps the

tall lieutenant at the gate. She has said good-night, yet lingers. He

has been there several days, his arm still in its sling, and not once

has she had a word with him alone till now. Some one has told her that

he has asked for leave of absence to go East and settle some business

affairs he had to leave abruptly when hurrying to take part in the

campaign. If this be true is it not time to be making her peace?

The moonlight throws a brilliant sheen on all surrounding objects, yet

she stands in the shade, bowered in a little archway of vines that

overhangs the gate. He has been strangely silent during the brief walk

homeward, and now, so far from following into the shadows as she half

hoped he might do, he stands without, the flood of moonlight falling

full upon his stalwart figure. Two months ago he would not thus have

held aloof, yet now he is half extending his hand as though in adieu.

She cannot fathom this strange silence on the part of him who so long

has been devoted as a lover. She knows well it cannot be because of her

injustice to him at the Point that he is unrelenting now. Her eyes have

told him how earnestly she repents: and does he not always read her

eyes? Only in faltering words, in the presence of others all too

interested, has she been able to speak her thanks for Philip's rescue.

She cannot see now that what he fears from her change of mood is that

gratitude for her brother's safety, not a woman's response to the

passionate love in his deep heart, is the impulse of this sweet,

half-shy, half-entreating manner. He cannot sue for love from a girl

weighted with a sense of obligation. He knows that lingering here is

dangerous, yet he cannot go. When friends are silent 'tis time for chats

to close: but there is a silence that at such a time as this only bids a

man to speak, and speak boldly. Yet Lee is dumb.

Once--over a year ago--he had come to the colonel's quarters to seek

permission to visit the neighboring town on some sudden errand. She had

met him at the door with the tidings that her father had been feeling

far from well during the morning, and was now taking a nap.

"Won't I do for commanding officer this time?" she had laughingly

inquired.

"I would ask no better fate--for all time," was his prompt reply, and he

spoke too soon. Though neither ever forgot the circumstance, she would

never again permit allusion to it. But to-night it is uppermost in her

mind. She _must_ know if it be true that he is going.

"Tell me," she suddenly asks, "have you applied for leave of absence?"

"Yes," he answers, simply.

"And you are going--soon?"

"I am going to-morrow," is the utterly unlooked-for reply.

"To-morrow! Why--Mr. Lee!"

There can be no mistaking the shock it gives her, and still he stands

and makes no sign. It is cruel of him! What has she said or done to

deserve penance like this? He is still holding out his hand as though in

adieu, and she lays hers, fluttering, in the broad palm.

"I--I thought all applications had to be made to--your commanding

officer," she says at last, falteringly, yet archly.

"Major Wilton forwarded mine on Monday. I asked him to say nothing about

it. The answer came by wire to-day."

"Major Wilton is _post_ commander; but--did you not--a year----?"

"Did I not?" he speaks in eager joy. "Do you mean you have not

forgotten _that_? Do you mean that now--for all time--my first

allegiance shall be to you, Miriam?"

No answer for a minute; but her hand is still firmly clasped in his. At

last,--

"Don't you think you ought to have asked me, before applying for leave

to go?"

Mr. Lee is suddenly swallowed up in the gloom of that shaded bower under

the trellis-work, though a radiance as of mid-day is shining through his

heart.

But soon he has to go. Mrs. Wilton is on the veranda, urging them to

come in out of the chill night air. Those papers on his desk must be

completed and filed this very night. He told her this.

"To-morrow, early, I will be here," he murmurs. "And now, good-night, my

own."

But she does not seek to draw her hand away. Slowly he moves back into

the bright moonbeams and she follows part way. One quick glance she

gives as her hand is released and he raises his forage cap. It is _such_

a disadvantage to have but one arm at such a time! She sees that Mrs.

Wilton is at the other end of the veranda.

"Good-night," she whispers. "I--know you _must_ go."

"I must. There is so much to be done."

"I--thought"--another quick glance at the piazza--"that a soldier, on

leaving, should--salute his commanding officer?"

And Romney Lee is again in shadow and--in sunshine.

* * * * *

Late that autumn, in one of his infrequent letters to his devoted

mother, Mr. McKay finds time to allude to the news of Lieutenant Lee's

approaching marriage to Miss Stanley.

"Phil is, of course, immensely pleased," he writes, "and from all I hear

I suppose Mr. Lee is a very different fellow from what we thought six

months ago. Pennock says I always had a wrong idea of him; but Pennock

thinks all my ideas about the officers appointed over me are absurd. He

likes old Pelican, our battery commander, who is just the crankiest,

crabbedest, sore-headedest captain in all the artillery, and that is

saying a good deal. I wish I'd got into the cavalry at the start; but

there's no use in trying now. The --th is the only regiment I wanted;

but they have to go to reveille and stables before breakfast, which

wouldn't suit me at all.

"Hope Nan's better. A winter in the Riviera will set her up again.

Stanley asks after her when he writes, but he has rather dropped me of

late. I suppose it's because I was too busy to answer, though he ought

to know that in New York harbor a fellow has no time for scribbling,

whereas, out on the plains they have nothing else to do. He sent me his

picture a while ago, and I tell you he has improved wonderfully. Such a

swell moustache! I meant to have sent it over for you and Nan to see,

but I've mislaid it somewhere."

Poor little Nan! She would give many of her treasures for one peep at

the coveted picture that Will holds so lightly. There had been temporary

improvement in her health at the time Uncle Jack came with the joyous

tidings that Stanley was safe after all; but even the Riviera fails to

restore her wonted spirits. She droops visibly during the long winter.

"She grows so much older away from Willy," says the fond mamma, to whom

proximity to that vivacious youth is the acme of earthly bliss. Uncle

Jack grins and says nothing. It is dawning upon him that something is

needed besides the air and sunshine of the Riviera to bring back the

dancing light in those sweet blue eyes and joy to the wistful little

face.

"The time to see the Yosemite and 'the glorious climate of California'

is April, not October," he suddenly declares, one balmy morning by the

Mediterranean; "and the sooner we get back to Yankeedom the better

'twill suit me."

And so it happens that, early in the month of meteorological smiles and

tears, the trio are speeding westward far across the rolling prairies:

Mrs. McKay deeply scandalized at the heartless conduct of the War

Department in refusing Willy a two-months' leave to go with them; Uncle

Jack quizzically disposed to look upon that calamity as a not utterly

irretrievable ill; and Nan, fluttering with hope, fear, joy, and dread,

all intermingled; for is not _he_ stationed at Cheyenne? All these long

months has she cherished that little knot of senseless ribbon. If she

had sent it to him within the week of his graduation, perhaps it would

not have seemed amiss; but after that, after all he had been through in

the campaign,--the long months of silence,--he might have changed, and,

for very shame, she cannot bring herself to give a signal he would

perhaps no longer wish to obey. Every hour her excitement and

nervousness increase; but when the conductor of the Pullman comes to

say that Cheyenne is really in sight, and the long whistle tells that

they are nearing the dinner station of those days, Nan simply loses

herself entirely. There will be half an hour, and Philip actually there

to see, to hear, to answer. She hardly knows whether she is of this

mortal earth when Uncle Jack comes bustling in with the gray-haired

colonel, when she feels Miriam's kiss upon her cheek, when Mr. Lee,

handsomer and kindlier than ever, bends down to take her hand; but she

looks beyond them all for the face she longs for,--and it is not there.

The car seems whirling around when, from over her shoulder, she hears,

in the old, well-remembered tones, a voice that redoubles the throb of

her little heart.

"Miss Nannie!"

And there--bending over her, his face aglow, and looking marvellously

well in his cavalry uniform--is Philip Stanley. She knows not what she

says. She has prepared something proper and conventional, but it has all

fled. She looks one instant up into his shining eyes, and there is no

need to speak at all. Every one else is so busy that no one sees, no one

knows, that he is firmly clinging to her hand, and that she shamelessly

and passively submits.

A little later--just as the train is about to start--they are standing

at the rear door of the sleeper. The band of the --th is playing some

distance up the platform,--a thoughtful device of Mr. Lee's to draw the

crowd that way,--and they are actually alone. An exquisite happiness is

in her eyes as she peers up into the love-light in his strong, steadfast

face. _Something_ must have been said; for he draws her close to his

side and bends over her as though all the world were wrapped up in this

dainty little morsel of womanhood. Suddenly the great train begins

slowly to move. Part they must now, though it be only for a time. He

folds her quickly, unresisting, to his breast. The sweet blue eyes begin

to fill.

"My darling,--my little Nannie," he whispers, as his lips kiss away the

gathering tears. "There is just an instant. What is it you tell me you

have kept for me?"

"This," she answers, shyly placing in his hand a little packet wrapped

in tissue-paper. "Don't look at it yet! Wait!--But--I wanted to send

it--the very next day, Philip."

Slowly he turns her blushing face until he can look into her eyes. The

glory in his proud, joyous gaze is a delight to see. "My own little

girl," he whispers, as his lips meet hers. "I know it is my love-knot."

THE WORST MAN IN THE TROOP.

Just why that young Irishman should have been so balefully branded was

more than the first lieutenant of the troop could understand. To be

sure, the lieutenant's opportunities for observation had been limited.

He had spent some years on detached service in the East, and had joined

his comrades in Arizona but a fortnight ago, and here he was already

becoming rapidly initiated in the science of scouting through

mountain-wilds against the wariest and most treacherous of foemen,--the

Apaches of our Southwestern territory.

Coming, as he had done, direct from a station and duties where

full-dress uniform, lavish expenditure for kid gloves, bouquets, and

Lubin's extracts were matters of daily fact, it must be admitted that

the sensations he experienced on seeing his detachment equipped for the

scout were those of mild consternation. That much latitude as to

individual dress and equipment was permitted he had previously been

informed; that "full dress," and white shirts, collars, and the like

would be left at home, he had sense enough to know; but that every

officer and man in the command would be allowed to discard any and all

portions of the regulation uniform and appear rigged out in just such

motley guise as his poetic or practical fancy might suggest, had never

been pointed out to him; and that he, commanding his troop while a

captain commanded the little battalion, could by any military

possibility take his place in front of his men without his sabre, had

never for an instant occurred to him. As a consequence, when he bolted

into the mess-room shortly after daybreak on a bright June morning with

that imposing but at most times useless item of cavalry equipment

clanking at his heels, the lieutenant gazed with some astonishment upon

the attire of his brother-officers there assembled, but found himself

the butt of much good-natured and not over-witty "chaff," directed

partially at the extreme newness and neatness of his dark-blue flannel

scouting-shirt and high-top boots, but more especially at the glittering

sabre swinging from his waist-belt.

"Billings," said Captain Buxton, with much solemnity, "while you have

probably learned through the columns of a horror-stricken Eastern press

that we scalp, alive or dead, all unfortunates who fall into our

clutches, I assure you that even for that purpose the cavalry sabre has,

in Arizona at least, outlived its usefulness. It is too long and clumsy,

you see. What you really want for the purpose is something like

this,"--and he whipped out of its sheath a rusty but keen-bladed Mexican

_cuchillo_,--"something you can wield with a deft turn of the wrist, you

know. The sabre is apt to tear and mutilate the flesh, especially when

you use both hands." And Captain Buxton winked at the other subaltern

and felt that he had said a good thing.

But Mr. Billings was a man of considerable good nature and ready

adaptability to the society or circumstances by which he might be

surrounded. "Chaff" was a very cheap order of wit, and the serenity of

his disposition enabled him to shake off its effect as readily as water

is scattered from the plumage of the duck.

"So you don't wear the sabre on a scout? So much the better. I have my

revolvers and a Sharp's carbine, but am destitute of anything in the

knife line." And with that Mr. Billings betook himself to the duty of

despatching the breakfast that was already spread before him in an array

tempting enough to a frontier appetite, but little designed to attract a

_bon vivant_ of civilization. Bacon, _frijoles_, and creamless coffee

speedily become ambrosia and nectar under the influence of mountain-air

and mountain-exercise; but Mr. Billings had as yet done no climbing. A

"buck-board" ride had been his means of transportation to the

garrison,--a lonely four-company post in a far-away valley in

Northeastern Arizona,--and in the three or four days of intense heat

that had succeeded his arrival exercise of any kind had been out of the

question. It was with no especial regret, therefore, that he heard the

summons of the captain, "Hurry up, man; we must be off in ten minutes."

And in less than ten minutes the lieutenant was on his horse and

superintending the formation of his troop.

If Mr. Billings was astonished at the garb of his brother-officers at

breakfast, he was simply aghast when he glanced along the line of

Company "A" (as his command was at that time officially designated) and

the first sergeant rode out to report his men present or accounted for.

The first sergeant himself was got up in an old gray-flannel shirt, open

at and disclosing a broad, brown throat and neck; his head was crowned

with what had once been a white felt _sombrero_, now tanned by desert

sun, wind, and dirt into a dingy mud-color; his powerful legs were

encased in worn deer-skin breeches tucked into low-topped, broad-soled,

well-greased boots; his waist was girt with a rude "thimble-belt," in

the loops of which were thrust scores of copper cartridges for carbine

and pistol; his carbine, and those of all the command, swung in a

leather loop athwart the pommel of the saddle; revolvers in all manner

of cases hung at the hip, the regulation holster, in most instances,

being conspicuous by its absence. Indeed, throughout the entire command

the remarkable fact was to be noted that a company of regular cavalry,

taking the field against hostile Indians, had discarded pretty much

every item of dress or equipment prescribed or furnished by the

authorities of the United States, and had supplied themselves with an

outfit utterly ununiform, unpicturesque, undeniably slouchy, but not

less undeniably appropriate and serviceable. Not a forage-cap was to be

seen, not a "campaign-hat" of the style then prescribed by a board of

officers that might have known something of hats, but never could have

had an idea on the subject of campaigns. Fancy that black enormity of

weighty felt, with flapping brim well-nigh a foot in width, absorbing

the fiery heat of an Arizona sun, and concentrating the burning rays

upon the cranium of its unhappy wearer! No such head-gear would our

troopers suffer in the days when General Crook led them through the

canyons and deserts of that inhospitable Territory. Regardless of

appearances or style himself, seeking only comfort in his dress, the

chief speedily found means to indicate that, in Apache-campaigning at

least, it was to be a case of "_inter arma silent leges_" in dead

earnest; for, freely translated, the old saw read, "No red-tape when

Indian-fighting."

Of much of this Lieutenant Billings was only partially informed, and so,

as has been said, he was aghast when he marked the utter absence of

uniform and the decidedly variegated appearance of his troop. Deerskin,

buckskin, canvas, and flannels, leggings, moccasins, and the like,

constituted the bill of dress, and old soft felt hats, originally white,

the head-gear. If spurs were worn at all, they were of the Mexican

variety, easy to kick off, but sure to stay on when wanted. Only two men

wore carbine sling-belts, and Mr. Billings was almost ready to hunt up

his captain and inquire if by any possibility the men could be

attempting to "put up a joke on him," when the captain himself appeared,

looking little if any more like the ideal soldier than his men, and the

perfectly satisfied expression on his face as he rode easily around,

examining closely the horses of the command, paying especial attention

to their feet and the shoes thereof, convinced the lieutenant that all

was as it was expected to be, if not as it should be, and he swallowed

his surprise and held his peace. Another moment, and Captain Wayne's

troop came filing past in column of twos, looking, if anything, rougher

than his own.

"You follow right after Wayne," said Captain Buxton; and with no further

formality Mr. Billings, in a perfunctory sort of way, wheeled his men to

the right by fours, broke into column of twos, and closed up on the

leading troop.

Buxton was in high glee on this particular morning in June. He had done

very little Indian scouting, had been but moderately successful in what

he had undertaken, and now, as luck would have it, the necessity arose

for sending something more formidable than a mere detachment down into

the Tonto Basin, in search of a powerful band of Apaches who had broken

loose from the reservation and were taking refuge in the foot-hills of

the Black Mesa or among the wilds of the Sierra Ancha. As senior captain

of the two, Buxton became commander of the entire force,--two

well-filled troops of regular cavalry, some thirty Indian allies as

scouts, and a goodly-sized train of pack-mules, with its full complement

of packers, _cargadors_, and blacksmiths. He fully anticipated a lively

fight, possibly a series of them, and a triumphant return to his post,

where hereafter he would be looked up to and quoted as an expert and

authority on Apache-fighting. He knew just where the hostiles lay, and

was going straight to the point to flatten them out forthwith; and so

the little command moved off under admirable auspices and in the best of

spirits.

It was a four-days' hard march to the locality where Captain Buxton

counted on finding his victims; and when on the fourth day, rather tired

and not particularly enthusiastic, the command bivouacked along the

banks of a mountain-torrent, a safe distance from the supposed location

of the Indian stronghold, he sent forward his Apache Mojave allies to

make a stealthy reconnoissance, feeling confident that soon after

nightfall they would return with the intelligence that the enemy were

lazily resting in their "rancheria," all unsuspicious of his approach,

and that at daybreak he would pounce upon and annihilate them.

Soon after nightfall the scouts did return, but their intelligence was

not so gratifying: a small--a _very_ small--band of renegades had been

encamped in that vicinity some weeks before, but not a "hostile" or sign

of a hostile was to be found. Captain Buxton hardly slept that night,

from disappointment and mortification, and when he went the following

day to investigate for himself he found that he had been on a false

scent from the start, and this made him crabbed. A week's hunt through

the mountains resulted in no better luck, and now, having had only

fifteen days' rations at the outset, he was most reluctantly and

savagely marching homeward to report his failure.

But Mr. Billings had enjoyed the entire trip. Sleeping in the open air

without other shelter than their blankets afforded, scouting by day in

single file over miles of mere game-trails, up hill and down dale

through the wildest and most dolefully-picturesque scenery he "at least"

had ever beheld, under frowning cliffs and beetling crags, through dense

forests of pine and juniper, through mountain-torrents swollen with the

melting snows of the crests so far above them, through canyons, deep,

dark, and gloomy, searching ever for traces of the foe they were ordered

to find and fight forthwith, Mr. Billings and his men, having no

responsibility upon their shoulders, were happy and healthy as possible,

and consequently in small sympathy with their irate leader.

Every afternoon when they halted beside some one of the hundreds of

mountain-brooks that came tumbling down from the gorges of the Black

Mesa, the men were required to look carefully at the horses' backs and

feet, for mountain Arizona is terrible on shoes, equine or human. This

had to be done before the herds were turned out to graze with their

guard around them; and often some of the men would get a wisp of straw

or a suitable wipe of some kind, and thoroughly rub down their steeds.

Strolling about among them, as he always did at this time, our

lieutenant had noticed a slim but trimly-built young Irishman whose care

of and devotion to his horse it did him good to see. No matter how long

the march, how severe the fatigue, that horse was always looked after,

his grazing-ground pre-empted by a deftly-thrown picket-pin and lariat

which secured to him all the real estate that could be surveyed within

the circle of which the pin was the centre and the lariat the

radius-vector.

Between horse and master the closest comradeship seemed to exist; the

trooper had a way of softly singing or talking to his friend as he

rubbed him down, and Mr. Billings was struck with the expression and

taste with which the little soldier--for he was only five feet

five--would render "Molly Bawn" and "Kitty Tyrrell." Except when thus

singing or exchanging confidences with his steed, he was strangely

silent and reserved; he ate his rations among the other men, yet rarely

spoke with them, and he would ride all day through country marvellous

for wild beauty and be the only man in the command who did not allow

himself to give vent to some expression of astonishment or delight.

"What is that man's name?" asked Mr. Billings of the first sergeant one

evening.

"O'Grady, sir," replied the sergeant, with his soldierly salute; and a

little later, as Captain Buxton was fretfully complaining to his

subaltern of the ill fortune that seemed to overshadow his best efforts,

the latter, thinking to cheer him and to divert his attention from his

trouble, referred to the troop:

"Why, captain, I don't think I ever saw a finer set of men than you

have--anywhere. Now, _there's_ a little fellow who strikes me as being a

perfect light-cavalry soldier." And the lieutenant indicated his young

Irishman.

"You don't mean O'Grady?" asked the captain in surprise.

"Yes, sir,--the very one."

"Why, he's the worst man in the troop."

For a moment Mr. Billings knew not what to say. His captain had spoken

with absolute harshness and dislike in his tone of the one soldier of

all others who seemed to be the most quiet, attentive, and alert of the

troop. He had noticed, too, that the sergeants and the men generally, in

speaking to O'Grady, were wont to fall into a kindlier tone than usual,

and, though they sometimes squabbled among themselves over the choice of

patches of grass for their horses, O'Grady's claim was never questioned,

much less "jumped." Respect for his superior's rank would not permit the

lieutenant to argue the matter; but, desiring to know more about the

case, he spoke again:

"I am very sorry to hear it. His care of his horse and his quiet ways

impressed me so favorably."

"Oh, yes, d--n him!" broke in Captain Buxton. "Horses and whiskey are

the only things on earth he cares for. As to quiet ways, there isn't a

worse devil at large than O'Grady with a few drinks in him. When I came

back from two years' recruiting detail he was a sergeant in the troop. I

never knew him before, but I soon found he was addicted to drink, and

after a while had to 'break' him; and one night when he was raising hell

in the quarters, and I ordered him into the dark cell, he turned on me

like a tiger. By Jove! if it hadn't been for some of the men he would

have killed me,--or I him. He was tried by court-martial, but most of

the detail was made up of infantrymen and staff-officers from Crook's

head-quarters, and, by ----! they didn't seem to think it any sin for a

soldier to threaten to cut his captain's heart out, and Crook himself

gave me a sort of a rap in his remarks on the case, and--well, they just

let O'Grady off scot-free between them, gave him some little fine, and

did more harm than good. He's just as surly and insolent now when I

speak to him as he was that night when drunk. Here, I'll show you." And

with that Captain Buxton started off towards the herd, Mr. Billings

obediently following, but feeling vaguely ill at ease. He had never met

Captain Buxton before, but letters from his comrades had prepared him

for experiences not altogether pleasant. A good soldier in some

respects, Captain Buxton bore the reputation of having an almost

ungovernable temper, of being at times brutally violent in his language

and conduct towards his men, and, worse yet, of bearing ill-concealed

malice, and "nursing his wrath to keep it warm" against such of his

enlisted men as had ever ventured to appeal for justice. The captain

stopped on reaching the outskirts of the quietly-grazing herd.

"Corporal," said he to the non-commissioned officer in charge, "isn't

that O'Grady's horse off there to the left?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go and tell O'Grady to come here."

The corporal saluted and went off on his errand.

"Now, Mr. Billings," said the captain, "I have repeatedly given orders

that my horses must be side-lined when we are in the hostiles' country.

Just come here to the left." And he walked over towards a handsome,

sturdy little California horse of a bright bay color. "Here, you see, is

O'Grady's horse, and not a side-line: that's his way of obeying orders.

More than that, he is never content to have his horse in among the

others, but must always get away outside, just where he is most apt to

be run off by any Indian sharp and quick enough to dare it. Now, here

comes O'Grady. Watch him, if you want to see him in his true light."

Standing beside his superior, Mr. Billings looked towards the

approaching trooper, who, with a quick, springy step, advanced to within

a few yards of them, then stopped short and, erect and in silence,

raised his hand in salute, and with perfectly respectful demeanor looked

straight at his captain.

In a voice at once harsh and distinctly audible over the entire bivouac,

with frowning brow and angry eyes, Buxton demanded,--

"O'Grady, where are your side-lines?"

"Over with my blankets, sir."

"Over with your blankets, are they? Why in ----, sir, are they not here

on your horse, where they ought to be?" And the captain's voice waxed

harsher and louder, and his manner more threatening.

"I understood the captain's orders to be that they need not go on till

sunset," replied the soldier, calmly and respectfully, "and I don't like

to put them on that sore place, sir, until the last moment."

"Don't like to? No sir, I know d--d well you don't like to obey this or

any other order I ever gave, and wherever you find a loop-hole through

which to crawl, and you think you can sneak off unpunished, by ----,

sir, I suppose you will go on disobeying orders. Shut up, sir! not a

d--d word!" for tears of mortification were starting to O'Grady's eyes,

and with flushing face and trembling lip the soldier stood helplessly

before his troop-commander, and was striving to say a word in further

explanation.

"Go and get your side-lines at once and bring them here; go at once,

sir," shouted the captain; and with a lump in his throat the trooper

saluted, faced about, and walked away.

"He's milder-mannered than usual, d--n him!" said the captain, turning

towards his subaltern, who had stood a silent and pained witness of the

scene. "He knows he is in the wrong and has no excuse; but he'll break

out yet. Come! step out, you O'Grady!" he yelled after the

rapidly-walking soldier. "Double time, sir. I can't wait here all

night." And Mr. Billings noted that silence had fallen on the bivouac so

full of soldier-chaff and laughter but a moment before, and that the men

of both troops were intently watching the scene already so painful to

him.

Obediently O'Grady took up the "dog-trot" required of him, got his

side-lines, and, running back, knelt beside his horse, and with

trembling hands adjusted them, during which performance Captain Buxton

stood over him, and, in a tone that grew more and more that of a bully

as he lashed himself up into a rage, continued his lecture to the man.

The latter finally rose, and, with huge beads of perspiration starting

out on his forehead, faced his captain.

"May I say a word, sir?" he asked.

"You may now; but be d--d careful how you say it," was the reply, with a

sneer that would have stung an abject slave into a longing for revenge,

and that grated on Mr. Billings's nerves in a way that made him clinch

his fists and involuntarily grit his teeth. Could it be that O'Grady

detected it? One quick, wistful, half-appealing glance flashed from the

Irishman's eyes towards the subaltern, and then, with evident effort at

composure, but with a voice that trembled with the pent-up sense of

wrong and injustice, O'Grady spoke:

"Indeed, sir, I had no thought of neglecting orders. I always care for

my horse; but it wasn't sunset when the captain came out----"

"Not sunset!" broke in Buxton, with an outburst of profanity. "Not

sunset! why, it's well-nigh dark now, sir, and every man in the troop

had side-lined his horse half an hour ago. D--n your insolence, sir!

your excuse is worse than your conduct. Mr. Billings, see to it, sir,

that this man walks and leads his horse in rear of the troop all the way

back to the post. I'll see, by ----! whether he can be taught to obey

orders." And with that the captain turned and strode away.

The lieutenant stood for an instant stunned,--simply stunned.

Involuntarily he made a step towards O'Grady; their eyes met; but the

restraint of discipline was upon both. In that brief meeting of their

glances, however, the trooper read a message that was unmistakable.

"Lieutenant----" he said, but stopped abruptly, pointed aloft over the

trees to the eastward with his right hand, dashed it across his eyes,

and then, with hurried salute and a choking sort of gurgle in his

throat, he turned and went back to his comrades.

Mr. Billings gazed after the retreating form until it disappeared among

the trees by the brook-side; then he turned to see what was the meaning

of the soldier's pointing over towards the _mesa_ to the east.

Down in the deep valley in which the little command had halted for the

night the pall of darkness had indeed begun to settle; the bivouac-fires

in the timber threw a lurid glare upon the groups gathering around them

for supper, and towards the west the rugged upheavals of the Mazatzal

range stood like a black barrier against the glorious hues of a bank of

summer cloud. All in the valley spoke of twilight and darkness: the

birds were still, the voices of the men subdued. So far as local

indications were concerned, it _was_--as Captain Buxton had

insisted--almost dark. But square over the gilded tree-tops to the east,

stretching for miles and miles to their right and left, blazed a

vertical wall of rock crested with scrub-oak and pine, every boulder,

every tree, glittering in the radiant light of the invisibly setting

sun. O'Grady had _not_ disobeyed his orders.

Noting this, Mr. Billings proceeded to take a leisurely stroll through

the peaceful herd, carefully inspecting each horse as he passed. As a

result of his scrutiny, he found that, while most of the horses were

already encumbered with their annoying hobble, in "A" Troop alone there

were at least a dozen still unfettered, notably the mounts of the

non-commissioned officers and the older soldiers. Like O'Grady, they did

not wish to inflict the side-line upon their steeds until the last

moment. Unlike O'Grady, they had not been called to account for it.

When Mr. Billings was summoned to supper, and he rejoined his

brother-officers, it was remarked that he was more taciturn than usual.

After that repast had been appreciatively disposed of, and the little

group with lighted pipes prepared to spend an hour in chat and

contentment, it was observed that Mr. Billings did not take part in the

general talk, but that he soon rose, and, out of ear-shot of the

officers' camp-fire, paced restlessly up and down, with his head bent

forward, evidently plunged in thought.

By and by the half-dozen broke up and sought their blankets. Captain

Buxton, somewhat mollified by a good supper, was about rolling into his

"Navajo," when Mr. Billings stepped up:

"Captain, may I ask for information as to the side-line order? After you

left this evening, I found that there must be some misunderstanding

about it."

"How so?" said Buxton, shortly.

"In this, captain;" and Mr. Billings spoke very calmly and distinctly.

"The first sergeant, several other non-commissioned officers and

men,--more than a dozen, I should say,--did not side-line their horses

until half an hour after you spoke to O'Grady, and the first sergeant

assured me, when I called him to account for it, that your orders were

that it should be done at sunset."

"Well, by ----! it was after sunset--at least it was getting mighty

dark--when I sent for that black-guard O'Grady," said Buxton,

impetuously, "and there is no excuse for the rest of them."

"It was beginning to grow dark down in this deep valley, I know, sir;

but the tree-tops were in a broad glare of sunlight while we were at the

herd, and those cliffs for half an hour longer."

"Well, Mr. Billings, I don't propose to have any hair-splitting in the

management of my troop," said the captain, manifestly nettled. "It was

practically sunset to us when the light began to grow dim, and my men

know it well enough." And with that he rolled over and turned his back

to his subaltern.

Disregarding the broad hint to leave, Mr. Billings again spoke:

"Is it your wish, sir, that any punishment should be imposed on the men

who were equally in fault with O'Grady?"

Buxton muttered something unintelligible from under his blankets.

"I did not understand you, sir," said the lieutenant, very civilly.

Buxton savagely propped himself up on one elbow, and blurted out,--

"No, Mr. Billings! no! When I want a man punished I'll give the order

myself, sir."

"And is it still your wish, sir, that I make O'Grady walk the rest of

the way?"

For a moment Buxton hesitated; his better nature struggled to assert

itself and induce him to undo the injustice of his order; but the "cad"

in his disposition, the weakness of his character, prevailed. It would

never do to let his lieutenant get the upper hand of him, he argued, and

so the reply came, and came angrily.

"Yes, of course; he deserves it anyhow, by ----! and it'll do him good."

Without another word Mr. Billings turned on his heel and left him.

The command returned to garrison, shaved its stubbly beard of two weeks'

growth, and resumed its uniform and the routine duties of the post.

Three days only had it been back when Mr. Billings, marching on as

officer of the day, and receiving the prisoners from his predecessor,

was startled to hear the list of names wound up with "O'Grady," and when

that name was called there was no response.

The old officer of the day looked up inquiringly: "Where is O'Grady,

sergeant?"

"In the cell, sir, unable to come out."

"O'Grady was confined by Captain Buxton's order late last night," said

Captain Wayne, "and I fancy the poor fellow has been drinking heavily

this time."

A few minutes after, the reliefs being told off, the prisoners sent out

to work, and the officers of the day, new and old, having made their

reports to the commanding officer, Mr. Billings returned to the

guard-house, and, directing his sergeant to accompany him, proceeded to

make a deliberate inspection of the premises. The guard-room itself was

neat, clean, and dry; the garrison prison-room was well ventilated, and

tidy as such rooms ever can be made; the Indian prison-room, despite the

fact that it was empty and every shutter was thrown wide open to the

breeze, had that indefinable, suffocating odor which continued

aboriginal occupancy will give to any apartment; but it was the cells

Mr. Billings desired to see, and the sergeant led him to a row of

heavily-barred doors of rough unplaned timber, with a little grating in

each, and from one of these gratings there peered forth a pair of

feverishly-glittering eyes, and a face, not bloated and flushed, as with

recent and heavy potations, but white, haggard, twitching, and a husky

voice in piteous appeal addressed the sergeant:

"Oh, for God's sake, Billy, get me something, or it'll kill me!"

"Hush, O'Grady," said the sergeant: "here's the officer of the day."

Mr. Billings took one look at the wan face only dimly visible in that

prison-light, for the poor little man shrank back as he recognized the

form of his lieutenant:

"Open that door, sergeant."

With alacrity the order was obeyed, and the heavy door swung back upon

its hinges.

"O'Grady," said the officer of the day, in a tone gentle as that he

would have employed in speaking to a woman, "come out here to me. I'm

afraid you are sick."

Shaking, trembling, twitching in every limb, with wild, dilated eyes and

almost palsied step, O'Grady came out.

"Look to him a moment, sergeant," said Mr. Billings, and, bending low,

he stepped into the cell. The atmosphere was stifling, and in another

instant he backed out into the hall-way. "Sergeant, was it by the

commanding officer's order that O'Grady was put in there?"

"No, sir; Captain Buxton's."

"See that he is not returned there during my tour, unless the orders

come from Major Stannard. Bring O'Grady into the prison-room."

Here in the purer air and brighter light he looked carefully over the

poor fellow, as the latter stood before him quivering from head to foot

and hiding his face in his shaking hands. Then the lieutenant took him

gently by the arm and led him to a bunk:

"O'Grady, man, lie down here. I'm going to get something that will help

you. Tell me one thing: how long had you been drinking before you were

confined?"

"About forty-eight hours, sir, off and on."

"How long since you ate anything?"

"I don't know, sir; not for two days, I think."

"Well, try and lie still. I'm coming back to you in a very few minutes."

And with that Mr. Billings strode from the room, leaving O'Grady, dazed,

wonder-stricken, gazing stupidly after him.

The lieutenant went straight to his quarters, took a goodly-sized goblet

from the painted pine sideboard, and with practised hand proceeded to

mix therein a beverage in which granulated sugar, Angostura bitters, and

a few drops of lime-juice entered as minor ingredients, and the coldest

of spring-water and a brimming measure of whiskey as constituents of

greater quality and quantity. Filling with this mixture a small

leather-covered flask, and stowing it away within the breast-pocket of

his blouse, he returned to the guard-house, musing as he went, "'If this

be treason,' said Patrick Henry, 'make the most of it.' If this be

conduct prejudicial, etc., say I, do your d--dest. That man would be in

the horrors of jim-jams in half an hour more if it were not for this."

And so saying to himself, he entered the prison-room, called to the

sergeant to bring him some cold water, and then approached O'Grady, who

rose unsteadily and strove to stand attention, but the effort was too

much, and again he covered his face with his arms, and threw himself in

utter misery at the foot of the bunk.

Mr. Billings drew the flask from his pocket, and, touching O'Grady's

shoulder, caused him to raise his head:

"Drink this, my lad. I would not give it to you at another time, but you

need it now."

Eagerly it was seized, eagerly drained, and then, after he had swallowed

a long draught of the water, O'Grady slowly rose to his feet, looking,

with eyes rapidly softening and losing their wild glare, upon the young

officer who stood before him. Once or twice he passed his hands across

his forehead, as though to sweep away the cobwebs that pressed upon his

brain, but for a moment he did not essay a word. Little by little the

color crept back to his cheek; and, noting this, Mr. Billings smiled

very quietly, and said, "Now, O'Grady, lie down; you will be able to

sleep now until the men come in at noon; then you shall have another

drink, and you'll be able to eat what I send you. If you cannot sleep,

call the sergeant of the guard; or if you want anything, I'll come to

you."

Then, with tears starting to his eyes, the soldier found words: "I thank

the lieutenant. If I live a thousand years, sir, this will never be

forgotten,--never, sir! I'd have gone crazy without your help, sir."

Mr. Billings held out his hand, and, taking that of his prisoner, gave

it a cordial grip: "That's all right, O'Grady. Try to sleep now, and

we'll pull you through. Good-by, for the present." And, with a heart

lighter, somehow, than it had been of late, the lieutenant left.

At noon that day, when the prisoners came in from labor and the

officer's of the day inspected their general condition before permitting

them to go to their dinner, the sergeant of the guard informed him that

O'Grady had slept quietly almost all the morning, but was then awake and

feeling very much better, though still weak and nervous.

"Do you think he can walk over to my quarters?" asked Mr. Billings.

"He will try it, sir, or anything the lieutenant wants him to try."

"Then send him over in about ten minutes."

Home once more, Mr. Billings started a tiny blaze in his oil-stove, and

soon had a kettle of water boiling merrily. Sharp to time a member of

the guard tapped at the door, and, on being bidden "Come in," entered,

ushering in O'Grady; but meantime, by the aid of a little pot of

meat-juice and some cayenne pepper, a glass of hot soup or beef-tea had

been prepared, and, with some dainty slices of potted chicken and the

accompaniments of a cup of fragrant tea and some ship-biscuit, was in

readiness on a little table in the back room.

Telling the sentinel to remain in the shade on the piazza, the

lieutenant proceeded first to make O'Grady sit down in a big wicker

arm-chair, for the man in his broken condition was well-nigh exhausted

by his walk across the glaring parade in the heat of an Arizona noonday

sun. Then he mixed and administered the counterpart of the beverage he

had given his prisoner-patient in the morning, only in point of potency

it was an evident falling off, but sufficient for the purpose, and in a

few minutes O'Grady was able to swallow his breakfast with evident

relish, meekly and unhesitatingly obeying every suggestion of his

superior.

His breakfast finished, O'Grady was then conducted into a cool, darkened

apartment, a back room in the lieutenant's quarters.

"Now, pull off your boots and outer clothing, man, spread yourself on

that bed, and go to sleep, if you can. If you can't, and you want to

read, there are books and papers on that shelf; pin up the blanket on

the window, and you'll have light enough. You shall not be disturbed,

and I know you won't attempt to leave."

"Indeed, sir, I won't," began O'Grady, eagerly; but the lieutenant had

vanished, closing the door after him, and a minute later the soldier had

thrown himself upon the cool, white bed, and was crying like a tired

child.

Three or four weeks after this incident, to the small regret of his

troop and the politely-veiled indifference of the commissioned element

of the garrison, Captain Buxton concluded to avail himself of a

long-deferred "leave," and turned over his company property to Mr.

Billings in a condition that rendered it necessary for him to do a thing

that "ground" him, so to speak: he had to ask several favors of his

lieutenant, between whom and himself there had been no cordiality since

the episode of the bivouac, and an open rupture since Mr. Billings's

somewhat eventful tour as officer of the day, which has just been

described.

It appeared that O'Grady had been absent from no duty (there were no

drills in that scorching June weather), but that, yielding to the advice

of his comrades, who knew that he had eaten nothing for two days and was

drinking steadily into a condition that would speedily bring punishment

upon him, he had asked permission to be sent to the hospital, where,

while he could get no liquor, there would be no danger attendant upon

his sudden stop of all stimulant. The first sergeant carried his request

with the sick-book to Captain Buxton, O'Grady meantime managing to take

two or three more pulls at the bottle, and Buxton, instead of sending

him to the hospital, sent for him, inspected him, and did what he had no

earthly authority to do, directed the sergeant of the guard to confine

him at once in the dark cell.

"It will be no punishment as he is now," said Buxton to himself, "but it

will be hell when he wakes."

And so it had been; and far worse it probably would have been but for

Mr. Billings's merciful interference.

Expecting to find his victim in a condition bordering upon the abject

and ready to beg for mercy at any sacrifice of pluck or pride, Buxton

had gone to the guard-house soon after retreat and told the sergeant

that he desired to see O'Grady, if the man was fit to come out.

What was his surprise when the soldier stepped forth in his trimmest

undress uniform, erect and steady, and stood unflinchingly before

him!--a day's rest and quiet, a warm bath, wholesome and palatable food,

careful nursing, and the kind treatment he had received having brought

him round with a sudden turn that he himself could hardly understand.

"How is this?" thundered Buxton. "I ordered you kept in the dark cell."

"The officer of the day ordered him released, sir," said the sergeant of

the guard.

And Buxton, choking with rage, stormed into the mess-room, where the

younger officers were at dinner, and, regardless of the time, place, or

surroundings, opened at once upon his subaltern:

"Mr. Billings, by whose authority did you release O'Grady from the dark

cell?"

Mr. Billings calmly applied his napkin to his moustache, and then as

calmly replied, "By my own, Captain Buxton."

"By ----! sir, you exceeded your authority."

"Not at all, captain; on the contrary, you exceeded yours."

At this Buxton flew into a rage that seemed to deprive him of all

control over his language. Oaths and imprecations poured from his lips;

he raved at Billings, despite the efforts of the officers to quiet him,

despite the adjutant's threat to report his language at once to the

commanding officer.

Mr. Billings paid no attention whatever to his accusations, but went on

eating his dinner with an appearance of serenity that only added fuel to

his captain's fire. Two or three officers rose and left the table in

disgust, and just how far the thing might have gone cannot be accurately

told, for in less than three minutes there came a quick, bounding step

on the piazza, the clank and rattle of a sabre, and the adjutant fairly

sprang back into the room:

"Captain Buxton, you will go at once to your quarters in close arrest,

by order of Major Stannard."

Buxton knew his colonel and that little fire-eater of an adjutant too

well to hesitate an instant. Muttering imprecations on everybody, he

went.

The next morning, O'Grady was released and returned to duty. Two days

later, after a long and private interview with his commanding officer,

Captain Buxton appeared with him at the officers' mess at dinner-time,

made a formal and complete apology to Lieutenant Billings for his

offensive language, and to the mess generally for his misconduct; and so

the affair blew over; and, soon after, Buxton left, and Mr. Billings

became commander of Troop "A."

And now, whatever might have been his reputation as to sobriety before,

Private O'Grady became a marked man for every soldierly virtue. Week

after week he was to be seen every fourth or fifth day, when his guard

tour came, reporting to the commanding officer for duty as "orderly,"

the nattiest, trimmest soldier on the detail.

"I always said," remarked Captain Wayne, "that Buxton alone was

responsible for that man's downfall; and this proves it. O'Grady has all

the instincts of a gentleman about him, and now that he has a gentleman

over him he is himself again."

One night, after retreat-parade, there was cheering and jubilee in the

quarters of Troop "A." Corporal Quinn had been discharged by expiration

of term of service, and Private O'Grady was decorated with his chevrons.

When October came, the company muster-roll showed that he had won back

his old grade; and the garrison knew no better soldier, no more

intelligent, temperate, trustworthy non-commissioned officer, than

Sergeant O'Grady. In some way or other the story of the treatment

resorted to by his amateur medical officer had leaked out. Whether

faulty in theory or not, it was crowned with the verdict of success in

practice; and, with the strong sense of humor which pervades all

organizations wherein the Celt is represented as a component part, Mr.

Billings had been lovingly dubbed "Doctor" by his men, and there was one

of their number who would have gone through fire and water for him.

One night some herdsmen from up the valley galloped wildly into the

post. The Apaches had swooped down, run off their cattle, killed one of

the cowboys, and scared off the rest. At daybreak the next morning

Lieutenant Billings, with Troop "A" and about a dozen Indian scouts, was

on the trail, with orders to pursue, recapture the cattle, and punish

the marauders.

To his disgust, Mr. Billings found that his allies were not of the

tribes who had served with him in previous expeditions. All the trusty

Apache Mojaves and Hualpais were off with other commands in distant

parts of the Territory. He had to take just what the agent could give

him at the reservation,--some Apache Yumas, who were total strangers to

him. Within forty-eight hours four had deserted and gone back; the

others proved worthless as trailers, doubtless intentionally, and had it

not been for the keen eye of Sergeant O'Grady it would have been

impossible to keep up the pursuit by night; but keep it up they did, and

just at sunset, one sharp autumn evening, away up in the mountains, the

advance caught sight of the cattle grazing along the shores of a placid

little lake, and, in less time than it takes to write it, Mr. Billings

and his command tore down upon the quarry, and, leaving a few men to

"round up" the herd, were soon engaged in a lively running fight with

the fleeing Apaches which lasted until dark, when the trumpet sounded

the recall, and, with horses somewhat blown, but no casualties of

importance, the command reassembled and marched back to the

grazing-ground by the lake. Here a hearty supper was served out, the

horses were rested, then given a good "feed" of barley, and at ten

o'clock Mr. Billings with his second lieutenant and some twenty men

pushed ahead in the direction taken by the Indians, leaving the rest of

the men under experienced non-commissioned officers to drive the cattle

back to the valley.

That night the conduct of the Apache Yuma scouts was incomprehensible.

Nothing would induce them to go ahead or out on the flanks; they cowered

about the rear of column, yet declared that the enemy could not be

hereabouts. At two in the morning Mr. Billings found himself well

through a pass in the mountains, high peaks rising to his right and

left, and a broad valley in front. Here he gave the order to unsaddle

and camp for the night.

At daybreak all were again on the alert: the search for the trail was

resumed. Again the Indians refused to go out without the troops; but the

men themselves found the tracks of Tonto moccasins along the bed of a

little stream purling through the canyon, and presently indications that

they had made the ascent of the mountain to the south. Leaving a guard

with his horses and pack-mules, the lieutenant ordered up his men, and

soon the little command was silently picking its way through rock and

boulder, scrub-oak and tangled juniper and pine. Rougher and steeper

grew the ascent; more and more the Indians cowered, huddling together in

rear of the soldiers. Twice Mr. Billings signalled a halt, and, with his

sergeants, fairly drove the scouts up to the front and ordered them to

hunt for signs. In vain they protested, "No sign,--no Tonto here," their

very looks belied them, and the young commander ordered the search to be

continued. In their eagerness the men soon leaped ahead of the wretched

allies, and the latter fell back in the same huddled group as before.

After half an hour of this sort of work, the party came suddenly upon a

point whence it was possible to see much of the face of the mountain

they were scaling. Cautioning his men to keep within the concealment

afforded by the thick timber, Mr. Billings and his comrade-lieutenant

crept forward and made a brief reconnoissance. It was evident at a

glance that the farther they went the steeper grew the ascent and the

more tangled the low shrubbery, for it was little better, until, near

the summit, trees and underbrush, and herbage of every description,

seemed to cease entirely, and a vertical cliff of jagged rocks stood

sentinel at the crest, and stretched east and west the entire length of

the face of the mountain.

"By Jove, Billings! if they are on top of that it will be a nasty place

to rout them out of," observed the junior.

"I'm going to find out where they are, anyhow," replied the other. "Now

those infernal Yumas have _got_ to scout, whether they want to or not.

You stay here with the men, ready to come the instant I send or signal."

In vain the junior officer protested against being left behind; he was

directed to send a small party to see if there were an easier way up the

hill-side farther to the west, but to keep the main body there in

readiness to move whichever way they might be required. Then, with

Sergeant O'Grady and the reluctant Indians, Mr. Billings pushed up to

the left front, and was soon out of sight of his command. For fifteen

minutes he drove his scouts, dispersed in skirmish order, ahead of him,

but incessantly they sneaked behind rocks and trees out of his sight;

twice he caught them trying to drop back, and at last, losing all

patience, he sprang forward, saying, "Then _come_ on, you whelps, if you

cannot lead," and he and the sergeant hurried ahead. Then the Yumas

huddled together again and slowly followed.

Fifteen minutes more, and Mr. Billings found himself standing on the

edge of a broad shelf of the mountain,--a shelf covered with huge

boulders of rock tumbled there by storm and tempest, riven by

lightning-stroke or the slow disintegration of nature from the bare,

glaring, precipitous ledge he had marked from below. East and west it

seemed to stretch, forbidding and inaccessible. Turning to the sergeant,

Mr. Billings directed him to make his way off to the right and see if

there were any possibility of finding a path to the summit; then looking

back down the side, and marking his Indians cowering under the trees

some fifty yards away, he signalled "come up," and was about moving

farther to his left to explore the shelf, when something went whizzing

past his head, and, embedding itself in a stunted oak behind him, shook

and quivered with the shock,--a Tonto arrow. Only an instant did he see

it, photographed as by electricity upon the retina, when with a sharp

stinging pang and whirring "whist" and thud a second arrow, better

aimed, tore through the flesh and muscles just at the outer corner of

his left eye, and glanced away down the hill. With one spring he gained

the edge of the shelf, and shouted to the scouts to come on. Even as he

did so, bang! bang! went the reports of two rifles among the rocks, and,

as with one accord, the Apache Yumas turned tail and rushed back down

the hill, leaving him alone in the midst of hidden foes. Stung by the

arrow, bleeding, but not seriously hurt, he crouched behind a rock, with

carbine at ready, eagerly looking for the first sign of an enemy. The

whiz of another arrow from the left drew his eyes thither, and quick as

a flash his weapon leaped to his shoulder, the rocks rang with its

report, and one of the two swarthy forms he saw among the boulders

tumbled over out of sight; but even as he threw back his piece to

reload, a rattling volley greeted him, the carbine dropped to the

ground, a strange, numbed sensation had seized his shoulder, and his

right arm, shattered by a rifle-bullet, hung dangling by the flesh,

while the blood gushed forth in a torrent.

Defenceless, he sprang back to the edge; there was nothing for it now

but to run until he could meet his men. Well he knew they would be

tearing up the mountain to the rescue. Could he hold out till then?

Behind him with shout and yells came the Apaches, arrow and bullet

whistling over his head; before him lay the steep descent,--jagged

rocks, thick, tangled bushes: it was a desperate chance; but he tried

it, leaping from rock to rock, holding his helpless arm in his left

hand; then his foot slipped: he plunged heavily forward; quickly the

nerves threw out their signal for support to the muscles of the

shattered member, but its work was done, its usefulness destroyed.

Missing its support, he plunged heavily forward, and went crashing down

among the rocks eight or ten feet below, cutting a jagged gash in his

forehead, while the blood rained down into his eyes and blinded him; but

he struggled up and on a few yards more; then another fall, and,

well-nigh senseless, utterly exhausted, he lay groping for his

revolver,--it had fallen from its case. Then--all was over.

Not yet; not yet. His ear catches the sound of a voice he knows well,--a

rich, ringing, Hibernian voice it is: "Lieutenant, _lieutenant_!

_Where_ are ye?" and he has strength enough to call, "This way,

sergeant, this way," and in another moment O'Grady, with blended anguish

and gratitude in his face, is bending over him. "Oh, thank God you're not

kilt, sir!" (for when excited O'Grady _would_ relapse into the brogue);

"but are ye much hurt?"

"Badly, sergeant, since I can't fight another round."

"Then put your arm round my neck, sir," and in a second the little

Patlander has him on his brawny back. But with only one arm by which to

steady himself, the other hanging loose, the torture is inexpressible,

for O'Grady is now bounding down the hill, leaping like a goat from rock

to rock, while the Apaches with savage yells come tearing after them.

Twice, pausing, O'Grady lays his lieutenant down in the shelter of some

large boulder, and, facing about, sends shot after shot up the hill,

checking the pursuit and driving the cowardly footpads to cover. Once he

gives vent to a genuine Kilkenny "hurroo" as a tall Apache drops his

rifle and plunges head foremost among the rocks with his hands

convulsively clasped to his breast. Then the sergeant once more picks up

his wounded comrade, despite pleas, orders, or imprecations, and rushes

on.

"I cannot stand it, O'Grady. Go and save yourself. You _must_ do it. I

_order_ you to do it." Every instant the shots and arrows whiz closer,

but the sergeant never winces, and at last, panting, breathless, having

carried his chief full three hundred yards down the rugged slope, he

gives out entirely, but with a gasp of delight points down among the

trees:

"Here come the boys, sir."

Another moment, and the soldiers are rushing up the rocks beside them,

their carbines ringing like merry music through the frosty air, and the

Apaches are scattering in every direction.

"Old man, are you much hurt?" is the whispered inquiry his

brother-officer can barely gasp for want of breath, and, reassured by

the faint grin on Mr. Billings's face, and a barely audible "Arm

busted,--that's all; pitch in and use them up," he pushes on with his

men.

In ten minutes the affair is ended. The Indians have been swept away

like chaff; the field and the wounded they have abandoned are in the

hands of the troopers; the young commander's life is saved; and then,

and for long after, the hero of the day is Buxton's _bete noire_, "the

worst man in the troop."

VAN.

He was the evolution of a military horse-trade,--one of those periodical

swappings required of his dragoons by Uncle Sam on those rare occasions

when a regiment that has been dry-rotting half a decade in Arizona is at

last relieved by one from the Plains. How it happened that we of the

Fifth should have kept him from the clutches of those sharp

horse-fanciers of the Sixth is more than I know. Regimental tradition

had it that we got him from the Third Cavalry when it came our turn to

go into exile in 1871. He was the victim of some temporary malady at the

time,--one of those multitudinous ills to which horse-flesh is heir,--or

he never would have come to us. It was simply impossible that anybody

who knew anything about horses should trade off such a promising young

racer so long as there remained an unpledged pay-account in the

officers' mess. Possibly the arid climate of Arizona had disagreed with

him and he had gone amiss, as would the mechanism of some of the best

watches in the regiment, unable to stand the strain of anything so hot

and high and dry. Possibly the Third was so overjoyed at getting out of

Arizona on any terms that they would gladly have left their eye-teeth in

pawn. Whatever may have been the cause, the transfer was an accomplished

fact, and Van was one of some seven hundred quadrupeds, of greater or

less value, which became the property of the Fifth Regiment of Cavalry,

U.S.A., in lawful exchange for a like number of chargers left in the

stables along the recently-built Union Pacific to await the coming of

their new riders from the distant West.

We had never met in those days, Van and I. "Compadres" and chums as we

were destined to become, we were utterly unknown and indifferent to each

other; but in point of regimental reputation at the time, Van had

decidedly the best of it. He was a celebrity at head-quarters, I a

subaltern at an isolated post. He had apparently become acclimated, and

was rapidly winning respect for himself and dollars for his backers; I

was winning neither for anybody, and doubtless losing both,--they go

together, somehow. Van was living on metaphorical clover down near

Tucson; I was roughing it out on the rocks of the Mogollon. Each after

his own fashion served out his time in the grim old Territory, and at

last "came marching home again;" and early in the summer of the

Centennial year, and just in the midst of the great Sioux war of 1876,

Van and I made each other's acquaintance.

What I liked about him was the air of thoroughbred ease with which he

adapted himself to his surroundings. He was in swell society on the

occasion of our first meeting, being bestridden by the colonel of the

regiment. He was dressed and caparisoned in the height of martial

fashion; his clear eyes, glistening coat, and joyous bearing spoke of

the perfection of health; his every glance and movement told of elastic

vigor and dauntless spirit. He was a horse with a pedigree,--let alone

any self-made reputation,--and he knew it; more than that, he knew that

I was charmed at the first greeting; probably he liked it, possibly he

liked me. What he saw in me I never discovered. Van, though

demonstrative eventually, was reticent and little given to verbal

flattery. It was long indeed before any degree of intimacy was

established between us: perhaps it might never have come but for the

strange and eventful campaign on which we were so speedily launched.

Probably we might have continued on our original status of dignified and

distant acquaintance. As a member of the colonel's household he could

have nothing in common with me or mine, and his acknowledgment of the

introduction of my own charger--the cavalryman's better half--was of

that airy yet perfunctory politeness which is of the club clubby.

Forager, my gray, had sought acquaintance in his impulsive frontier

fashion when summoned to the presence of the regimental commander, and,

ranging alongside to permit the shake of the hand with which the colonel

had honored his rider, he himself had with equine confidence addressed

Van, and Van had simply continued his dreamy stare over the springy

prairie and taken no earthly notice of him. Forager and I had just

joined regimental head-quarters for the first time, as was evident, and

we were both "fresh." It was not until the colonel good-naturedly

stroked the glossy brown neck of his pet and said, "Van, old boy, this

is Forager, of 'K' Troop," that Van considered it the proper thing to

admit my fellow to the outer edge of his circle of acquaintance. My gray

thought him a supercilious snob, no doubt, and hated him. He hated him

more before the day was half over, for the colonel decided to gallop

down the valley to look at some new horses that had just come, and

invited me to go. Colonels' invitations are commands, and we went,

Forager and I, though it was weariness and vexation of spirit to both.

Van and his rider flew easily along, bounding over the springy

turf with long, elastic stride, horse and rider taking the rapid

motion as an every-day matter, in a cool, imperturbable,

this-is-the-way-we-always-do-it style; while my poor old troop-horse, in

answer to pressing knee and pricking spur, strove with panting breath

and jealously bursting heart to keep alongside. The foam flew from his

fevered jaws and flecked the smooth flank of his apparently unconscious

rival; and when at last we returned to camp, while Van, without a turned

hair or an abnormal heave, coolly nodded off to his stable, poor

Forager, blown, sweating, and utterly used up, gazed revengefully after

him an instant and then reproachfully at me. He had done his best, and

all to no purpose. That confounded clean-cut, supercilious beast had

worn him out and never tried a spurt.

It was then that I began to make inquiries about that airy fellow Van,

and I soon found he had a history. Like other histories, it may have

been a mere codification of lies; but the men of the Fifth were ready to

answer for its authenticity, and Van fully looked the character they

gave him. He was now in his prime. He had passed the age of tell-tale

teeth and was going on between eight and nine, said the knowing ones,

but he looked younger and felt younger. He was at heart as full of fun

and frolic as any colt, but the responsibilities of his position

weighed upon him at times and lent to his elastic step the grave dignity

that should mark the movements of the first horse of the regiment.

And then Van was a born aristocrat. He was not impressive in point of

size; he was rather small, in fact; but there was that in his bearing

and demeanor that attracted instant attention. He was beautifully

built,--lithe, sinewy, muscular, with powerful shoulders and solid

haunches; his legs were what Oscar Wilde might have called poems, and

with better reason than when he applied the epithet to those of Henry

Irving: they were straight, slender, and destitute of those heterodox

developments at the joints that render equine legs as hideous

deformities as knee-sprung trousers of the present mode. His feet and

pasterns were shapely and dainty as those of the _senoritas_ (only for

pastern read ankle) who so admired him on _festa_ days at Tucson, and

who won such stores of _dulces_ from the scowling gallants who had with

genuine Mexican pluck backed the Sonora horses at the races. His color

was a deep, dark chocolate-brown; a most unusual tint, but Van was proud

of its oddity, and his long, lean head, his pretty little pointed ears,

his bright, flashing eye and sensitive nostril, one and all spoke of

spirit and intelligence. A glance at that horse would tell the veriest

greenhorn that speed, bottom, and pluck were all to be found right

there; and he had not been in the regiment a month before the knowing

ones were hanging about the Mexican sports and looking out for a chance

for a match; and Mexicans, like Indians, are consummate horse-racers.

Not with the "greasers" alone had tact and diplomacy to be brought into

play. Van, though invoiced as a troop-horse sick, had attracted the

attention of the colonel from the very start, and the colonel had

speedily caused him to be transferred to his own stable, where,

carefully tended, fed, groomed, and regularly exercised, he speedily

gave evidence of the good there was in him. The colonel rarely rode in

those days, and cavalry-duties in garrison were few. The regiment was in

the mountains most of the time, hunting Apaches, but Van had to be

exercised every day; and exercised he was. "Jeff," the colonel's

orderly, would lead him sedately forth from his paddock every morning

about nine, and ride demurely off towards the quartermaster's stables in

rear of the garrison. Keen eyes used to note that Van had a way of

sidling along at such times as though his heels were too impatient to

keep at their appropriate distance behind the head, and "Jeff's" hand on

the bit was very firm, light as it was.

"Bet you what you like those 'L' Company fellows are getting Van in

training for a race," said the quartermaster to the adjutant one bright

morning, and the chuckle with which the latter received the remark was

an indication that the news was no news to him.

"If old Coach don't find it out too soon, some of these swaggering

_caballeros_ around here are going to lose their last winnings," was his

answer. And, true to their cavalry instincts, neither of the

staff-officers saw fit to follow Van and his rider beyond the gate to

the _corrals_.

Once there, however, Jeff would bound off quick as a cat, Van would be

speedily taken in charge by a squad of old dragoon sergeants, his

cavalry bridle and saddle exchanged for a light racing-rig, and Master

Mickey Lanigan, son and heir of the regimental saddle-sergeant, would be

hoisted into his throne, and then Van would be led off, all plunging

impatience now, to an improvised race-track across the _arroyo_, where

he would run against his previous record, and where old horses from the

troop-stables would be spurred into occasional spurts with the champion,

while all the time vigilant "non-coms" would be thrown out as pickets

far and near, to warn off prying Mexican eyes and give notice of the

coming of officers. The colonel was always busy in his office at that

hour, and interruptions never came. But the race did, and more than one

race, too, occurring on Sundays, as Mexican races will, and well-nigh

wrecking the hopes of the garrison on one occasion because of the

colonel's sudden freak of holding a long mounted inspection on that day.

Had he ridden Van for two hours under his heavy weight and housings that

morning, all would have been lost. There was terror at Tucson when the

cavalry trumpets blew the call for mounted inspection, full dress, that

placid Sunday morning, and the sporting sergeants were well-nigh crazed.

Not an instant was to be lost. Jeff rushed to the stable, and in five

minutes had Van's near fore foot enveloped in a huge poultice, much to

Van's amaze and disgust, and when the colonel came down,

Booted and spurred and prepared for a ride,

there stood Jeff in martial solemnity, holding the colonel's other

horse, and looking, as did the horse, the picture of dejection.

"What'd you bring me that infernal old hearse-horse for?" said the

colonel. "Where's Van?"

"In the stable, dead lame, general," said Jeff, with face of woe, but

with diplomatic use of the brevet. "Can't put his nigh fore foot to the

ground, sir. I've got it poulticed, sir, and he'll be all right in a day

or two----"

"Sure it ain't a nail?" broke in the colonel, to whom nails in the foot

were sources of perennial dread.

"Perfectly sure, general," gasped Jeff. "D--d sure!" he added, in a tone

of infinite relief, as the colonel rode out on the broad parade.

"'Twould 'a' been nails in the coffins of half the Fifth Cavalry if it

_had_ been."

But that afternoon, while the colonel was taking his siesta, half the

populace of the good old Spanish town of Tucson was making the air blue

with _carambas_ when Van came galloping under the string an easy winner

over half a score of Mexican steeds. The "dark horse" became a

notoriety, and for once in its history head-quarters of the Fifth

Cavalry felt the forthcoming visit of the paymaster to be an object of

indifference.

Van won other races in Arizona. No more betting could be got against him

around Tucson; but the colonel went off on leave, and he was borrowed

down at Camp Bowie awhile, and then transferred to Crittenden,--only

temporarily, of course, for no one at head-quarters would part with him

for good. Then, when the regiment made its homeward march across the

continent in 1875, Van somehow turned up at the _festa_ races at

Albuquerque and Santa Fe, though the latter was off the line of march by

many miles. Then he distinguished himself at Pueblo by winning a

handicap sweepstakes where the odds were heavy against him. And so it

was that when I met Van at Fort Hays in May, 1876, he was a celebrity.

Even then they were talking of getting him down to Dodge City to run

against some horses on the Arkansaw; but other and graver matters turned

up. Van had run his last race.

Early that spring, or rather late in the winter, a powerful expedition

had been sent to the north of Fort Fetterman in search of the hostile

bands led by that dare-devil Sioux chieftain Crazy Horse. On "Patrick's

Day in the morning," with the thermometer indicating 30 deg. below, and

in the face of a biting wind from the north and a blazing glare from the

sheen of the untrodden snow, the cavalry came in sight of the Indian

encampment down in the valley of Powder River. The fight came off then

and there, and, all things considered, Crazy Horse got the best of it.

He and his people drew away farther north to join other roving bands.

The troops fell back to Fetterman to get a fresh start; and when spring

fairly opened, old "Gray Fox," as the Indians called General Crook,

marched a strong command up to the Big Horn Mountains, determined to

have it out with Crazy Horse and settle the question of supremacy before

the end of the season. Then all the unoccupied Indians in the North

decided to take a hand. All or most of them were bound by treaty

obligations to keep the peace with the government that for years past

had fed, clothed, and protected them. Nine-tenths of those who rushed to

the rescue of Crazy Horse and his people had not the faintest excuse

for their breach of faith; but it requires neither eloquence nor excuse

to persuade the average Indian to take the war-path. The reservations

were beset by vehement old strifemongers preaching a crusade against the

whites, and by early June there must have been five thousand eager young

warriors, under such leaders as Crazy Horse, Gall, Little Big Man, and

all manner of Wolves, Bears, and Bulls, and prominent among

the later that head-devil, scheming, lying, wire-pulling,

big-talker-but-no-fighter, Sitting Bull,--"Tatanka-e-Yotanka",--five

thousand fierce and eager Indians, young and old, swarming through the

glorious upland between the Big Horn and the Yellowstone, and more

a-coming.

Crook had reached the head-waters of Tongue River with perhaps twelve

hundred cavalry and infantry, and found that something must be done to

shut off the rush of reinforcements from the southeast. Then it was that

we of the Fifth, far away in Kansas, were hurried by rail through Denver

to Cheyenne, marched thence to the Black Hills to cut the trails from

the great reservations of Red Cloud and Spotted Tail to the disputed

ground of the Northwest; and here we had our own little personal tussle

with the Cheyennes, and induced them to postpone their further progress

towards Sitting Bull and to lead us back to the reservation. It was

here, too, we heard how Crazy Horse had pounced on Crook's columns on

the bluffs of the Rosebud that sultry morning of the 17th of June and

showed the Gray Fox that he and his people were too weak in numbers to

cope with them. It was here, too, worse luck, we got the tidings of the

dread disaster of the Sunday one week later, and listened in awed

silence to the story of Custer's mad attack on ten times his weight in

foes--and the natural result. Then came our orders to hasten to the

support of Crook, and so it happened that July found us marching for the

storied range of the Big Horn, and the first week in August landed us,

blistered and burned with sun-glare and stifling alkali-dust, in the

welcoming camp of Crook.

Then followed the memorable campaign of 1876. I do not mean to tell its

story here. We set out with ten days' rations on a chase that lasted ten

weeks. We roamed some eighteen hundred miles over range and prairie,

over "bad lands" and worse waters. We wore out some Indians, a good many

soldiers, and a great many horses. We sometimes caught the Indians, and

sometimes they caught us. It was hot, dry summer weather when we left

our wagons, tents, and extra clothing; it was sharp and freezing before

we saw them again; and meantime, without a rag of canvas or any covering

to our backs except what summer-clothing we had when we started, we had

tramped through the valleys of the Rosebud, Tongue, and Powder Rivers,

had loosened the teeth of some men with scurvy before we struck the

Yellowstone, had weeded out the wounded and ineffective there and sent

them to the East by river, had taken a fresh start and gone rapidly on

in pursuit of the scattering bands, had forded the Little Missouri near

where the Northern Pacific now spans the stream, run out of rations

entirely at the head of Heart River, and still stuck to the trail and

the chase, headed southward over rolling, treeless prairies, and for

eleven days and nights of pelting, pitiless rain dragged our way

through the bad-lands, meeting and fighting the Sioux two lively days

among the rocks of Slim Buttes, subsisting meantime partly on what game

we could pick up, but mainly upon our poor, famished, worn-out,

staggering horses. It is hard truth for cavalryman to tell, but the

choice lay between them and our boots and most of us had no boots left

by the time we sighted the Black Hills. Once there, we found provisions

and plenty; but never, I venture to say, never was civilized army in

such a plight as was the command of General George Crook when his

brigade of regulars halted on the north bank of the Belle Fourche in

September, 1876. Officers and men were ragged, haggard, half starved,

worn down to mere skin and bone; and the horses,--ah, well, only half of

them were left: hundreds had dropped starved and exhausted on the line

of march, and dozens had been killed and eaten. We had set out blithe

and merry, riding jauntily down the wild valley of the Tongue. We

straggled in towards the Hills, towing our tottering horses behind us:

they had long since grown too weak to carry a rider.

Then came a leisurely saunter through the Hills. Crook bought up all the

provisions to be had in Deadwood and other little mining towns, turned

over the command to General Merritt, and hastened to the forts to

organize a new force, leaving to his successor instructions to come in

slowly, giving horses and men time to build up. Men began "building up"

fast enough; we did nothing but eat, sleep, and hunt grass for our

horses for whole weeks at a time; but our horses,--ah, that was

different. There was no grain to be had for them. They had been starving

for a month, for the Indians had burned the grass before us wherever we

went, and here in the pine-covered hills what grass could be found was

scant and wiry,--not the rich, juicy, strength-giving bunch grass of the

open country. Of my two horses, neither was in condition to do military

duty when we got to Whitewood. I was adjutant of the regiment, and had

to be bustling around a good deal; and so it happened that one day the

colonel said to me, "Well, here's Van. He can't carry my weight any

longer. Suppose you take him and see if he won't pick up." And that

beautiful October day found the racer of the regiment, though the ghost

of his former self, transferred to my keeping.

All through the campaign we had been getting better acquainted, Van and

I. The colonel seldom rode him, but had him led along with the

head-quarters party in the endeavor to save his strength. A big,

raw-boned colt, whom he had named "Chunka Witko," in honor of the Sioux

"Crazy Horse," the hero of the summer, had the honor of transporting the

colonel over most of those weary miles, and Van spent the long days on

the muddy trail in wondering when and where the next race was to come

off, and whether at this rate he would be fit for a finish. One day on

the Yellowstone I had come suddenly upon a quartermaster who had a peck

of oats on his boat. Oats were worth their weight in greenbacks, but so

was plug tobacco. He gave me half a peck for all the tobacco in my

saddle-bags, and, filling my old campaign hat with the precious grain, I

sat me down on a big log by the flowing Yellowstone and told poor old

"Donnybrook" to pitch in. "Donnybrook" was a "spare horse" when we

started on the campaign, and had been handed over to me after the fight

on the War Bonnet, where Merritt turned their own tactics on the

Cheyennes. He was sparer still by this time; and later, when we got to

the muddy banks of the "Heecha Wapka," there was nothing to spare of

him. The head-quarters party had dined on him the previous day, and only

groaned when that Mark Tapley of a surgeon remarked that if this was

Donnybrook Fare it was tougher than all the stories ever told of it.

Poor old Donnybrook! He had recked not of the coming woe that blissful

hour by the side of the rippling Yellowstone. His head was deep in my

lap, his muzzle buried in oats; he took no thought for the morrow,--he

would eat, drink, and be merry, and ask no questions as to what was to

happen; and so absorbed were we in our occupation--he in his happiness,

I in the contemplation thereof--that neither of us noticed the rapid

approach of a third party until a whinny of astonishment sounded close

beside us, and Van, trailing his lariat and picket-pin after him, came

trotting up, took in the situation at a glance, and, unhesitatingly

ranging alongside his comrade of coarser mould and thrusting his velvet

muzzle into my lap, looked wistfully into my face with his great soft

brown eyes and pleaded for his share. Another minute, and, despite the

churlish snappings and threatening heels of Donnybrook, Van was supplied

with a portion as big as little Benjamin's, and, stretching myself

beside him on the sandy shore, I lay and watched his enjoyment. From

that hour he seemed to take me into his confidence, and his was a

friendship worth having. Time and again on the march to the Little

Missouri and southward to the Hills he indulged me with some slight but

unmistakable proof that he held me in esteem and grateful remembrance.

It may have been only a bid for more oats, but he kept it up long after

he knew there was not an oat in Dakota,--that part of it, at least. But

Van was awfully pulled down by the time we reached the pine-barrens up

near Deadwood. The scanty supply of forage there obtained (at starvation

price) would not begin to give each surviving horse in the three

regiments a mouthful. And so by short stages we plodded along through

the picturesque beauty of the wild Black Hills, and halted at last in

the deep valley of French Creek. Here there was grass for the horses and

rest for the men.

For a week now Van had been my undivided property, and was the object of

tender solicitude on the part of my German orderly, "Preuss," and

myself. The colonel had chosen for his house the foot of a big pine-tree

up a little ravine, and I was billeted alongside a fallen ditto a few

yards away. Down the ravine, in a little clump of trees, the

head-quarters stables were established, and here were gathered at

nightfall the chargers of the colonel and his staff. Custer City, an

almost deserted village, lay but a few miles off to the west, and

thither I had gone the moment I could get leave, and my mission was

oats. Three stores were still open, and, now that the troops had come

swarming down, were doing a thriving business. Whiskey, tobacco, bottled

beer, canned lobster, canned anything, could be had in profusion, but

not a grain of oats, barley, or corn. I went over to a miner's

wagon-train and offered ten dollars for a sack of oats. The boss

teamster said he would not sell oats for a cent apiece if he had them,

and so sent me back down the valley sore at heart, for I knew Van's

eyes, those great soft brown eyes, would be pleading the moment I came

in sight; and I knew more,--that somewhere the colonel had "made a

raise," that he _had_ one sack, for Preuss had seen it, and Chunka Witko

had had a peck of oats the night before and another that very morning.

Sure enough, Van was waiting, and the moment he saw me coming up the

ravine he quit his munching at the scanty herbage, and, with ears erect

and eager eyes, came quickly towards me, whinnying welcome and inquiry

at the same instant. Sugar and hard-tack, delicacies he often fancied in

prosperous times, he took from my hand even now; he was too truly a

gentleman at heart to refuse them when he saw they were all I had to

give; but he could not understand why the big colt should have his oats

and he, Van, the racer and the hero of two months ago, should starve,

and I could not explain it.

That night Preuss came up and stood attention before my fire, where I

sat jotting down some memoranda in a note-book:

"Lieutenant, I kent shtaendt ut no longer yet. Dot scheneral's horse he

git oats ag'in diesen abent, unt Ven, he git noddings, unt he look, unt

look. He ot dot golt unt den ot me look, unt I _couldn't_ shtaendt ut,

lieutenant----"

And Preuss stopped short and winked hard and drew his ragged

shirt-sleeve across his eyes.

Neither could I "shtaendt ut." I jumped up and went to the colonel and

begged a hatful of his precious oats, not for my sake, but for Van's.

"Self-preservation is the first law of nature," and your own horse

before that of all the world is the cavalryman's creed. It was a heap to

ask, but Van's claim prevailed, and down the dark ravine "in the

gloaming" Preuss and I hastened with eager steps and two hats full of

oats; and that rascal Van heard us laugh, and answered with impatient

neigh. He knew we had not come empty-handed this time.

Next morning, when every sprig and leaf was glistening in the brilliant

sunshine with its frosty dew, Preuss led Van away up the ravine to

picket him on a little patch of grass he had discovered the day before

and as he passed the colonel's fire a keen-eyed old veteran of the

cavalry service, who had stopped to have a chat with our chief, dropped

the stick on which he was whittling and stared hard at our attenuated

racer.

"Whose horse is that, orderly?" he asked.

"De _etschudant's_, colonel," said Preuss, in his labored dialect.

"The adjutant's! Where did he get him? Why, that horse is a runner!"

said "Black Bill," appreciatively.

And pretty soon Preuss came back to me, chuckling. He had not smiled for

six weeks.

"Ven--he veels pully dis morning," he explained. "Dot Colonel Royle he

shpeak mit him unt pet him, unt Ven, he laeff unt gick up mit his hint

lecks. He git vell bretty gwick yet."

Two days afterwards we broke up our bivouac on French Creek, for every

blade of grass was eaten off, and pushed over the hills to its near

neighbor, Amphibious Creek, an eccentric stream whose habit of diving

into the bowels of the earth at unexpected turns and disappearing from

sight entirely, only to come up surging and boiling some miles farther

down the valley, had suggested its singular name. "It was half land,

half water," explained the topographer of the first expedition that had

located and named the streams in these jealously-guarded haunts of the

red men. Over on Amphibious Creek we were joined by a motley gang of

recruits just enlisted in the distant cities of the East and sent out to

help us fight Indians. One out of ten might know how to load a gun, but

as frontier soldiers not one in fifty was worth having. But they brought

with them capital horses, strong, fat, grain-fed, and these we

campaigners levied on at once. Merritt led the old soldiers and the new

horses down into the valley of the Cheyenne on a chase after some

scattering Indian bands, while "Black Bill" was left to hammer the

recruits into shape and teach them how to care for invalid horses. Two

handsome young sorrels had come to me as my share of the plunder, and

with these for alternate mounts I rode the Cheyenne raid, leaving Van to

the fostering care of the gallant old cavalryman who had been so struck

with his points the week previous.

One week more, and the reunited forces of the expedition, Van and all,

trotted in to "round up" the semi-belligerent warriors at the Red Cloud

agency on White River, and, as the war-ponies and rifles of the scowling

braves were distributed among the loyal scouts, and dethroned

Machpealota (old Red Cloud) turned over the government of the great

Sioux nation, Ogallallas and all, to his more reliable rival,

Sintegaliska,--Spotted Tail,--Van surveyed the ceremony of abdication

from between my legs, and had the honor of receiving an especial pat and

an admiring "_Washtay_" from the new chieftain and lord of the loyal

Sioux. His highness Spotted Tail was pleased to say that he wouldn't

mind swapping four of his ponies for Van, and made some further remarks

which my limited knowledge of the Brule Dakota tongue did not enable me

to appreciate as they deserved. The fact that the venerable chieftain

had hinted that he might be induced to throw in a spare squaw "to boot"

was therefore lost, and Van was saved. Early November found us, after an

all-summer march of some three thousand miles, once more within sight

and sound of civilization. Van and I had taken station at Fort D. A.

Russell, and the bustling prairie city of Cheyenne lay only three miles

away. Here it was that Van became my pet and pride. Here he lived his

life of ease and triumph, and here, gallant fellow, he met his knightly

fate.

Once settled at Russell, all the officers of the regiment who were

blessed with wives and children were speedily occupied in getting their

quarters ready for their reception; and late in November my own little

household arrived and were presented to Van. He was then domesticated in

a rude but comfortable stable in rear of my little army-house, and there

he slept, was groomed and fed, but never confined. He had the run of our

yard, and, after critical inspection of the wood-shed, the coal-hole,

and the kitchen, Van seemed to decide upon the last-named as his

favorite resort. He looked with curious and speculative eyes upon our

darky cook on the arrival of that domestic functionary, and seemed for

once in his life to be a trifle taken aback by the sight of her woolly

pate and Ethiopian complexion. Hannah, however, was duly instructed by

her mistress to treat Van on all occasions with great consideration, and

this to Hannah's darkened intellect meant unlimited loaf-sugar. The

adjutant could not fail to note that Van was almost always to be seen

standing at the kitchen door, and on those rare occasions when he

himself was permitted to invade those premises he was never surprised to

find Van's shapely head peering in at the window, or head, neck, and

shoulders bulging in at the wood-shed beyond.

Yet the ex-champion and racer did not live an idle existence. He had his

hours of duty, and keenly relished them. Office-work over at

orderly-call, at high noon it was the adjutant's custom to return to his

quarters and speedily to appear in riding-dress on the front piazza. At

about the same moment Van, duly caparisoned, would be led forth from his

paddock, and in another moment he and his rider would be flying off

across the breezy level of the prairie. Cheyenne, as has been said, lay

just three miles away, and thither Van would speed with long, elastic

strides, as though glorying in his powers. It was at once his exercise

and his enjoyment, and to his rider it was the best hour of the day. He

rode alone, for no horse at Russell could keep alongside. He rode at

full speed, for in all the twenty-four that hour from twelve to one was

the only one he could call his own for recreation and for healthful

exercise. He rode to Cheyenne that he might be present at the event of

the day,--the arrival of the trans-continental train from the East. He

sometimes rode beyond, that he might meet the train when it was belated

and race it back to town; and this--_this_ was Van's glory. The rolling

prairie lay open and free on each side of the iron track, and Van soon

learned to take his post upon a little mound whence the coming of the

"express" could be marked, and, as it flared into sight from the

darkness of the distant snow-shed, Van, all a-tremble with excitement,

would begin to leap and plunge and tug at the bit and beg for the word

to go. Another moment, and, carefully held until just as the puffing

engine came well alongside, Van would leap like arrow from the string,

and away we would speed, skimming along the springy turf. Sometimes the

engineer would curb his iron horse and hold him back against the

"down-grade" impetus of the heavy Pullmans far in rear; sometimes he

would open his throttle and give her full head, and the long train would

seem to leap into space, whirling clouds of dust from under the whirling

wheels, and then Van would almost tear his heart out to keep alongside.

Month after month through the sharp mountain winter, so long as the snow

was not whirling through the air in clouds too dense to penetrate, Van

and his master had their joyous gallops. Then came the spring, slow,

shy, and reluctant as the springtide sets in on that high plateau in

mid-continent, and Van had become even more thoroughly domesticated. He

now looked upon himself as one of the family, and he knew the

dining-room window, and there, thrice each day and sometimes at odd

hours between, he would take his station while the household was at

table and plead with those great soft brown eyes for sugar.

Commissary-bills ran high that winter, and cut loaf-sugar was an item of

untold expenditure. He had found a new ally and friend,--a little girl

with eyes as deep and dark as and browner than his own, a winsome little

maid of three, whose golden, sunshiny hair floated about her bonny head

and sweet serious face like a halo of light from another world. Van

"took to her" from the very first. He courted the caress of her little

hand, and won her love and trust by the discretion of his movements when

she was near. As soon as the days grew warm enough, she was always out

on the front piazza when Van and I came home from our daily gallop, and

then she would trot out to meet us and be lifted to her perch on the

pommel; and then, with mincing gait, like lady's palfrey, stepping as

though he might tread on eggs and yet not crush them, Van would take the

little one on her own share of the ride. And so it was that the loyal

friendship grew and strengthened. The one trick he had was never

ventured upon when she was on his back, even after she became accustomed

to riding at rapid gait and enjoying the springy canter over the prairie

before Van went back to his stable. It was a strange trick: it proved a

fatal one.

No other horse I ever rode had one just like it. Running at full speed,

his hoofs fairly flashing through the air and never seeming to touch the

ground, he would suddenly, as it were, "change step" and gallop

"disunited," as we cavalrymen would say. At first I thought it must be

that he struck some rolling stone, but soon I found that when bounding

over the soft turf it was just the same; and the men who knew him in

the days of his prime in Arizona had noted it there. Of course there was

nothing to do for it but make him change back as quick as possible on

the run, for Van was deaf to remonstrance and proof against the rebuke

of spur. Perhaps he could not control the fault; at all events he did

not, and the effect was not pleasant. The rider felt a sudden jar, as

though the horse had come down stiff-legged from a hurdle-leap; and

sometimes it would be so sharp as to shake loose the forage-cap upon his

rider's head. He sometimes did it when going at easy lope, but never

when his little girl-friend was on his back; then he went on springs of

air.

One bright May morning all the different "troops," as the

cavalry-companies are termed, were out at drill on the broad prairie.

The colonel was away, the officer of the day was out drilling his own

company, the adjutant was seated in his office hard at work over

regimental papers, when in came the sergeant of the guard, breathless

and excited.

"Lieutenant," he cried, "six general prisoners have escaped from the

guard-house. They have got away down the creek towards town."

In hurried question and answer the facts were speedily brought out. Six

hard customers, awaiting sentence after trial for larceny, burglary,

assault with intent to kill, and finally desertion, had been cooped up

together in an inner room of the ramshackle old wooden building that

served for a prison, had sawed their way through to open air, and,

timing their essay by the sound of the trumpets that told them the whole

garrison would be out at morning drill, had slipped through the gap at

the right moment, slid down the hill into the creek-bottom, and then

scurried off townward. A sentinel down near the stables had caught sight

of them, but they were out of view long before his shouts had summoned

the corporal of the guard.

No time was to be lost. They were malefactors and vagabonds of the worst

character. Two of their number had escaped before and had made it their

boast that they could break away from the Russell guard at any time.

Directing the sergeant to return to his guard, and hurriedly scribbling

a note to the officer of the day, who had his whole troop with him in

the saddle out on the prairie, and sending it by the hand of the

sergeant-major, the adjutant hurried to his own quarters and called for

Van. The news had reached there already. News of any kind travels like

wildfire in a garrison, and Van was saddled and bridled before the

adjutant reached the gate.

"Bring me my revolver and belt,--quick," he said to the servant, as he

swung into saddle. The man darted into the house and came back with the

belt and holster.

"I was cleaning your 'Colt,' sir," he said, "but here's the Smith &

Wesson," handing up the burnished nickel-plated weapon then in use

experimentally on the frontier. Looking only to see that fresh

cartridges were in each chamber and that the hammer was on the

safety-notch, the adjutant thrust it into the holster, and in an instant

he and Van flew through the east gate in rapid pursuit.

Oh, how gloriously Van ran that day! Out on the prairie the gay guidons

of the troops were fluttering in the brilliant sunshine; here, there,

everywhere, the skirmish-lines and reserves were dotting the plain; the

air was ringing with the merry trumpet-calls and the stirring words of

command. Yet men forgot their drill and reined up on the line to watch

Van as he flashed by, wondering, too, what could take the adjutant off

at such an hour and at such a pace.

"What's the row?" shouted the commanding officer of one company.

"Prisoners loose," was the answer shouted back, but only indistinctly

heard. On went Van like one inspired, and as we cleared the drill-ground

and got well out on the open plain in long sweeping curve, we changed

our course, aiming more to the right, so as to strike the valley west of

the town. It was possible to get there first and head them off. Then

suddenly I became aware of something jolting up and down behind me. My

hand went back in search: there was no time to look: the prairie just

here was cut up with little gopher-holes and criss-crossed by tiny

canals from the main _acequia_, or irrigating ditch. It was that

wretched Smith & Wesson bobbing up and down in the holster. The Colt

revolver of the day was a trifle longer, and my man in changing pistols

had not thought to change holsters. This one, made for the Colt, was too

long and loose by half an inch, and the pistol was pounding up and down

with every stride. Just ahead of us came the flash of the sparkling

water in one of the little ditches. Van cleared it in his stride with no

effort whatever. Then, just beyond,--oh, fatal trick!--seemingly when in

mid-air he changed step, striking the ground with a sudden shock that

jarred us both and flung the downward-pointed pistol up against the

closely-buttoned holster-flap. There was a sharp report, and my heart

stood still an instant. I knew--oh, well I knew it was the death-note of

my gallant pet. On he went, never swaying, never swerving, never

slackening his racing speed; but, turning in the saddle and glancing

back, I saw, just back of the cantle, just to the right of the spine in

the glossy brown back, that one tiny, grimy, powder-stained hole. I knew

the deadly bullet had ranged downward through his very vitals. I knew

that Van had run his last race, was even now rushing towards a goal he

would never reach. Fast as he might fly, he could not leave Death

behind.

The chase was over. Looking back, I could see the troopers already

hastening in pursuit, but we were out of the race. Gently, firmly I drew

the rein. Both hands were needed, for Van had never stopped here, and

some strange power urged him on now. Full three hundred yards he ran

before he would consent to halt. Then I sprang from the saddle and ran

to his head. His eyes met mine. Soft and brown, and larger than ever,

they gazed imploringly. Pain and bewilderment, strange, wistful

pleading, but all the old love and trust, were there as I threw my arms

about his neck and bowed his head upon my breast. I could not bear to

meet his eyes. I could not look into them and read there the deadly pain

and faintness that were rapidly robbing them of their lustre, but that

could not shake their faith in his friend and master. No wonder mine

grew sightless as his own through swimming tears. I who had killed him

could not face his last conscious gaze.

One moment more, and, swaying, tottering first from side to side, poor

Van fell with heavy thud upon the turf. Kneeling, I took his head in my

arms and strove to call back one sign of recognition; but all that was

gone. Van's spirit was ebbing away in some fierce, wild dream: his

glazing eyes were fixed on vacancy; his breath came in quick, convulsive

gasps; great tremors shook his frame, growing every instant more

violent. Suddenly a fiery light shot into his dying eyes. The old high

mettle leaped to vivid life, and then, as though the flag had dropped,

the starting-drum had tapped, Van's fleeting spirit whirled into his

dying race. Lying on his side, his hoofs flew through the air, his

powerful limbs worked back and forth swifter than ever in their swiftest

gallop, his eyes were aflame, his nostrils wide distended, his chest

heaving, and his magnificent machinery running like lightning. Only for

a minute, though,--only for one short, painful minute. It was only a

half-mile dash,--poor old fellow!--only a hopeless struggle against a

rival that never knew defeat. Suddenly all ceased as suddenly as all

began. One stiffening quiver, one long sigh, and my pet and pride was

gone. Old friends were near him even then. "I was with him when he won

his first race at Tucson," said old Sergeant Donnelly, who had ridden to

our aid, "and I knowed then he would die racing."

THE END.

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.

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 are listed below.

Page 107: "would he hurried to their support" changed to "would be

hurried to their support".

Page 160: "See knew how her father trusted" changed to "She knew how her

father trusted".

Page 197: "The car-seems whirling" changed to "The car seems whirling".

Page 227: "jagged rocks stook" changed to "jagged rocks stood".