When I got inside a car the morning after that awful, awful night, it was with a feeling that I was leaving behind me all such things and that by evening I would be back once more at our old army home and away from hostile Indians, and hostile desperadoes too. But when I saw that servant girl with the pale, emaciated face and flushed cheeks, so ill she could barely sit up, my heart went down like lead and Indians seemed small trials in comparison to what I saw ahead of me.

Well, she will go in a few days, and then I can give the house some attention. The new furniture and china are all here, but nothing has been done in the way of getting settled. The whole coming back has been cruelly disappointing, and I am so tired and nervous I am afraid of my own shadow. So after a while I think I will go East for a few weeks, which I know you will be glad to hear.

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, August, 1873.

WE have just come in from a drive to the Purgatoire with Colonel Knight behind his handsome horses. It makes me sad, always, to go over that familiar road and to scenes that are so closely associated with my learning to ride and shoot when we were here before. The small tree that was my target is dead but still standing, and on it are several little pieces of the white paper bull's eyes that Faye and Lieutenant Baldwin tacked on it for me.

We often see poor Tom. The post trader bought him after Lieutenant Baldwin's death, so the dear horse would always have good care and not be made to bring and carry for a cruel master. He wanders about as he chooses and is fat, but the coat that was once so silky and glossy is now dull and faded, and the horse looks spiritless and dejected. Poor Tom! The greyhound, Magic, still remembers their many, many hunts together when the horse would try to outrun the dog, and the hound often goes out to make him little visits, and the sight is pathetic. That big dog of the chaplain's is still here, and how the good man can conscientiously have him about, I cannot understand.

Colonel Knight has two large dogs also, but they are shut in the stable most of the time to guard his pair of valuable horses. The horses are not particularly fast or spirited, but they are very beautiful and perfectly matched in color and gait.

Ever since Hal has been old enough to run with a horse, he has always gone with me riding or driving. So the first time we drove with Colonel Knight I called Hal to go with us and he ran out of the house and over the fence with long joyful bounds, to be instantly pounced upon, and rolled over into the acequia by the two big dogs of Colonel Knight's that I had not even heard of! Hal has splendid fighting blood and has never shown cowardice, but he is still a young dog and inexperienced, and no match for even one old fighter, and to have two notoriously savage, bloodthirsty beasts gnawing at him as though he was a bone was terrible. But Hal apparently never thought of running from them, and after the one howl of surprise gave his share of vicious growls and snaps. But the old dogs were protected by their heavy hair, while Hal's short coat and fine skin were easily torn.

We all rushed to his rescue, for it looked as though he would be torn in pieces, and when I saw a long cut in his tender skin I was frantic. But finally the two black dogs were pulled off and Hal was dragged out of the ditch and back to the house, holding back and growling all the time, which showed plainly he was not satisfied with the way the affair had ended. The drive that day I did not enjoy!

Hal was not torn so deeply as to have unsightly scars, for which I was thankful. From that day on, however, he not only hated those dogs, but disliked the man who cares for them, and seemed to consider him responsible for their very existence. And it was wonderful that he should recognize Cressy's step on the ground as he passed at the side of our house. Several times when he would be stretched out on the floor, to all appearances fast asleep, I have seen him open his eyes wide and growl when the man and dogs were passing, although it was perfectly impossible for him to have seen them.

One morning about ten days ago when I was on the second floor, I heard an awful noise downstairs—whines, growls, and howls all so mingled together one would have thought there were a dozen dogs in the house. I ran down to see what could possibly be the matter, and found Hal at a window in the dining room that looked out on the back yard, every hair on his brindled back standing straight up and each white tooth showing. Looking out I saw that Turk, the more savage of the two black dogs, was in the yard and could not get out over the high board fence. Cressy was probably on guard that day, and sentry over the prisoners who had brought water. The dog must have followed him in and then managed to get left.

Hal looked up at me, and for one instant kept perfectly still, waiting to see what I would do. His big brown eyes were almost human in their beseeching, and plainly said, "You cannot have forgotten—you will surely let me out!" And let him out I did. I opened the doors leading to the yard, and almost pushing me over he rushed to the black dog with great leaps and the most blood-curdling growls, jumping straight over him, then around him, then over him again and again, and so like a whirlwind, the poor black beast was soon crazy, for snap as fast as he might, it was ever at the clear, beautiful air. Hal was always just out of reach.

After he had worried the dog all he wanted to Hal proceeded to business. With a greyhound trick, he swung himself around with great force and knocked the big dog flat upon the ground, and holding him down with his two paws he pulled out mouthful after mouthful of long hair, throwing it out of his mouth right and left. If the dog attempted to raise his big head Hal was quick to give a wicked snap that made the head fall down again. When I saw that Hal had actually conquered the dog and had proved that he-was the splendid hound I had ever considered him to be, I told West to go out at once and separate them. But for the very first time West was slow—he went like a snail. It seemed that one of the dogs had snapped at his leg once, and I believe he would have been delighted if Hal had gnawed the dog flesh and bone. He pulled Hal in by his collar and opened the gate for Turk, and soon things were quite once more.

All that day Hal's eyes were like stars, and one could almost see a grin on his mouth. He was ever on the alert, and would frequently look out on the yard, wag his tail and growl. The strangest thing about it all is, that not once since that morning has he paid the slightest attention to Cressy or the two dogs, except to growl a little when they have happened to meet. Turk must have told his companion about the fight, for he, too, finds attractions in another direction when he sees Hal coming.

Some of our friends have found pleasure in teasing me about my sporting taste, private arena, and so on, but I do not mind so very much, since the fight brought about peace, and proved that Hal has plenty of pluck. Those two Knight dogs are looked upon as savage wolves by every mother in the garrison, and when it is known that they are out, mothers and nurses run to gather in their small people.

Hal has developed a taste for hunting that has been giving trouble lately, when he has run off with Magic and the other hounds. So now he is chained until after guard mounting, by which time the pack has gone. The signal officer of the department was here the other day when Faye and men from the company were out signaling, and after luncheon I told West to go out to him on Powder-Face and lead King, so he could ride the horse in, instead of coming in the wagon with the men. Late in the afternoon West came back and reported that he had been unable to find Faye, and then with much hesitation and choking he told me that he had lost Hal!

He said that as they had gone up a little hill, they had surprised a small band of antelope that were grazing rather near on the other side, and that the hound started after them like a streak, pulling one down before they had crossed the lowland, and then, not being satisfied, he had raced on again after the band that had disappeared over a hill farther on. That was the last he saw of him. West said that he wanted to bring the dead antelope to the post, but could not, as both horses objected to it.

My heart was almost broken over the loss of my dog, and I started for my own room to indulge in a good cry when, as I passed the front door that was open, I happened to look out, and there, squatted down on the walk to the gate was Hal! I ran out to pet him, but drew back in horror when I saw the condition he was in. His long nose and all of his white chest were covered with a thick coating of coarse antelope hair plastered in with dried blood. The dog seemed too tired to move, and sat there with a listless, far-away look that made me wish he could tell all about his hunt, and if he had lost the second poor little antelope. West almost danced from joy when he saw him, and lost no time in giving him a bath and putting him in his warm bed. Greyhounds are often great martyrs to rheumatism, and Deacon, one of the pack, will sometimes howl from pain after a hunt. And the howl of a greyhound is far-reaching and something to be remembered.

Very soon now I will be with you! Faye has decided to close the house and live with the bachelors while I am away. This will be much more pleasant for him than staying here all alone.

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, October, 1873.

THE trip out was tiresome and seemed endless, but nothing worth mentioning happened until I got to Granada, where Faye met me with an ambulance and escort wagon. It was after two o'clock in the morning when the train reached the station, and as it is the terminus of the road, every passenger left the car. I waited a minute for Faye to come in, but as he did not I went out also, feeling that something was wrong.

Just as I stepped off the car, Mr. Davis, quartermaster's clerk, appeared and took my satchel, assuring me that Faye was right there waiting for me. This was so very unlike Faye's way of doing things, that at once I suspected that the real truth was not being told. But I went with him quickly through the little crowd, and on up the platform, and then I saw Faye. He was standing at one corner of the building—all alone, and I recognized him instantly by the long light-blue overcoat and big campaign hat with brim turned up.

And I saw also, standing on the corner of the platform in front of him, a soldier with rifle in hand, and on the end of it glistening in the moonlight was a long bayonet! I had lived with troops long enough to know that the bayonet would not be there unless the soldier was a sentry guarding somebody or something. I naturally turned toward Faye, but was held back by Mr. Davis, and that made me indignant, but Faye at once said quietly and in a voice just loud enough for me to hear, "Get in the ambulance and ask no questions!" And still he did not move from the corner. By this time I was terribly frightened and more and more puzzled. Drawn up close to the farther side of the platform was an ambulance, also an escort wagon, in which sat several soldiers, and handing my trunk checks to Mr. Davis, I got, into the ambulance, my teeth chattering as though I had a chill.

The very instant the trunks were loaded Faye and the sentry came, and after ordering the corporal to keep his wagon and escort close to us, and telling me to drop down in the bottom of the ambulance if I heard a shot, Faye got on the ambulance also, but in front with the driver. Leaning forward, I saw that one revolver was in his hand and the other on the seat by his side. In this way, and in perfect silence, we rode through the town and until we were well out on the open plain, when we stopped just long enough for Faye to get inside, and a soldier from the wagon to take his seat by the driver.

Then Faye told me of what had occurred to make necessary all these precautions. He had come over from Fort Lyon the day before, and had been with Major Carroll, the depot quartermaster, during the afternoon and evening. The men had established a little camp just at the edge of the miserable town where the mules could be guarded and cared for.

About nine o'clock Faye and Mr. Davis started out for a walk, but before they had gone far Faye remembered that he had left his pistols and cartridge belt on a desk in the quartermaster's office, and fearing they might be stolen they went back for them. He put the pistols on underneath his heavy overcoat, as the belt was quite too short to fasten outside.

Well, he and Mr. Davis walked along slowly in the bright moonlight past the many saloons and gambling places, never once thinking of danger, when suddenly from a dark passageway a voice said, "You are the man I want," and bang! went a pistol shot close to Faye's head—so close, in fact, that as he ducked his head down, when he saw the pistol pointed at him, the rammer slot struck his temple and cut a deep hole that at once bled profusely. Before Faye could get out one of his own pistols from underneath the long overcoat, another shot was fired, and then away skipped Mr. Davis, leaving Faye standing alone in the brilliant moonlight. As soon as Faye commenced to shoot, his would-be assassin came out from the dark doorway and went slowly along the walk, taking good care, however, to keep himself well in the shadow of the buildings.

They went on down the street shooting back and forth at each other, Faye wondering all the time why he could not hit the man. Once he got him in front of a restaurant window where there was a bright light back of him, and, taking careful aim, he thought the affair could be ended right there, but the ball whizzed past the man and went crashing through the window and along the tables, sending broken china right and left. Finally their pistols were empty, and Faye drew out a second, at the sight of which the man started to run and disappeared in the shadows.

As soon as the shooting ceased men came out from all sorts of places, and there was soon a little crowd around Faye, asking many questions, but he and Major Carroll went to a drug store, where his wounds could be dressed. For some time it was thought there must be a ball in the deep hole in his temple. When Faye had time to think he understood why he had done such poor shooting. He is an almost sure shot, but always holds his pistol in his left hand, and of course aims with his left eye. But that night his left eye was filled with blood the very first thing from the wound in his left temple, which forced him unconsciously to aim with his right eye, which accounts for the wild shots.

The soldiers heard of the affair in camp, and several came up on a run and stood guard at the drug store. A rumor soon got around that Oliver had gone off to gather some of his friends, and they would soon be at the store to finish the work. Very soon, however, a strange man came in, much excited, and said, "Lieutenant! Oliver's pals are getting ready to attack you at the depot as the train comes in," and out he went. The train was due at two o'clock A. M., and this caused Faye four hours of anxiety. He learned that the man who shot at him was "Billy Oliver," a horse thief and desperado of the worst type, and that he was the leader of a band of horse thieves that was then in town. To be threatened by men like those was bad enough in itself, but Faye knew that I would arrive on that train. That was the cause of so much caution when the train came in. There were several rough-looking men at the station, but if they had intended mischief, the long infantry rifles in the hands of drilled soldiers probably persuaded them to attend to their own affairs. A man told the corporal, however, that Oliver's friends had decided not to kill Faye at the station, but had gone out on horseback to meet him on the road. This was certainly misery prolonged.

The mules were driven through the town at an ordinary gait, but when we got on the plain they were put at a run, and for miles we came at that pace. The little black shaved-tails pulled the ambulance, and I think that for once they had enough run. The moonlight was wonderfully bright, and for a long distance objects could be seen, and bunches of sage bush and Spanish bayonet took the forms of horsemen, and naturally I saw danger in every little thing we passed.

One thing occurred that night that deserves mentioning. Some one told the soldiers that Oliver was hidden in a certain house, and one of them, a private, started off without leave, and all alone for that house. When he got there the entire building was dark, not a light in it, except that of the moon which streamed in through two small windows. But the gritty soldier went boldly in and searched every little room and every little corner, even the cellar, but not a living thing was found. It may have been brave, but it was a dreadful thing for the trooper to do, for he so easily could have been murdered in the darkness, and Faye and the soldiers never have known what had become of him. Colonel Bissell declares that the man shall be made a corporal upon the first vacancy.

The man Oliver was in the jail at Las Animas last summer for stealing horses. The old jail was very shaky, and while it was being made more secure, he and another man—a wife murderer—were brought to the guardhouse at this post. They finally took them back, and Oliver promptly made his escape, and the sheriff had actually been afraid to re-arrest him. We have all begged Faye to get out a warrant for the man, but he says it would simply be a farce, that the sheriff would pay no attention to it. The whole left side of Faye's face is badly swollen and very painful, and the wound in his ankle compels him to use a cane. Just how the man managed to shoot Faye in the ankle no one seems to understand.

Granada must be a terrible place! The very afternoon Faye was there a Mexican was murdered in the main street, but not the slightest attention was paid to the shooting—everything went right on as though it was an everyday occurrence. The few respectable people are afraid even to try to keep order.

Dodge City used to be that way and there was a reign of terror in the town, until finally the twelve organized vigilantes became desperate and took affairs in their own hands. They notified six of the leading desperadoes that they must be out of the place by a certain day and hour. Four went, but two were defiant and remained. When the specified hour had passed, twelve double-barreled shotguns were loaded with buckshot, and in a body the vigilantes hunted these men down as they would mad dogs and riddled each one through and through with the big shot! It was an awful thing to do, but it seems to have been absolutely necessary and the only way of establishing law and order. Our friends at Fort Dodge tell us that the place is now quite decent, and that a man can safely walk in the streets without pistols and a belt full of cartridges.

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, October, 1873.

ONE naturally looks for all sorts of thrilling experiences when out on the frontier, but to have men and things mix themselves up in a maddening way in one's very own house, as has recently been done in mine, is something not usually counted upon. To begin with, Mrs. Rae is with us, and her coming was not only most unlocked for up to two days ago, but through a wretched mistake in a telegram she got here just twenty-four hours before we thought she would arrive. Ordinarily this would have been a delightful surprise, but, unfortunately, things had begun to "mix!"

Faye had suffered so much from the wound in his head that very little attention had been given the house since my return from the East, therefore it was not in the very best of order. It was closed during my two months' absence, as Faye had lived down with the bachelors. The very day that Mrs. Rae came the quartermaster had sent a man to repair one of the chimneys, and plaster and dirt had been left in my room, the one I had intended Mrs. Rae to occupy. And then, to make matters just as bad as possible, there was a sand storm late in the afternoon that had, of course, sifted dust over all things.

But this was not all! My nerves had not recovered from the shock at Granada, and had given out entirely that day just before dinner, and had sent me to bed with an uncomfortable chill. Still, I was not disheartened. Before I went East many things had been put away, but West had unpacked and polished the silver several days before, and the glass was shining and the china closets in perfect order, all of which had been attended to with my own hands. Besides, the wife of one of the sergeants was to come the next morning to dust and clean the little house from top to bottom, so there was really nothing to worry about, as everything would be in order long before time for the stage to arrive that would bring Mrs. Rae.

But after the chill came a fever, and with the fever came dreams, most disturbing dreams, in which were sounds of crunching gravel, then far-away voices—voices that I seemed to have heard in another world. A door was opened, and then—oh! how can I ever tell you—in the hall came Faye's mother! By that time dreams had ceased, and it was cruel reality that had to be faced, and even now I wonder how I lived through the misery of that moment—the longing to throw myself out of the window, jump in the river, do anything, in fact, but face the mortification of having her see the awful condition of her son's house!

Her son's house—that was just it. I did not care at all for myself, my only thought was for Faye whose mother might find cause to pity him for the delinquencies of his wife! First impressions are indelible, and it would be difficult to convince Mrs. Rae ever that the house was not always dusty and untidy. How could she know that with pride I had ever seen that our house, however rough it might have been, was clean and cheerful. And of what use would it be to arrange things attractively now? She would be justified in supposing that it was only in its company dress.

I was weak and dizzy from fever and a sick heart, but I managed to get dressed and go down to do the best I could. West prepared a little supper, and we made things as comfortable as possible, considering the state of affairs. Mrs. Rae was most lovely about everything—said she understood it all. But that could not be, not until she had seen one of our sand storms, from the dust of which it is impossible to protect a thing. I have been wishing for a storm ever since, so Mrs. Rae could see that I was not responsible for the condition of things that night.

Now this was not all—far, far from it. On the way out in the cars, Mrs. Rae met the colonel of the regiment—a real colonel, who is called a colonel, too—who was also on his way to this post, and with him was Lieutenant Whittemore, a classmate of Faye's. Colonel Fitz-James was very courteous to Mrs. Rae, and when they reached Kit Carson he insisted upon her coming over with him in the ambulance that had been sent to meet him. This was very much more comfortable than riding in the old stage, so she gladly accepted, and to show her appreciation of the kindness, she invited the colonel, also Lieutenant Whittemore, to dine with us the following evening!

Yes, there is still more, for it so happens that Colonel Fitz-James is known to be an epicure, to be fussy and finical about all things pertaining to the table, and what is worse takes no pains to disguise it, and in consequence is considered an undesirable dinner guest by the most experienced housekeepers in the regiment. All this I had often heard, and recalled every word during the long hours of that night as I was making plans for the coming day. The combination in its entirety could not have been more formidable. There was Faye's mother, a splendid housekeeper—her very first day in our house. His colonel and an abnormally sensitive palate—his very first meeting with each of us. His classmate, a young man of much wealth—a perfect stranger to me. A soldier cook, willing, and a very good waiter, but only a plain everyday cook; certainly not a maker of dainty dishes for a dinner party. And my own experiences in housekeeping had been limited to log huts in outlandish places.

Every little thing for that dinner had to be prepared in our own house. There was no obliging caterer around the corner where a salad, an ice, and other things could be hurriedly ordered; not even one little market to go to for fish, flesh, or fowl; only the sutler's store, where their greatest dainty is "cove" oysters! Fortunately there were some young grouse in the house which I had saved for Mrs. Rae and which were just right for the table, and those West could cook perfectly.

So with a head buzzing from quinine I went down in the morning, and with stubborn determination that the dinner should be a success, I proceeded to carry out the plans I had decided upon during the night.

The house was put in splendid order and the dinner prepared, and Colonel Knight was invited to join us. I attempted only the dishes that could be served well—nothing fancy or difficult—and the sergeant's wife remained to assist West in the kitchen. It all passed off pleasantly and most satisfactorily, and Colonel Fitz-James could not have been more agreeable, although he looked long and sharply at the soldier when he first appeared in the dining room. But he said not a word; perhaps he concluded it must be soldier or no dinner. I have been told several nice things he said about that distracting dinner before leaving the garrison. But it all matters little to me now, since it was not found necessary to take me to a lunatic asylum!

Mrs. Rae saw in a paper that Faye had been shot by a desperado, and was naturally much alarmed, so she sent a telegram to learn what had happened, and in reply Faye telegraphed for her to come out, and fearing that he must be very ill she left Boston that very night. But we understood that she would start the next day, and this misinterpretation caused my undoing—that and the sand storm.

That man Oliver has at last been arrested and is now in the jail at Las Animas, chained with another man—a murderer—to a post in the dark cellar. This is because he has so many times threatened the jailer. He says that some day he will get out, and then his first act will be to kill the keeper, and the next to kill Lieutenant Rae. He also declares that Faye kicked him when he was in the guardhouse at the post. Of course anyone with a knowledge of military discipline would know this assertion to be false, for if Faye had done such a thing as that, he might have been court-martialed.

The sheriff was actually afraid to make the arrest the first time he went over, because so many of Oliver's friends were in town, and so he came back without him, although he saw him several times. The second trip, however, Oliver was taken off guard and was handcuffed and out of the town before he had a chance to rally his friends to his assistance. He was brought to Las Animas during the night to avoid any possibility of a lynching. The residents of the little town are full of indignation that the man should have attempted to kill an officer of this garrison. He is a horse thief and desperado, and made his escape from their jail several months back, so altogether they consider that the country can very well do without him. I think so, too, and wish every hour in the day that the sheriff had been less cautious. Oliver cannot be tried until next May, when the general court meets, and I am greatly distressed over this fact, for the jail is old and most insecure, and he may get out at any time. The fear and dread of him is on my mind day and night.

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, December, 1873.

EVERYONE in the garrison seems to be more or less in a state of collapse! The bal masque is over, the guests have departed, and all that is left to us now are the recollections of a delightful party that gave full return for our efforts to have it a success.

We did not dream that so many invitations would be accepted at far-away posts, that parties would come from Fort Leavenworth, Fort Riley, Fort Dodge, and Fort Wallace, for a long ambulance ride was necessary from each place. But we knew of their coming in time to make preparations for all, so there was no confusion or embarrassment. Every house on the officers' line was filled to overflowing and scarcely a corner left vacant.

The new hospital was simply perfect for an elaborate entertainment. The large ward made a grand ballroom, the corridors were charming for promenading, and, yes, flirting, the dining room and kitchen perfect for the supper, and the office and other small rooms were a nice size for cloak rooms. Of course each one of these rooms, big and small, had to be furnished. In each dressing room was a toilet table fitted out with every little article that might possibly be needed during the evening, both before and after the removal of masks. All this necessitated much planning, an immense amount of work, and the stripping of our own houses. But there were a good many of us, and the soldiers were cheerful assistants. I was on the supper committee, which really dwindled down to a committee of one at the very last, for I was left alone to put the finishing touches to the tables and to attend to other things. The vain creatures seemed more interested in their own toilets, and went home to beautify themselves.

The commanding officer kept one eye, and the quartermaster about a dozen eyes upon us while we were decorating, to see that no injury was done to the new building. But that watchfulness was unnecessary, for the many high windows made the fastening of flags an easy matter, as we draped them from the casing of one window to the casing of the next, which covered much of the cold, white walls and gave an air of warmth and cheeriness to the rooms. Accoutrements were hung everywhere, every bit of brass shining as only an enlisted man can make it shine, and the long infantry rifles with fixed bayonets were "stacked" whereever they would not interfere with the dancing.

Much of the supper came from Kansas City—that is, the celery, fowls, and material for little cakes, ices, and so on—and the orchestra consisted of six musicians from the regimental band at Fort Riley. The floor of the ballroom was waxed perfectly, but it is hoped by some of us that much of the lightning will be taken from it before the hospital cots and attendants are moved in that ward.

Everybody was en masque and almost everyone wore fancy dress and some of the costumes were beautiful. The most striking figure in the rooms, perhaps, was Lieutenant Alden, who represented Death! He is very tall and very slender, and he had on a skintight suit of dark-brown drilling, painted from crown to toe with thick white paint to represent the skeleton of a human being; even the mask that covered the entire head was perfect as a skull. The illusion was a great success, but it made one shiver to see the awful thing walking about, the grinning skull towering over the heads of the tallest. And ever at its side was a red devil, also tall, and so thin one wondered what held the bones together. This red thing had a long tail. The devil was Lieutenant Perkins, of course.

Faye and Doctor Dent were dressed precisely alike, as sailors, the doctor even wearing a pair of Faye's shoes. They had been very sly about the twin arrangement, which was really splendid, for they are just about the same size and have hair very much the same color. But smart as they were, I recognized Faye at once. The idea of anyone thinking I would not know him!

We had queens and milkmaids and flower girls galore, and black starry nights and silvery days, and all sorts of things, many of them very elegant. My old yellow silk, the two black lace flounces you gave me, and a real Spanish mantilla that Mrs. Rae happened to have with her, made a handsome costume for me as a Spanish lady. I wore almost all the jewelry in the house; every piece of my own small amount and much of Mrs. Rae's, the nicest of all having been a pair of very large old-fashioned "hoop" earrings, set all around with brilliants. My comb was a home product, very showy, but better left to the imagination.

The dancing commenced at nine o'clock, and at twelve supper was served, when we unmasked, and after supper we danced again and kept on dancing until five o'clock! Even then a few of us would have been willing to begin all over, for when again could we have such a ballroom with perfect floor and such excellent music to dance by? But with the new day came a new light and all was changed, much like the change of a ballet with a new calcium light, only ours was not beautifying, but most trying to tired, painted faces; and seeing each other we decided that we could not get home too fast. In a few days the hospital will be turned over to the post-surgeon, and the beautiful ward will be filled with iron cots and sick soldiers, and instead of delicate perfumes, the odor of nauseous drugs will pervade every place.

I have been too busy to ride during the past week, but am going out this afternoon with the chaplain's young daughter, who is a fearless rider, although only fourteen. King is very handsome now and his gait delightful, but he still requires most careful management. He ran away with me the other day, starting with those three tremendous strides, but we were out on a level and straight road, so nothing went wrong. All there was for me to do was to keep my seat. Lieutenant Perkins and Miss Campbell were a mile or more ahead of us, and after he had passed them he came down to a trot, evidently flattering himself that he had won a race, and that nothing further was expected of him.

He jumps the cavalry hurdles beautifully—goes over like a deer, Hal always following directly back of him. Whatever a horse does that dog wants to do also. Last spring, when we came up from Camp Supply, he actually tried to eat the corn that dropped from King's mouth as he was getting his supper one night in camp. He has scarcely noticed Powder-Face since the very day King was sent to me, but became devoted to the new horse at once. I wonder if he could have seen that the new horse was the faster of the two!

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, May, 1874.

THERE is such good news to send you to-day I can hardly write it fast enough. The Territorial Court has been in session, and yesterday that horse thief, Billy Oliver, was tried and sentenced to ten years' imprisonment in the penitentiary! The sheriff and a posse started for Canon City this morning with him and another prisoner, and I hope that he will not make his escape on the way over. The sheriff told Faye confidentially the route he intended to take, which is not at all the one he is supposed to be going over, and threw out strong hints to the effect that if he wanted to put an end to the man's vicious career there would be no interference from him (the sheriff) or his posse. He even told Faye of a lonesome spot where it could be accomplished easily and safely!

This was a strange thing for a sheriff to do, even in this country of desperadoes, and shows what a fiend he considers Oliver to be. He said that the man was the leader of a gang of the lowest and boldest type of villains, and that even now it would be safer to have him out of the way. Sheriffs are afraid of these men, and do not like to be obliged to arrest them.

The day of the trial, and as Faye was about to go to the court room, a corporal came to the house and told him that he had just come from Las Animas, where he had heard from a reliable source that many of Oliver's friends were in the town, and that it was their intention to kill Faye as he came in the court room. He even described the man who was to do the dreadful work, and he told Faye that if he went over without an escort he would certainly be killed.

This was simply maddening, and I begged Faye to ask for a guard, but he would not, insisting that there was not the least danger, that even a desperado would not dare shoot an army officer in Las Animas in a public place, for he knew he would be hung the next moment. That was all very well, but it seemed to me that it would be better to guard against the murder itself rather than think of what would be done to the murderer. I knew that the corporal would never have come to the house if he had not heard much that was alarming.

So Faye went over without a guard, but did condescend to wear his revolvers. He says that the first thing he saw as he entered the court room were six big, brawny cavalrymen, each one a picked man, selected for bravery and determination. Of course each trooper was armed with large government revolvers and a belt full of cartridges. He also saw that they were sitting near, and where they could watch every move of a man who answered precisely to the corporal's description, and as he passed on up through the crowd he almost touched him. His hair was long and hung down on his shoulders about a face that was villainous, and he was "armed to the teeth." There were other tough-looking men seated near this man, each one armed also.

Colonel Bissell had heard of the threat to kill Faye, and ordered a corporal, the very man who searched so bravely through the dark house for Oliver at Granada, and five privates to the court, with instructions to shoot at once the first and every man who made the slightest move to harm Faye! Those men knew very well what the soldiers were there for, and I imagine that after one look at their weather-beaten faces, which told of many an Indian campaign, the villains decided that it would be better to keep quiet and let Oliver manage his own affairs.

A sergeant and one or two privates were summoned by Oliver to give testimony against Faye, but each one told the same story, and said most emphatically that Faye had not done more than speak to the man in the line of duty, and as any officer would have done. Directly after guard mounting, and as the new guard marches up to the guardhouse, the old guard is ordered out, also the prisoners, and the prisoners stand in the middle of the line with soldiers at each end, and every man, enlisted man and prisoner, is required to stand up straight and in line. It was at One of these times that Oliver claimed that Faye kicked him, when he was officer of the day. Faye and Major Tilford say that the man was slouching, and Faye told him to stand up and take his hands out of his pockets. A small thing to murder an officer for, but I imagine that any sort of discipline to a man of his character was most distasteful.

Of course Faye left the court room as soon as his testimony had been given. When the sentence was pronounced the judge requested all visitors to remain seated until after the prisoner had been removed, which showed that he was a little afraid of trouble, and knew the bitter feeling against the horse thief in the town. Several girls and young officers from the post were outside in an ambulance, and they commenced to cheer when told of the sentence, but the judge hurried a messenger out to them with a request that they make no demonstration whatever. He is a fearless and just judge, and it is a wonder that desperadoes have not killed him long ago.

Perhaps now I can have a little rest from the terrible fear that has been ever with me day and night during the whole winter, that Oliver would escape from the old jail and carry out his threat of double murder. He had made his escape once, and I feared that he might get out again. But that post and chain must have been very securely fixed down in that cellar.

FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY, June, 1874.

BY this time you have my letter telling you that the regiment has been ordered to the Department of the Gulf. Since then we have heard that it is to go directly to Holly Springs, Mississippi, for the summer, where a large camp is to be established. Just imagine what the suffering will be, to go from this dry climate to the humidity of the South, and from cool, thick-walled adobe buildings to hot, glary tents in the midst of summer heat! We will reach Holly Springs about the Fourth of July. Faye's allowance for baggage hardly carries more than trunks and a few chests of house linen and silver, so we are taking very few things with us. It is better to give them away than to pay for their transportation such a long distance.

Both horses have been sold and beautiful King has gone. The young man who bought him was a stranger here, and knew absolutely nothing about the horse except what some one in Las Animas had told him. He rode him around the yard only once, and then jumping down, pulled from his pocket a fat roll of bills, counted off the amount for horse, saddle, and bridle, and then, without saying one word more than a curt "good morning," he mounted the horse again and rode out of the yard and away. I saw the whole transaction from a window—saw it as well as hot, blinding tears would permit. Faye thinks the man might have been a fugitive and wanted a fast horse to get him out of the country. We learned not long ago, you know, that King had been an Indian race pony owned by a half-breed named Bent. He sent word from Camp Supply that I was welcome to the horse if I could ride him! The chaplain has bought Powder-Face, and I am to keep him as long as we are here. Hal will go with us, for I cannot give up that dog and horses, too.

Speaking of Hal reminds me of the awful thing that occurred here a few days ago. I have written often of the pack of beautiful greyhounds owned by the cavalry officers, and of the splendid record of Magic—Hal's father—as a hunter, and how the dog was loved by Lieutenant Baldwin next to his horse.

But unless the dogs were taken on frequent hunts, they would steal off on their own account and often be away a whole day, perhaps until after dark. The other day they went off this way, and in the afternoon, as Lieutenant Alden was riding along by the river, he came to a scene that made him positively ill. On the ground close to the water was the carcass of a calf, which had evidently been filled with poison for wolves, and near it on the bank lay Magic, Deacon, Dixie, and other hounds, all dead or dying! Blue has bad teeth and was still gnawing at the meat, and therefore had not been to the water, which causes almost instant death in cases of poisoning by wolf meat.

As soon as Lieutenant Alden saw that the other dogs were past doing for, he hurried on to the post with Blue, and with great difficulty saved her life. So Hal and his mother are sole survivors of the greyhounds that have been known at many of the frontier posts as fearless and tireless hunters, and plucky fighters when forced to fight. Greyhounds will rarely seek a fight, a trait that sometimes fools other dogs and brings them to their Waterloo. When Lieutenant Alden told me of the death of the dogs, tears came in his eyes as he said, "I have shared my bed with old Magic many a time!" And how those dogs will be missed at the bachelor quarters! When we came here last summer, I was afraid that the old hounds would pounce upon Hal, but instead of that they were most friendly and seemed to know he was one of them—a wanderer returned.

ST. CHARLES HOTEL, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, September, 1877.

LIFE in the Army is certainly full of surprises! At Pass Christian yesterday morning, Faye and I were sitting on the veranda reading the papers in an indifferent sort of way, when suddenly Faye jumped up and said, "The Third has been ordered to Montana Territory!" At first I could not believe him—it seemed so improbable that troops would be sent to such a cold climate at this season of the year, and besides, most of the regiment is at Pittsburg just now because of the great coal strike. But there in the Picayune was the little paragraph of half a dozen lines that was to affect our lives for years to come, and which had the immediate power to change our condition of indolent content, into one of the greatest activity and excitement!

Faye went at once to the telegraph office and by wire gave up the remainder of his leave, and also asked the regimental adjutant if transportation was being provided for officers' families. The distance is so great, and the Indians have been so hostile in Montana during the past two years, that we thought families possibly would not be permitted to go.

After luncheon we packed the trunks, carefully separating things so there would be no necessity for repacking if I could not go, and I can assure you that many an article was folded down damp with hot tears—the very uncertainty was so trying. In the evening we went around to say "good-by" to a few of the friends who have been so cordial and hospitable during the summer. Early this morning we came from Pass Christian, and soon after we got here telegrams came for Faye, one ordering him to proceed to Pittsburg and report for duty, and another saying that officers' families may accompany the regiment. This was glorious news to me. The fear and dread of having to be left behind had made me really ill—and what would have become of me if it had actually come to pass I cannot imagine. I can go—that is all sufficient for the present, and we expect to leave for Pittsburg this evening at nine o'clock.

The late start gives us a long day here with nothing to do. After a while, when it is not quite so hot outside, we are going out to take a farewell look at some of our old haunts. Our friends are all out of the city, and Jackson Barracks is too far away for such a warm day—besides, there is no one there now that we know.

It seems quite natural to be in this dear old hotel, where all during the past winter our "Army and Navy Club" cotillons were danced every two weeks. And they were such beautiful affairs, with two splendid military orchestras to furnish the music, one for the dancing and one to give choice selections in between the figures. We will carry with us to the snow and ice of the Rocky Mountains many, many delightful memories of New Orleans, where the French element gives a charm to everything. The Mardi-Gras parades, in which the regiment has each year taken such a prominent part—the courtly Rex balls—the balls of Comus—the delightful Creole balls in Grunewald Hall—the stately and exclusive balls of the Washington Artillery in their own splendid hall—the charming dancing receptions on the ironclad monitor Canonicus, also the war ship Plymouth, where we were almost afraid to step, things were so immaculate and shiny—and then our own pretty army fetes at Jackson Barracks—regimental headquarters—each and all will be remembered, ever with the keenest pleasure.

But the event in the South that has made the deepest impression of all occurred at Vicksburg, where for three weeks we lived in the same house, en famille and intimately, with Jefferson Davis! I consider that to have been a really wonderful experience. You probably can recall a little of what I wrote you at the time—how we were boarding with his niece in her splendid home when he came to visit her.

I remember so well the day he arrived. He knew, of course, that an army officer was in the house, and Mrs. Porterfield had told us of his coming, so the meeting was not unexpected. Still, when we went down to dinner that night I was almost shivering from nervousness, although the air was excessively warm. I was so afraid of something unpleasant coming up, for although Mrs. Porterfield and her daughter were women of culture and refinement, they were also rebels to the very quick, and never failed at any time to remind one that their uncle was "President" Davis! And then, as we went in the large dining room, Faye in his very bluest, shiniest uniform, looked as if he might be Uncle Sam himself.

But there was nothing to fear—nothing whatever. A tall, thin old man came forward with Mrs. Porterfield to meet us—a courtly gentleman of the old Southern school—who, apparently, had never heard of the Civil War, and who, if he noticed the blue uniform at all, did not take the slightest interest in what it represented. His composure was really disappointing! After greeting me with grave dignity, he turned to Faye and grasped his hand firmly and cordially, the whole expression of his face softening just a little. I have always thought that he was deeply moved by once again seeing the Federal Blue under such friendly circumstances, and that old memories came surging back, bringing with them the almost forgotten love and respect for the Academy—a love that every graduate takes to his grave, whether his life be one of honor or of disgrace.

One could very easily have become sentimental, and fancied that he was Old West Point, misled and broken in spirit, admitting in dignified silence his defeat and disgrace to Young West Point, who, with Uncle Sam's shoulder straps and brass buttons, could be generously oblivious to the misguidance and treason of the other. We wondered many times if Jefferson Davis regretted his life. He certainly could not have been satisfied with it.

There was more in that meeting than a stranger would have known of. In the splendid dining room where we sat, which was forty feet in length and floored with tiles of Italian marble, as was the entire large basement, it was impossible not to notice the unpainted casing of one side of a window, and also the two immense patches of common gray plaster on the beautifully frescoed walls, which covered holes made by a piece of shell that had crashed through the house during the siege of Vicksburg. The shell itself had exploded outside near the servants' quarters.

Then, again, every warm evening after dinner, during the time he was at the house, Jefferson Davis and Faye would sit out on the grand, marble porch and smoke and tell of little incidents that had occurred at West Point when each had been a cadet there. At some of these times they would almost touch what was left of a massive pillar at one end, that had also been shattered and cracked by pieces of shell from U.S. gunboats, one piece being still imbedded in the white marble.

For Jefferson Davis knew that Faye's father was an officer in the Navy, and that he had bravely and boldly done his very best toward the undoing of the Confederacy; and by his never-failing, polished courtesy to that father's son—even when sitting by pieces of shell and patched-up walls—the President of the Confederacy set an example of dignified self-restraint, that many a Southern man and woman—particularly woman—would do well to follow.

For in these days of reconstruction officers and their families are not always popular. But at Pass Christian this summer we have received the most hospitable, thoughtful attention, and never once by word or deed were we reminded that we were "Yank-Tanks," as was the case at Holly Springs the first year we were there. However, we did some fine reconstruction business for Uncle Sam right there with those pert Mississippi girls—two of whom were in a short time so thoroughly reconstructed that they joined his forces "for better or for worse!"

The social life during the three years we have been in the South has most of the time been charming, but the service for officers has often been most distasteful. Many times they have been called upon to escort and protect carpetbag politicians of a very low type of manhood—men who could never command one honest vote at their own homes in the North. Faye's company has been moved twenty-one times since we came from Colorado three years ago, and almost every time it was at the request of those unprincipled carpetbaggers. These moves did not always disturb us, however, as during most of the time Faye has been adjutant general of the District of Baton Rouge, and this kept us at Baton Rouge, but during the past winter we have been in New Orleans.

Several old Creole families whose acquaintance we made in the city last winter, have charming old-style Southern homes at Pass Christian, where we have ever been cordially welcomed. It was a common occurrence for me to chaperon their daughters to informal dances at the different cottages along the beach, and on moonlight sailing parties on Mr. Payne's beautiful yacht, and then, during the entire summer, from the time we first got there, I have been captain of one side of a croquet team, Mr. Payne having been captain of the other. The croquet part was, of course, the result of Major Borden's patient and exacting teaching at Baton Rouge.

Mentioning Baton Rouge reminds me of my dear dog that was there almost a year with the hospital steward. He is now with the company at Mount Ver-non Barracks, Alabama, and Faye has telegraphed the sergeant to see that he is taken to Pittsburg with the company.

We are going out now, first of all to Michaud's for some of his delicious biscuit glace! Our city friends are all away still, so there will be nothing for us to do but wander around, pour passer le temps until we go to the station.

MONONGAHELA HOUSE, PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, September, 1877.

ONCE again we have our trunks packed for the long trip to Montana, and this time I think we will go, as the special train that is to take us is now at the station, and baggage of the regiment is being hurriedly loaded. Word came this morning that the regiment would start to-night, so it seems that at last General Sherman has gained his point. For three long weeks we have been kept here in suspense—packing and then unpacking—one day we were to go, the next we were not to go, while the commanding general and the division commander were playing "tug of war" with us.

The trip will be long and very expensive, and we go from a hot climate to a cold one at a season when the immediate purchase of warm clothing is imperative, and with all this unexpected expense we have been forced to pay big hotel bills for weeks, just because of a disagreement between two generals that should have been settled in one day. Money is very precious to the poor Army at present, too, for not one dollar has been paid to officers or enlisted men for over three months! How officers with large families can possibly manage this move I do not see—sell their pay accounts I expect, and then be court martialed for having done so.

Congress failed to pass the army appropriation bill before it adjourned, consequently no money can be paid to the Army until the next session! Yet the Army is expected to go along just the same, promptly pay Uncle Sam himself all commissary and quartermaster bills at the end of each month, and without one little grumble do his bidding, no matter what the extra expense may be. I wonder what the wise men of Congress, who were too weary to take up the bill before going to their comfortable homes—I wonder what they would do if the Army as a body would say, "We are tired. Uncle, dear, and are going home for the summer to rest. You will have to get along without us and manage the Indians and strikers the best way you can." This would be about as sensible as forcing the Army to be paupers for months, and then ordering regiments from East to West and South to North. Of course many families will be compelled to remain back, that might otherwise have gone.

We are taking out a young colored man we brought up with us from Holly Springs. He has been at the arsenal since we have been here, and Hal has been with him. It is over one year since the dog saw me, and I am almost afraid he will not know me tonight at the station. Before we left Pass Christian Faye telegraphed the sergeant to bring Hal with the company and purchase necessary food for him on the way up. So, when the company got here, bills were presented by several of the men, who claimed to have bought meat for the dog, the sum total of which was nine dollars for the two days! We were so pleased to know that Hal had been so well cared for. But the soldiers were welcome to the money and more with it, for we were so glad to have the dog with us again, safe and well.

We have quite a Rae family now—Faye and I—a darky, a greyhound, and one small gray squirrel! It will be a hard trip for Billie, but I have made for him a little ribbon collar and sewed securely to it a long tape which makes a fine "picket rope" that can be tied to various things in various places, and in this way he can be picketed and yet receive exercise and air.

We are to go almost straight north from the railroad for a distance of over four hundred miles, and of course this will take several weeks under the most favorable conditions. But you must not mind our going so far away—it will be no farther than the Indian Territory, and the climate of Montana must be very much better than it was at Camp Supply, and the houses must certainly be more comfortable, as the winters are so long and severe. I shall be so glad to have a home of my own again, and have a horse to ride also.

Faye has just come from the station and says that almost everything has been loaded, and that we are really to start to-night at eight o'clock. This is cheering news, for I think that everyone is anxious to get to Montana, except the poor officers who cannot afford to take their families with them.

CORINNE, UTAH TERRITORY, September, 1877.

WE were almost one week coming out, but finally got here yesterday morning. Our train was a special, and having no schedule, we were often sidetracked for hours at a time, to make way for the regular trains. As soon as possible after we arrived, the tents were unpacked and put up, and it was amazing to see how soon there was order out of chaos. This morning the camp looks like a little white city—streets and all. There is great activity everywhere, as preparations have already commenced for the march north. Our camp "mess" has been started, and we will be very comfortable, I think, with a good soldier cook and Cagey to take care of the tents. I am making covers for the bed, trunk, and folding table, of dark-blue cretonne with white figures, which carries out the color scheme of the folding chairs and will give a little air of cheeriness to the tent, and of the same material I am making pockets that can be pinned on the side walls of the tent, in which various things can be tucked at night. These covers and big pockets will be folded and put in the roll of bedding every morning.

There are not enough ambulances to go around, so I had my choice between being crowded in with other people, or going in a big army wagon by myself, and having had one experience in crowding, I chose the wagon without hesitation. Faye is having the rear half padded with straw and canvas on the sides and bottom, and the high top will be of canvas drawn over "bows," in true emigrant fashion. Our tent will be folded to form a seat and placed in the back, upon which I can sit and look out through the round opening and gossip with the mules that will be attached to the wagon back of me. In the front half will be packed all of our camp furniture and things, the knockdown bed, mess-chest, two little stoves (one for cooking), the bedding which will be tightly rolled in canvas and strapped, and so on. Cagey will sit by the driver. There is not one spring in the wagon, but even without, I will be more comfortable than with Mrs. Hayden and three small children. They can have the ambulance to themselves perhaps, and will have all the room. I thought of Billie, too. He can be picketed all the time in the wagon, but imagine the little fellow's misery in an ambulance with three restless children for six or eight hours each day!

Hal is with us—in fact, I can hardly get away from the poor dog, he is so afraid of being separated from me again. When we got to the station at Pittsburg he was there with Cagey, and it took only one quick glance to see that he was a heart-broken, spirit-broken dog. Not one spark was left of the fire that made the old Hal try to pull me through an immense plate-glass mirror, in a hotel at Jackson, Mississippi, to fight his own reflection (the time the strange man offered one hundred and fifty dollars for him), and certainly he was not the hound that whipped the big bulldog at Monroe, Louisiana, two years ago. He did not see me as I came up back of him, and as he had not even heard my voice for over one year, I was almost childishly afraid to speak to him. But I finally said, "Hal, you have not forgotten your old friend?" He turned instantly, but as I put my hand upon his head there was no joyous bound or lifting of the ears and tail—just a look of recognition, then a raising up full length of the slender body on his back legs, and putting a forefoot on each of my shoulders as far over as he could reach, he gripped me tight, fairly digging his toe nails into me, and with his head pressed close to my neck he held on and on, giving little low whines that were more like human sobs than the cry of a dog. Of course I had my arms around him, and of course I cried, too. It was so pitifully distressing, for it told how keenly the poor dumb beast had suffered during the year he had been away from us. People stared, and soon there was a crowd about us with an abundance of curiosity. Cagey explained the situation, and from then on to train time, Hal was patted and petted and given dainties from lunch baskets.

He was in the car next to ours, coming out, and we saw him often. Many times there were long runs across the plains, when the only thing to be seen, far or near, would be the huge tanks containing water for the engines. At one of these places, while we were getting water. Cagey happened to be asleep, and a recruit, thinking that Hal was ill-treated by being kept tied all the time, unfastened the chain from his collar and led him from the car.

The first thing the dog saw was another dog, and alas! a greyhound belonging to Ryan, an old soldier. The next thing he saw was the dear, old, beautiful plains, for which he had pined so long and wearily. The two dogs had never seen each other before, but hounds are clannish and never fail to recognize their own kind, so with one or two jumps by way of introduction, the two were off and out of sight before anyone at the cars noticed what they were doing. I was sitting by the window in our car and saw the dogs go over the rolling hill, and saw also that a dozen or more soldiers were running after them. I told Faye what had happened, and he started out and over the hill on a hard run. Time passed, and we in the cars watched, but neither men nor dogs came back. Finally a long whistle was blown from the engine, and in a short time the train began to move very slowly. The officers and men came running back, but the dogs were not with them! My heart was almost broken; to leave my beautiful dog on the plains to starve to death was maddening. I wanted to be alone, so to the dressing room I went, and with face buried in a portiere was sobbing my very breath away when Mrs. Pierce, wife of Major Pierce, came in and said so sweetly and sympathetically: "Don't cry, dear; Hal is following the car and the conductor is going to stop the train."

Giving her a hasty embrace, I ran back to the end of the last car, and sure enough, there was Hal, the old Hal, bounding along with tail high up and eyes sparkling, showing that the blood of his ancestors was still in his veins. The conductor did not stop the train, simply because the soldiers did not give him an opportunity. They turned the brakes and then held them, and if a train man had interfered there would have been a fight right then and there.

As soon as the train was stopped Faye and Ryan were the first to go for the dogs, but by that time the hounds thought the whole affair great fun and objected to being caught—at least Ryan's dog objected. The porter in our car caught Hal, but Ryan told him to let the dog go, that he would bring the two back together. This was shrewd in Ryan, for he reasoned that Major Carleton might wait for an officer's dog, but never for one that belonged to only an enlisted man; but really it was the other way, the enlisted men held the brakes. The dogs ran back almost a mile to the water tank, and the conductor backed the train down after them, and not until both dogs were caught and on board could steam budge it ahead.

The major was in temporary command of the regiment at that time. He is a very pompous man and always in fear that proper respect will not be shown his rank, and when we were being backed down he went through our car and said in a loud voice: "I am very sorry Mrs. Rae, that you should lose your fine greyhound, but this train cannot be detained any longer—it must move on!" I said nothing, for I saw the two big men in blue at the brake in front, and knew Major Carleton would never order them away, much as he might bluster and try to impress us with his importance, for he is really a tender-hearted man.

Poor Faye was utterly exhausted from running so long, and for some time Ryan was in a critical condition. It seems that he buried his wife quite recently, and has left his only child in New Orleans in a convent, and the greyhound, a pet of both wife and little girl, is all he has left to comfort him. Everyone is so glad that he got the dog. Hal was not unchained again, I assure you, until we got here, but poor Cagey almost killed himself at every stopping place running up and down with the dog to give him a little exercise.

It is really delightful to be in a tent once more, and I am anticipating much pleasure in camping through a strange country. A large wagon train of commissary stores will be with us, so we can easily add to our supplies now and then. It is amazing to see the really jolly mood everyone seems to be in. The officers are singing and whistling, and we can often hear from the distance the boisterous laughter of the men. And the wives! there is an expression of happy content on the face of each one. We know, if the world does not, that the part we are to take on this march is most important. We will see that the tents are made comfortable and cheerful at every camp; that the little dinner after the weary march, the early breakfast, and the cold luncheon are each and all as dainty as camp cooking will permit. Yes, we are sometimes called "camp followers," but we do not mind—it probably originated with some envious old bachelor officer. We know all about the comfort and cheer that goes with us, and then—we have not been left behind!

RYAN'S JUNCTION, IDAHO TERRITORY, October, 1877.

WE are snow-bound, and everyone seems to think we that we will be compelled to remain here several days. It was bright and sunny when the camp was made yesterday, but before dark a terrible blizzard came up, and by midnight the snow was deep and the cold intense. As long as we remain inside the tents we are quite comfortable with the little conical sheet-iron stoves that can make a tent very warm. And the snow that had banked around the canvas keeps out the freezing-wind. We have everything for our comfort, but such weather does not make life in camp at all attractive.

Faye just came in from Major Pierce's tent, where he says he saw a funny sight. They have a large hospital tent, on each side of which is a row of iron cots, and on the cots were five chubby little children—one a mere baby—kicking up their little pink feet in jolly defiance of their patient old mammy, who was trying to keep them covered up. The tent was warm and cozy, but outside, where the snow was so deep and the cold so penetrating, one could hardly have believed that these small people could have been made so warm and happy. But Mrs. Pierce is a wonderful mother! Major Pierce was opposed to bringing his family on this long march, to be exposed to all kinds of weather, but Mrs. Pierce had no idea of being left behind with two days of car and eight days of the worst kind of stage travel between her husband and herself; so, like a sensible woman, she took matters in her own hands, and when we reached Chicago, where she had been visiting, there at the station was the smiling Mrs. Pierce with babies, governess, nurses, and trunks, all splendidly prepared to come with us—and come they all did. After the major had scolded a little and eased his conscience, he smiled as much as the other members of the family.

The children with us seem to be standing the exposure wonderfully well. One or two were pale at first, but have become rosy and strong, although there is much that must be very trying to them and the mothers also. The tents are "struck" at six sharp in the morning, and that means that we have to be up at four and breakfast at five. That the bedding must be rolled, every little thing tucked away in trunks or bags, the mess chest packed, and the cooking stove and cooking utensils not only made ready to go safely in the wagon, but they must be carried out of the tents before six o'clock. At that time the soldiers come, and, when the bugle sounds, down go the tents, and if anything happens to be left inside, it has to be fished out from underneath the canvas or left there until the tent is folded. The days are so short now that all this has to be done in the darkness, by candle or lantern light, and how mothers can get their small people up and ready for the day by six o'clock, I cannot understand, for it is just all I can manage to get myself and the tent ready by that time.

We are on the banks of a small stream, and the tents are evidently pitched directly upon the roosting ground of wild geese, for during the snowstorm thousands of them came here long after dark, making the most dreadful uproar one ever heard, with the whirring of their big wings and constant "honk! honk!" of hundreds of voices. They circled around so low and the calls were so loud that it seemed sometimes as if they were inside the tents. They must have come home for shelter and become confused and blinded by the lights in the tents, and the loss of their ground. We must be going through a splendid country for game.

I was very ill for several days on the way up, the result of malaria—perhaps too many scuppernong grapes at Pass Christian, and jolting of the heavy army wagon that makes a small stone seem the size of a boulder. One morning I was unable to walk or even stand up, and Faye and Major Bryant carried me to the wagon on a buffalo robe. All of that day's march Faye walked by the side of my wagon, and that allowed him no rest whatever, for in order to make it as easy for me as possible, my wagon had been placed at the extreme end of the long line. The troops march fifty minutes and halt ten, and as we went much slower than the men marched, we would about catch up with the column at each rest, just when the bugle would be blown to fall in line again, and then on the troops and wagons would go, Faye was kept on a continuous tramp. I still think that he should have asked permission to ride on the wagon, part of the day at least, but he would not do so.

One evening when the camp was near a ranch, I heard Doctor Gordon tell Faye outside the tent that I must be left at the place in the morning, that I was too ill to go farther! I said not a word about having heard this, but I promised myself that I would go on. The dread of being left with perfect strangers, of whom I knew nothing, and where I could not possibly have medical attendance, did not improve my condition, but fear gave me strength, and in the morning when camp broke I assured Doctor Gordon that I was better, very much better, and stuck to it with so much persistence that at last he consented to my going on. But during many hours of the march that morning I was obliged to ride on my hands and knees! The road was unusually rough and stony, and the jolting I could not endure, sitting on the canvas or lying on the padded bottom of the wagon.

It so happened that Faye was officer of the day that day, and Colonel Fitz-James, knowing that he was under a heavy strain with a sick wife in addition to the long marches, sent him one of his horses to ride—a very fine animal and one of a matched team. At the first halt Faye missed Hal, and riding back to the company saw he was not with the men, so he went on to my wagon, but found that I was shut up tight, Cagey asleep, and the dog not with us. He did not speak to either of us, but kept on to the last wagon, where a laundress told him that she saw the dog going back down the road we had just come over.

The wagon master, a sergeant, had joined Faye, riding a mule, and the two rode on after the dog, expecting every minute to overtake him. But the recollection of the unhappy year at Baton Rouge with the hospital steward was still fresh in Hal's memory, and the fear of another separation from his friends drove him on and on, faster and faster, and kept him far ahead of the horses. When at last Faye found him, he was sitting by the smoking ashes of our camp stove, his long nose pointed straight up, giving the most blood-curdling howls of misery and woe possible for a greyhound to give, and this is saying much. The poor dog was wild with delight when he saw Faye, and of course there was no trouble in bringing him back; he was only too glad to have his old friend to follow. He must have missed Faye from the company in the morning, and then failing to find me in the shut-up wagon, had gone back to camp for us. This is all easily understood, but how did that hound find the exact spot where our tent had been, even the very ashes of our stove, on that large camp ground when he has no sense of smell?

I wondered all the day why I did not see Faye and when the stop for luncheon passed and he had not come I began to worry, as much as I could think of anything beyond my own suffering. Late in the afternoon we reached the camp for the night, and still Faye had not come and no one could tell me anything about him. And I was very, very ill! Doctor Gordon was most kind and attentive, but neither he nor other friends could relieve the pain in my heart, for I felt so positive that something was wrong.

Just as our tent had been pitched Faye rode up, looking weary and worried, said a word or two to me, and then rode away again. He soon returned, however, and explained his long absence by telling me briefly that he had gone back for the dog. But he was quiet and distrait, and directly after dinner he went out again. When he came back he told me all about everything that had occurred.

Under any circumstances, it would have been a dreadful thing for him to have been absent from the command without permission, but when officer of the day it was unpardonable, and to take the colonel's horse with him made matters all the worse. And then the wagon master was liable to have been called upon at any time, if anything had happened, or the command had come to a dangerous ford. Faye told me how they had gone back for the dog, and so on, and said that when he first got in camp he rode immediately to the colonel's tent, turned the horse over to an orderly, and reported his return to the colonel, adding that if the horse was injured he would replace him. Then he came to his own tent, fully expecting an order to follow soon, placing him under arrest.

But after dinner, as no order had come, he went again to see the colonel and told him just how the unfortunate affair had come about, how he had felt that if the dog was not found it might cost me my life, as I was so devoted to the dog and so very ill at that time. The colonel listened to the whole story, and then told Faye that he understood it all, that undoubtedly he would have done the same thing! I think it was grand in Colonel Fitz-James to have been so gentle and kind—not one word of reproach did he say to Faye. Perhaps memories of his own wife came to him. The colonel may have a sensitive palate that makes him unpopular with many, but there are two people in his regiment who know that he has a heart so tender and big that the palate will never be considered again by them. Of course the horse was not injured in the least.

We are on the stage road to Helena, and at this place there is a fork that leads to the northwest which the lieutenant colonel and four companies will take to go to Fort Missoula, Montana. The colonel, headquarters, and other companies are to be stationed at Helena during the winter. We expect to meet the stage going south about noon to-morrow, and you should have this in eight days. Billie squirrel has a fine time in the wagon and is very fat. He runs off with bits of my luncheon every day and hides them in different places in the canvas, to his own satisfaction at least. One of the mules back of us has become most friendly, and will take from my hand all sorts of things to eat.

Poor Hal had a fit the other day, something like vertigo, after having chased a rabbit. Doctor Gordon says that he has fatty degeneration of the heart, caused by having so little exercise in the South, but that he will probably get over it if allowed to run every day. But I do not like the very idea of the dog having anything the matter with his heart. It was so pathetic to have him stagger to the tent and drop at my feet, dumbly confident that I could give him relief.

CAMP NEAR HELENA, MONTANA TERRITORY, November, 1877.

THE company has been ordered to Camp Baker, a small post nearly sixty miles farther on. We were turned off from the Helena road and the rest of the command at the base of the mountains, and are now about ten miles from Helena on our way to the new station, which, we are told, is a wretched little two-company post on the other side of the Big Belt range of mountains. I am awfully disappointed in not seeing something of Helena, and very, very sorry that we have to go so far from our friends and to such an isolated place, but it is the company's turn for detached service, so here we are.

The scenery was grand in many places along the latter part of the march, and it is grand here, also. We are in a beautiful broad valley with snow-capped mountains on each side. From all we hear we conclude there must be exceptionally good hunting and fishing about Camp Baker, and there is some consolation in that. The fishing was very good at several of our camps after we reached the mountains, and I can assure you that the speckled trout of the East and these mountain trout are not comparable, the latter are so far, far superior. The flesh is white and very firm, and sometimes they are so cold when brought out of the water one finds it uncomfortable to hold them. They are good fighters, too, and even small ones give splendid sport.

One night the camp was by a beautiful little stream with high banks, and here and there bunches of bushes and rocks—an ideal home for trout, so I started out, hoping to catch something—with a common willow pole and ordinary hook, and grasshoppers for bait. Faye tells everybody that I had only a bent pin for a hook, but of course no one believes him. Major Stokes joined me and we soon found a deep pool just at the edge of camp. His fishing tackle was very much like mine, so when we saw Captain Martin coming toward us with elegant jointed rod, shining new reel, and a camp stool, we felt rather crestfallen. Captain Martin passed on and seated himself comfortably on the bank just below us, but Major Stokes and I went down the bank to the edge of the pool where we were compelled to stand, of course.

The water was beautifully clear and as soon as everybody and everything became quiet, we saw down on the bottom one or two trout, then more appeared, and still more, until there must have been a dozen or so beautiful fish in between the stones, each one about ten inches long. But go near the hooks they would not, neither would they rise to Captain Martin's most tempting flies—for he, too, saw many trout, from where he sat. We stood there a long time, until our patience was quite exhausted, trying to catch some of those fish, sometimes letting the current take the grasshoppers almost to their very noses, when finally Major Stokes whispered, "There, Mrs. Rae there, try to get that big fellow!" Now as we had all been most unsuccessful with the little "fellows," I had no hope whatever of getting the big one, still I tried, for he certainly was a beauty and looked very large as he came slowly along, carefully avoiding the stones. Before I had moved my bait six inches, there was a flash of white down there, and then with a little jerk I hooked that fish—hooked him safely.

That was very, very nice, but the fish set up a terrible fight that would have given great sport with a reel, but I did not have a reel, and the steep bank directly back of me only made matters worse. I saw that time must not be wasted, that I must not give him a chance to slacken the line and perhaps shake the hook off, so I faced about, and putting the pole over my shoulder, proceeded to climb the bank of four or five feet, dragging the flopping fish after me! Captain Martin laughed heartily, but instead of laughing at the funny sight, Major Stokes jumped to my assistance, and between us we landed the fish up on the bank. It was a lovely trout—by far the largest we had seen, and Major Stokes insisted that we should take him to the commissary scales, where he weighed over three and one half pounds!

The jumping about of my big trout ruined the fishing, of course, in that part of the stream for some time, so, with a look of disgust for things generally, Captain Martin folded his rod and camp stool and returned to his tent. I had the trout served for our dinner, and, having been so recently caught, it was delicious. These mountain trout are very delicate, and if one wishes to enjoy their very finest flavor, they should be cooked and served as soon as they are out of the water. If kept even a few hours this delicacy is lost—a fact we have discovered for ourselves on the march up.

The camp to-night is near the house of a German family, and I am writing in their little prim sitting room, and Billie squirrel is with me and very busy examining' things generally. I came over to wait while the tents were being pitched, and was received with such cordial hospitality, and have found the little room so warm and comfortable that I have stayed on longer than I had intended. Soon after I came my kind hostess brought in a cup of most delicious coffee and a little pitcher of cream—real cream—something I had not tasted for six weeks, and she also brought a plate piled high with generous pieces of German cinnamon cake, at the same time telling me that I must eat every bit of it—that I looked "real peaked," and not strong enough to go tramping around with all those men! When I told her that it was through my own choice that I was "tramping," that I enjoyed it she looked at me with genuine pity, and as though she had just discovered that I did not have good common sense.

We start on early in the morning, and it will take two three days to cross the mountains. The little camp of one company looks lonesome after the large regimental camp we have been with so long. The air is really wonderful, so clear and crisp and exhilarating. It makes me long for a good horse, and horses we intend to have as soon as possible. We are anticipating so much pleasure in having a home once more, even if it is to be of logs and buried in snow, perhaps, during the winter. Hal is outside, and his beseeching whines have swelled to awful howls that remind me of neglected duties in the tent.

CAMP BAKER, MONTANA TERRITORY, November, 1877.

IT was rather late in the afternoon yesterday when we got to this post, because of a delay on the mountains. But this did not cause inconvenience to anyone—there was a vacant set of quarters that Lieutenant Hayden took possession of at once for his family, and where with camp outfit they can be comfortable until the wagons are unloaded. Faye and I are staying with the commanding officer and his wife. Colonel Gardner is lieutenant colonel of the —th Infantry, and has a most enviable reputation as a post commander. As an officer, we have not seen him yet, but we do know that he can be a most charming host. He has already informed Faye that he intends to appoint him adjutant and quartermaster of the post.

We are in a little valley almost surrounded by magnificent, heavily timbered mountains, and Colonel Gardner says that at any time one can find deer, mountain sheep, and bear in these forests, adding that there are also mountain lions and wild cats! The scenery on the road from Helena to Camp Baker was grand, but the roads were dreadful, most of the time along the sides of steep mountains that seemed to be one enormous pile of big boulders in some places and solid rock in others. These roads have been cut into the rock and are scarcely wider than the wagon track, and often we could look almost straight down seventy-five feet, or even more, on one side, and straight up for hundreds of feet on the other side.

And in the canons many of the grades were so steep that the wheels of the wagons had to be chained in addition to the big brakes to prevent them from running sideways, and so off the grade. I rode down one of these places, but it was the last as well as the first. Every time the big wagon jolted over a stone—and it was jolt over stones all the time—it seemed as if it must topple over the side and roll to the bottom; and then the way the driver talked to the mules to keep them straight, and the creaking and scraping of the wagons, was enough to frighten the most courageous.

In Confederate Gulch we crossed a ferry that was most marvelous. A heavy steel cable was stretched across the river—the Missouri—and fastened securely to each bank, and then a flat boat was chained at each end to the cable, but so it could slide along when the ferryman gripped the cable with a large hook, and gave long, hard pulls. Faye says that the very swift current of the stream assisted him much.

The river runs through a narrow, deep canon where the ferry is, and at the time we crossed everything was in dark shadow, and the water looked black, and fathoms deep, with its wonderful reflections. The grandeur of these mountains is simply beyond imagination; they have to be seen to be appreciated, and yet when seen, one can scarcely comprehend their immensity. We are five hundred miles from a railroad, with endless chains of these mountains between. All supplies of every description are brought up that distance by long ox trains—dozens of wagons in a train, and eight or ten pairs of oxen fastened to the one long chain that pulls three or four heavily loaded wagons. We passed many of these trains on the march up, and my heart ached for the poor patient beasts.

We are to have one side of a large double house, which will give us as many rooms as we will need in this isolated place. Hal is in the house now, with Cagey, and Billie is there also, and has the exclusive run of one room. The little fellow stood the march finely, and it is all owing to that terrible old wagon that was such a comfort in some ways, but caused me so much misery in others. These houses must be quite warm; they are made of large logs placed horizontally, and the inner walls are plastered, which will keep out the bitter cold during the winter. The smallest window has an outside storm window.

CAMP BAKER, MONTANA TERRITORY, December, 1877.

THIS post is far over in the Belt Mountains and quite cut off from the outside world, and there are very few of us here, nevertheless the days pass wonderfully fast, and they are pleasant days, also. And then we have our own little excitements that are of intense interest to us, even if they are never heard of in the world across the snow and ice.

The Rae family was very much upset two days ago by the bad behavior of my horse Bettie, when she managed to throw Faye for the very first time in his life! You know that both of our horses, although raised near this place, were really range animals, and were brought in and broken for us. The black horse has never been very satisfactory, and Faye has a battle with him almost every time he takes him out, but Bettie had been lovely and behaved wonderfully well for so young a horse, and I have been so pleased with her and her delightful gaits—a little single foot and easy canter.

The other morning Faye was in a hurry to get out to a lumber camp and, as I did not care to go, he decided to ride my horse rather than waste time by arguing with the black as to which road they should go. Ben always thinks he knows more about such things than his rider. Well, Kelly led Bettie up from the corral and saddled and bridled her, and when Faye was ready to start I went out with him to give the horse a few lumps of sugar. She is a beautiful animal—a bright bay in color—with perfect head and dainty, expressive ears, and remarkably slender legs.