X.

Before the sounding of tattoo that night, the stage came in from

Cheyenne. It had been warned by fleeing ranchmen of the presence of the

Sioux at Eagle's Nest, and had turned back to the strong defences at

"Phillips's," on the Chug, remaining there in security until the driver

had satisfied himself that the coast was clear. No passengers came down

with him, but he brought the mail; and, as none had been received for

two days, and the wires were still down, the major commanding turned

out and tramped to the combined stage-station and post-office the

moment he was notified of the arrival. Here, while the letters and

papers were being distributed, he was accommodated with a chair in Mrs.

Griffin's little parlor, and his own personal mail was handed in to him

as rapidly as the swift fingers of the postmistress could sort the

various missives. Outside, the stage-driver was surrounded by a little

crowd of soldiers, scouts, and teamsters, and held forth with frontier

descriptive power on the adventures of the night previous. He could

"swar" the Sioux had burned a "Black Hills outfit" not far below

Eagle's Nest, for he had come far enough this side of the Chug to see

the glare in the skies, and had passed the charred remnants just before

sundown this very evening. He had heard along the road that there were

anywhere from two to five hundred Indians on the raid; and Miller,

listening to the eager talk and comparing the estimate of the

ranch-people with the experiences of his own campaigning, readily made

up his mind that there were probably four or five score of young

warriors in the party,--too many, with their magazine rifles,

revolvers, and abundant ammunition, for Terry to successfully "tackle"

with his little detachment. The major rejoiced that the captain was

sensible enough to discontinue the pursuit at the Niobrara crossing.

Beyond that there were numerous ridges, winding ravines, even a shallow

canyon or two,--the very places for ambuscade; and it would be an easy

matter for a small party of the Sioux to drop back and give the

pursuers a bloody welcome. No! Terry had done admirably so long as

there was a chance of square fighting, and his subsequent moves,

barring the one dash down-stream after a "fooling party" while the main

body slipped across the ford, had been dictated by sound judgment. He

deplored the crippled and depleted condition of his little command,

however. Here was Blunt, one of his best cavalry officers, seriously

wounded and in high fever; here was McLean, another admirable young

soldier, he knew not how seriously wounded; and, with old Bruce laid up

with rheumatism, he had not a company officer for duty at the post. The

adjutant and quartermaster, the doctor and his own energetic self were

the only ones he could count on for the next twenty-four hours, as

belonging to the garrison proper. The infantry battalion that had

camped down on the flats so short a time before was already beyond his

jurisdiction, in march toward Fetterman up the Platte. It was with

great relief, therefore, he read that six troops of the --th Cavalry

had reached Cheyenne, and were under orders to march to Laramie as soon

as supplied with ammunition and equipments for sharp field-service.

Presently he heard the suave tones of Dr. Bayard accosting Mrs. Griffin

with anxious inquiries for his letters, and courteous apologies for

intruding upon her during "business hours," but he had been without

letters or papers so long now, had just heard of the arrival of the

stage, Mr. Holmes was visiting him, and would she kindly put any mail

there might be for Mr. Holmes in his box? Mrs. Griffin was quite as

susceptible to courteous and high-bred and flattering manners as any of

her sex, and to her thinking no man in all the army compared with the

post surgeon in elegance of deportment. At his bidding she would

willingly have left the distribution of the mail to almost any hands

and come forth from behind the glass partition to indulge in a chat

with him. She would gladly have invited him to step into the little

parlor, but the major was already there poring over his letters, and

she could not neglect her official duties in the august presence of the

post commander. But Mrs. Griffin was all smiles as she handed out the

doctor's partially-completed packet, and then, in a low tone, informed

him that Major Miller was in the little parlor behind the office, if he

saw fit to wait there, and Dr. Bayard, who could not abide being

jostled by his fellow-men or even being seen among what he considered

the common herd, eagerly availed himself of her offer. Miller looked up

and greeted him with a pleasant nod, and immediately read to him the

news of the coming of the cavalry battalion from Cheyenne, then bade

him pull up a chair and read his letters by the bright "astral" burning

on the centre-table. Outside in the hall and corridor in front of the

dusty glass partition the crowd had rapidly increased. Not one in a

dozen in the gathering had the faintest expectation of getting a

letter, but there was no harm in asking and much mental solace,

apparently, in cultivating the appearance of a man of the world or a

woman of society who was in the daily habit of receiving and responding

to a dozen. And so teamsters, laundresses, scouts, "Indian-bound" Black

Hillers, and one or two sauntering soldiers were swarming about the

porch and hall-way, and jamming in a compact mass in front of the

little window whereat the postmistress behind her vitreous barrier was

still at work. It was a good-natured, chaffing, laughing crowd, but

still one very independent and self-satisfied, after the manner of the

frontier, where every man in a mixed gathering is as good as his

neighbor, and every woman is as good as she chooses to hold herself. It

had made a passage for the commanding officer and afterward for the

post surgeon, but that was before it had attained its present

proportions. Now when Mr. Roswell Holmes paused at the outskirts with

Corporal Zook by his side, some of the loungers looked around with

their hands in their pockets; some of the cowboys who had earned their

dollars on his ranch nodded cheerily at sight of their employer; but

this was the United States post-office, these were sovereign citizens,

and every man or woman of them, except the half-dozen enlisted men

whose mail was always taken to barracks, had just as much right there

as the capitalist from Chicago,--and knew it. So did Mr. Holmes. He

returned the greetings as cheerily as they were given; made no attempt

to push through, and probably would have remained contentedly until the

crowd dispersed and let him in, had not the notes of the infantry bugle

sounding first call for tattoo summoned Zook and the other soldiers to

make their way to barracks.

"I'm a thousand times obliged to you, Corporal Zook, for all you've

told me, and I assure you I'm as proud of the lieutenant as you are.

Now, I may not be here when the troop gets back to-morrow,--I may have

to go back to see if all is well at the ranch; but after their ride

they'll all be thirsty, and when I'm very thirsty there's nothing I

like better than a glass of cool lager. There is plenty of it on ice at

the trader's, and,--you do the entertaining for me, will you?" And the

corporal found his palm invaded by a fold of crisp greenbacks.

"If it's for the troop, sir, I can't say no," answered Zook, with

dancing eyes. Pay-day was some weeks off after all, and he knew how

"the fellers" would relish the trader's beer. "Now, if you would like

to sit down, why not go around to the other side and away from this

crowd? There are empty benches at the stage-office. I must run, sir; so

good-night, and many thanks."

The office-window had just been thrown open and the distribution was

just begun. It would be some time before his turn would come. Holmes

knew perfectly well that, only for the fun of the thing, some of those

teamsters and scouts would form a "queue," and, with unimpeachable

gravity, march up to the window and inquire if there was anything for

Red-Handed Bill, or Rip-Roaring Mike, or the Hon. G. Bullwhacker, of

Laramie Plains. He wanted time to think a bit before he returned to the

doctor's house, anyhow. He had drawn from Corporal Zook a detailed

account of McLean's spirited and soldierly conduct in the fight;

learned that it was he who killed the second warrior in what was

practically a hand-to-hand struggle, and that his wounds were painful

and severe, despite his effort to overcome and hide them when the

pursuit began. Hatton's remarks had been echoing time and again through

his memory. It would indeed be comfort to McLean to hear how shocked

and painfully stricken was Nellie Bayard at the news of the fight and

his probable death. If it proved half the comfort to McLean that it was

sorrow to his elderly rival, thought Holmes with a deep sigh, "he'll

soon be well, and 'twill be high time for me to vanish."

Pacing slowly up the road, he turned an angle of the old wooden

building, and found himself alone in a broad, square enclosure. The

stars were shining brightly overhead, but there was no moon and the

darkness in this nook among the storehouses and offices was simply

intense. The only light came through the slats of the shutter at a

side-window back of the post-office. Merely glancing at it as he

passed, Holmes walked on with bowed head and hands clasped behind him,

thinking deeply over the situation. Had he come too late to win that

sweet, youthful, guileless heart, or had he come only just in time to

see it given to another? Had he, in the light of what he had seen and

heard, any right to speak of matters that had gravely distressed him?

Was it his bounden duty to disclose certain suspicions, display certain

proofs? Or was it more than all his, the man's, part to stay and help

to sweep aside the web that was unquestionably weaving about that

brave-faced, clear-eyed, soldierly young subaltern? Despite Bayard's

detractions; despite Mrs. Miller's whispered confession that there was

a thief in their midst; despite the fact that his wallet was stolen

from the overcoat-pocket when no one, to his knowledge, but McLean

himself had been there; despite the discovery on the floor--in front of

his bureau--of a handkerchief embroidered with McLean's initials;

despite the fact that it was known that he had been placed heavily in

debt by the stoppage of his pay,--Mr. Roswell Holmes could not find it

in his heart to believe that the young soldier could be guilty of

theft. He would not believe it of him, even as a rival.

Then there was another thing. Who was the silken-skirted woman he met

in the darkness but an hour or so before,--the woman whom he had

attempted to accost, but who slipped past him like a will-o'-the-wisp--in

silence? How was it that the door to Hatton's hall was closed and

locked, when Hatton told him it was always open? Why was it that the

light in that lower hall was extinguished, and by whom was it done?

Had he not gone thither almost immediately after recovering from the

surprise of his encounter on the veranda, and found the hospital

attendant grumblingly relighting it? The man had heard some queer,

swishing sound, he explained, as he sat by Mr. Blunt's bedside, and

"something that sounded like drawers being opened in the room below."

He stepped out in the hall, he said, just in time to hear the lock of

the front door hastily turned, and somebody go stealthily and quickly

out on the veranda, "swishing" all the way. The ladies had been over

along the upper gallery two or three times, to bring cool drinks to

Mr. Blunt's door and inquire how he was getting on,--Mrs. Post and the

young lady, Miss Forrest, he meant,--but they wouldn't want anything

in Mr. McLean's rooms down-stairs. The man looked curiously up at Mr.

Holmes as he told his tale. Holmes was puzzled too, but bade him keep

quiet. Some one of the servants, perhaps, who wanted a match, he

suggested; but the little soldier shook his head. Servants didn't wear

dresses that "swished" like that.

The crowd was beginning to thin considerably, as Holmes could tell by

the sound of receding voices. He decided that it was about time for him

to move and get his own mail, when he became aware of something dark

and shapeless crouching along close under the post-office end of the

building and slowly and cautiously approaching the window from which

the light was streaming. At first he thought it some big dog scratching

his side along the cleats of the wooden wall, but as he stood silently

observing the dim shadow it was evident that no quadruped was thus

warily creeping toward him. Holmes stood leaning against a storehouse

platform in the deepest shade of an over-hanging roof; the figure was

perhaps twelve or thirteen yards away, and, as it neared the window,

the vague outlines of the mysterious creature became more easily

discernible. Immediately under the beams of light that shot across the

dark enclosure the figure paused; slowly raised itself; a hand went up

to the head and whipped off a cap just as the crown was tinged by the

gleam from within. Holmes distinctly saw the reflection of the light on

the brightly polished brass of the device, but could not make out

whether the device itself was the crossed rifles of the infantry or

sabres of the cavalry. Then the hand was laid upon the sill, the body

slowly unbent, and the head was raised until two beady eyes, under a

low forehead and a crop of thick, dark hair, could peer in between the

slats. One lingering scrutiny of every person and object visible in the

room, then down he crouched, and, almost on all-fours, slipped away to

the corner of the building, Holmes now briskly striding in pursuit.

Half-way back across the court, just as he entered the beam of light,

the latter's foot came down upon the edge of one of those tough and

elastic hoops, such as are sure to be lying about in the yards of

commissary and quartermaster storehouses, and in the twinkling of an

eye it whirled up and struck him with a sharp and audible snap. In an

instant the crouching figure shot to its full height and darted out of

sight around the corner. When Holmes reached the front of the building,

not a man in uniform was visible. Cowboys and a scout or two remained.

The stage-driver was again the centre of attraction, and all were

grouped about him on the low piazza. Holmes called one of the ranchmen

to one side, and asked him if he had seen or heard anything of a

soldier who came suddenly around the corner, but the man shook his

head. Stepping inside the office he met the major and his host, Dr.

Bayard, while a tall, well-formed, colored girl stood in front of the

little wicket, and a number of loungers still hung about the place. The

officers stopped and said they would wait until he got his letters,

and, as he took his place near the window, Mrs. Griffin was just

handing a little packet to the colored girl. The light fell on the

topmost letter, addressed in bold, legible hand to Miss Fanny Forrest;

and Holmes could plainly see the post-mark and device on the upper

corner, showing that it came from the Red Cloud Agency, and old Camp

Robinson. "Halloo!" thought he to himself, "I had forgotten that we

were as good as cut off from them now, and they are sending around by

way of Sidney and Cheyenne." Quickly the girl turned over the letters,

made some laughing remark expressive of disappointment at getting

nothing from her beau; then, facing Mr. Holmes and showing her white

teeth, with a coquettish toss of her head accosted him: "Good-evening,

Mr. Holmes. S'pose you don't know me; I'm Celestine,--Miss Forrest's

girl. Miss Griffin, yere's Mr. Holmes waitin' for his mail. Ain't no

use you lookin' for anything for this trash," she said, contemptuously

indicating the two or three intervening frontier folks. "Han' it to me

an' I'll give it to him."

But just at this moment there was a stir at the door. The loungers who

had never budged an inch for Mr. Holmes drew promptly back, making way

for a tall young lady, who entered, all aglow from a rapid walk, her

dark eyes gleaming, her fine, mobile lips wreathed with pleasant smiles

the instant she caught sight of the doctor, who, cap in hand, advanced

to meet her. It was Miss Forrest herself, and behind her came her

escort, the adjutant.

"I thought I heard Celestine's voice," she said, looking questioningly

around; and Holmes quickly noted that the girl had suddenly slunk back

behind a little group of camp-women. Finding it useless to evade the

searching glance of her young mistress, the girl came forth.

"Yes, Miss Fanny. I got your letters, miss," she said, but the

confident tone was gone. Holmes marked the look in Miss Forrest's

flashing eye as she took the little packet with no gentle hand. He was

near enough, too, to hear the low-spoken but clearly enunciated words:

"And I told you never again to touch my letters. This must be the last

time."