"I wouldn't have intruded at so unconventional an hour only I saw Mrs. Stannard come running in; I knew she had a letter, and so had I. Isn't it horrid? Captain Turner says it looks as though they might be out all summer! Oh, Miss Sanford! I'm so glad you are dressed and ready, for the ambulance is coming around now, and I know you and Mrs. Truscott want to go in this morning and see Mrs. Wing's new goods. She opened yesterday, you know, and Mrs. Wilkins says all the bonnets are fresh from New York and lovely. You will go, won't you? Come just as you are. You'll only need a light wrap, for the sun is very warm."

Why is it that when one woman knows herself to be tastefully and becomingly dressed, she is so eager to assure others who are to accompany her that they need nothing by way of adornment? The ambulance was at the door. The visit to town had been contemplated for two or three days, so matters were quickly arranged. There was abundant room, and Mrs. Stannard decided to go too.

In a few minutes half a dozen ladies in their airy summer costumes were gathered around the Concord wagon, ordinarily referred to as "the ambulance." Mr. Gleason was promptly on hand with other officers to assist; the band was just marching away towards its quarters, when Miss Sanford's quick eye was attracted by the sight of some evident commotion at the adjutant's office at the west end; one soldier was running at full speed in pursuit of the old and new officers of the day, who were descending the slope to the creek valley, another soldier—the commanding officer's orderly—came running down the road towards the party.

She was already seated, as were most of the others. Mrs. Turner sprang lightly in, and coquettishly kissed her hand to the group of officers on the walk.

"Go on, driver," she said.

"One moment, Mrs. Turner; please wait. I think something is the matter. Look!"

And Miss Sanford pointed to the running men. All eyes were instantly fixed on the orderly. He came up, wellnigh breathless.

"Captain Truscott! gentlemen! The commanding officer's compliments, and desires to see all the officers at once."

The group started at the instant. Truscott turned and held out his hands to his wife.

With the quick intuition of a woman accustomed to "war's alarms," she felt that evil tidings had come, and was already starting to leave the carriage.

"Oh! what can it be?" almost wailed Mrs. Turner. "Do you know, orderly?"

"It's been a big battle, ma'am, and they say General Custer and lots of officers is killed."

Truscott swung his wife from the wagon, and almost lifted her to the piazza. Miss Sanford, white and silent, sprang out unaided and ran to her side. Mrs. Stannard, with an awful dread in her kind blue eyes, took Truscott's hand as he returned and assisted her to alight.

"Will you stay with Grace?" he whispered. "I will go at once to the office. Come, Mrs. Turner."

But Mrs. Turner hung back irresolute. "Perhaps it isn't true at all, captain, and this may be the only time we can have the ambulance for a week."

For answer he silently took her at the waist in his powerful hands, set her speechless with astonishment on the sidewalk, sprang in, and spoke sharply to the driver,—

"Whirl round. Get there to the office quick as you can."

And the lashed mules went at a gallop.

Entering the office with the customary knock at the open door, Truscott stood first in the presence of the post commander and his adjutant.

"For God's sake read that!" said the colonel, holding up to him some three or four sheets of telegraphic despatch paper. The other officers came hurrying in.

"Read it aloud, Truscott."

And so to the group of speechless officers and to the knot of soldiers who had gathered in the hall the dread news of the battle of the Little Horn was told at Russell. Custer and his five pet companies completely "wiped out," said the staff-officer, who sent the news flashing around to the military posts in the department. Three hundred and twenty-five soldiers swept out of existence only an easy day's gallop in front of the Gray Fox's pickets, and it had taken all this time—ten days—to get the news into civilization. There was no sign of a smile the rest of that long day at Russell. The gloom of death had settled down on the post. The ladies were seen no more. The doctor was sent for in more than one instance. Mrs. Truscott was reported very ill.

But if garrison after garrison was thrown into dismay all over the frontier by the sudden news, who can picture the scene at Lincoln, when at dawn of that dreadful day a sergeant came over from the boat at Bismarck to arouse the people at the hospital and to break the blow to the widows and orphans? Reveille had not sounded when the commanding officer, the adjutant, and a surgeon started on the gloomy round of the cavalry garrison. Yesterday we saw those fair, smiling women bravely striving to hide their anxieties and loneliness, and to lend enthusiasm to the celebration of the nation's anniversary. One after another they were startled from the deep slumber of early morning by the knocking at the door,—"the first knell of disaster,"—and who that saw the old Missouri post when the fearful news was finally made known to all will ever forget the scene that ensued? May God avert the possibility of such another!

The day wore gloomily away at Russell. Twice Mr. Gleason called at Captain Truscott's quarters. The second time Mrs. Stannard appeared at the door, and briefly told him that Mrs. Truscott was not well enough to see anybody, and that Miss Sanford begged to be excused. Mrs. Whaling permeated the post in an ecstasy of soulful comfort, shedding prayers and prophecies of similar fortune for the —th with the impartiality of a saint. She even succeeded in scaring Mrs. Turner half to death and exasperating Mrs. Wilkins to the verge of a tirade, but the latter had contented herself with the spirited, though ungrateful announcement that when it came to having hearses and mutes it wouldn't be Mrs. Whaling they'd inquire for. "Matters are bad enough without your making 'em worse, ma'am," she said, in her decided way. And the good lady, longing to deluge somebody with sympathetic tears, was compelled to confine herself to the round of the infantry quarters, where, with the ladies of her own regiment, she could bemoan the unfathomable ingratitude and lack of appreciation of their sisters of the —th.

Late that afternoon there came more orders and despatches. Truscott and the other cavalry officers were summoned to Colonel Whaling's, where they found most of the infantrymen already assembled. Captain Webb had been called back to Kansas as a witness before a civil court, and to Truscott the order of the division commander was conveyed that he should march with the two troops at Russell without delay, and join the —th wherever he could find them north of the Platte. Three of the four infantry companies would also march for Laramie at dawn. Colonel Whaling, with one small company, the recruits, the band, and the non-combatants, would remain to take charge of the post.

Sending for his first sergeant, Truscott ordered him to have everything put in readiness at once. A man was sent to town to recall all soldiers on pass. There had been no drills during the day. Officers and men alike seemed stunned by the tidings that had come at guard-mounting. He then went to his quarters, and to his young wife's bedside. She was prepared for the news; he had told her during the day that now every available officer and man would be hurried to the front. She was in no danger whatever; it was the shock, the abruptness of the announcement of the orderly, that had so prostrated her. She lay there very pale and still—never taking her soft eyes from his face and holding tightly his hand—as he gently told her all he had to say.

"I cannot be too thankful," he said at last, "that I have Miss Sanford and Mrs. Stannard here to be your companions during the campaign. It will be late in autumn before we can hope to return, my darling."

Later that evening the young subalterns of his own and Webb's troop came to him for certain instructions as to the mess and baggage arrangements. Mr. Gleason had not appeared since the issuance of the orders to march. Tattoo was just sounding out on the parade, and the men could be seen flitting to and fro against the lights of the company barracks. They were standing at the little gate in front of his quarters, and two or three officers passed them.

"Oh, Mr. Gleason, one moment," called Truscott.

Gleason turned and approached them.

"I presume you will mess with the rest of us,—at least until we reach the regiment. Mr. Wells has been arranging for mess-furniture and supplies."

"Well—er—no, captain," said Gleason, in evident embarrassment. "The fact is the colonel directs that I remain here. Somebody has to stay to instruct recruits, and the colonel has settled upon me. It is merely temporary, of course."

Truscott stood looking at him in silence a moment; a dark line was growing between his brows.

"The colonel—er—sent for me just at retreat," Gleason stumbled on; "I assure you I had nothing to say to him to bring about such a thing. It was entirely against my wishes, but orders are orders."

"I am glad to hear you say the order was unsolicited," said the captain shortly. "The colonel will, doubtless, notify me. That is all, Mr. Gleason; I will not detain you."

And Gleason went on his way to the store, which he had lately avoided; he felt that he stood in need of bracing. Still, so far as saying that he had made no request of Colonel Whaling, he had told the truth. He had simply represented the detachment of recruits as being utterly demoralized by the news of the massacre, and that he had reason to believe many of them would desert, and as that would reflect on the vigilance of the post commander, the latter jumped at what was suggested to him by his far-sighted wife,—the temporary detention of Mr. Gleason to take charge of them. At daybreak on the sixth, Truscott's squadron, of over a hundred horse finely mounted, equipped, and disciplined, was marching rapidly over the ridge to Lodge Pole, leaving Russell—wives and children—behind; leaving to care for them, among others, Gleason and Sergeant Wolf.

Wearily the day of their departure rolled away. Mrs. Truscott never left her room. Mrs. Stannard and Miss Sanford rarely left her. Once or twice had Mr. Gleason called, being met again by Mrs. Stannard, whom he was beginning to hate. "The ladies were resting," he was informed; so, too, was Mrs. Whaling told when she came, and seemed discomfited at not being invited up-stairs. It was difficult, indeed, to persuade her that she had not better remain in the parlor in case Mrs. Truscott should ask for her.

"You see, Mrs. Stannard," explained Gleason, "the last thing I promised Truscott as he rode away was that I would not lose sight of the ladies, would watch over them incessantly, and I want to keep faith with him."

Mrs. Stannard had her doubts as to how much of this statement was true, though she had no doubts as to how much was uncalled for. Mr. Gleason went away feeling injured and rebuffed. It was Miss Sanford's business, he held, to come down and see him if only for a moment. He had gained his object in being kept back at the post, that he might pursue his wooing. Satisfied of the wealth and social standing of the lady, he felt no doubt whatever that if given a fair field he could win her, and win her he would. If unlimited conceit has not yet been mentioned or indicated as one of Mr. Gleason's prominent traits, the omission is indeed important. He felt that up to the time of Truscott's coming his progress had been satisfactory. Officers and ladies were already making sly allusions in his presence as to his prospects for a second entanglement, and were heard with complacent undenial. Ever since the day of his aspersion of Ray he had been losing ground, however, and now, confound it! here was Ray looming up as a hero again, making a wild night-ride with despatches. He felt that things must be brought to a crisis speedily. He knew that, properly handled, he had the means of clouding Ray's name with something worse than suspicion. He had already sneeringly replied to the officers who had spoken admiringly of Ray's daring, by saying that Ray was, doubtless, trying to make a record to block matters that were working against him here. Some of his auditors had gone off disgusted. One had plainly said he was sick of insinuations. Now, however, they were all gone, and he had the field practically to himself. The half-dozen officers left at the post would be little apt to interfere with him. Only, he must manage Mrs. Stannard. Gleason took a fortifying glass or two, ordered up his horse, and, late as it was, rode in to Cheyenne. There he dropped in at the telegraph-office,—he could have sent it from the adjutant's office just as well,—and, after some deliberation, wrote this despatch:

"WILLARD RALLSTON, ESQ., Omaha.

"Why no letter? When you coming? Act now. Ferguson gone.

"G."

Being in town he dropped in at one or two places of popular resort, and had more or less conversation with the hangers-on at the open bars. He drank more freely than usual, too, and while by no means off his balance, mentally or physically, when at midnight he turned his horse's head homewards, he was rather more capable of any deed of meanness than would ordinarily have been deemed expedient. His quarters reached, he stood for a moment gazing along the dark and silent row. Suddenly, soft and sweet on the clear night air he heard the notes of a guitar, then a tenor voice, well trained, rich and melodious. He well knew there was no officer in the garrison who could sing like that. Who was it? Where was it?

Slipping through the back-yard and keeping close under the high board fence, Mr. Gleason tiptoed up the row until behind Truscott's. A convenient knot-hole enabled him to peer through, and his eye lit on the dim figure of a man enveloped in cavalry overcoat standing beneath the rear window. This, then, was the troubadour.

A moment or two previous, Miss Sanford, wearied after a long day of anxiety and care, was roused from a broken sleep by a soft, sweet tenor voice beneath her window, and the tinkling accompaniment of a guitar. Each word came floating through the silent night,—

"Rings Stille herscht—es schweigt der Wald, Vollendet ist des Tages Lauf; Der Voegleins Lied ist laengst verhallt, Am Himmel ziehn die Sterne auf. Schlaf wohl, schlaf wohl, Und schliess die schoenen Augen zu; Schlaf wohl, schlaf wohl, Du suesser, lieber Engel Du."

She knew instantly who it must be. She noiselessly slipped to the door leading into Grace's chamber, and the dim night-light showed her sweet friend sound asleep. Returning, she crept to the window, shrouded as it was by the inner curtain. No sign would she give that the song was heard, but what woman would not have risked one peep? Finishing his song, the serenader turned on his heel, gave one long, lingering look at the darkened window, then strode out of the rear gate and away towards the band quarters. Drawing the curtain farther aside, Miss Sanford plainly recognized the walk and bearing. She followed him with her eyes until he had gone full a hundred yards, was about to let fall the curtain, when, crouching like panther, sneaking from shadow to shadow, there slipped past the gate the dim figure of a second man in stealthy pursuit. Who could this be? The first, of course, was Sergeant Wolf.



CHAPTER XIII.

SURROUNDED.

"One thing is certain: we ought to get word over to Wayne or he'll be cut off." The speaker was old Stannard, and his auditors were a knot of half a dozen officers of the —th. It was just daybreak, cold, crisp, and clear. It was about a week after the news of the battle of the Little Horn had reached the regiment. Already its two strongest battalions were marching to join Crook at the Big Horn, but a little squadron—two troops under command of Captain Wayne—lay nearly two days' march away, lower down the broad valley towards the southeast. The tidings that had come by special couriers were exciting, even alarming. A great outbreak had occurred among the Indians still at the agencies on White River. Nearly a thousand of the Southern Cheyennes, who had nothing whatever to do with the quarrel of Sitting Bull and his people, who had no grievance whatever against the government, but had been fed, clothed, petted, and pampered for six or eight years, and who up to this time remained at the reservations, had become so emboldened at the success of the renegades and warriors in the Big Horn country, so envious of their great massacre of Custer and his men, that they had suddenly thrown off all disguise, loaded up with all the provisions, arms, and ammunition they could buy or steal, and had jumped for the Northwest, murdering and pillaging as they went. Waiting no orders, dropping, indeed, the retrograde movement he was ordered to make before this outbreak was known, the regimental commander had turned his columns and shot "cross country" on a night march to head them off. A soldier who doubted the "grit" of his officers and men, who was himself indisposed to dare so strong and savage a foe, could easily have taken refuge in these orders and, marching as directed, avoid the Cheyennes entirely. They were known to be the fiercest, sharpest, trickiest fighters of the plains, full of pluck and science, superb horsemen, fine shots, splendidly mounted and equipped. A foe, indeed, the average man would think twice before "tackling," especially in the light of the fearful exhibition of Indian prowess of the 25th of June. But the leader of the —th never thought twice. No sooner did the breathless couriers reach him with the news than he formed his plans instanter. Within an hour every horse and man in the —th seemed to know they had a race and a fight ahead. Eighty miles of rough country to ride over before they could strike the line on which the Cheyennes were moving, and then the —th could speak for themselves. The news of the tragedy of the Little Horn came like a stunning blow to many a fellow who had lost old and tried comrades in the fray; but while laugh and jest seemed banished for the time, there was no doubting the spirit of the regiment for the coming business. They had turned sharply from their course late in the afternoon of the previous day, had marched nearly all night, had halted to make coffee and give the horses water and a good feed as they reached the sheltering cottonwoods by the stream; and now, while some of the officers with their field-glasses were lying prone upon the commanding ridges studying the distant valley for signs, another party was gathered here around the colonel, who had been having a brief chat with "old Stannard."

"Wayne has been warned by this time. I sent two of the scouts across from the Rawhide last evening," was the colonel's quiet reply to the impulsive outburst of his junior.

"He is off their line of march entirely, I know," admitted Stannard, "but those fellows have had eyes out in every direction. They know just where he is. They know just where that wagon-train is, and up to last evening they knew just where we were, though they are puzzled now, I reckon. All I'm afraid of is that the moment they find we're not in supporting distance, they'll drop what they're after and turn on Wayne. He ought to be only forty odd miles down this valley,—considerably off their line,—and if he has kept close and not fooled away his time he is safe enough; but Wayne is Wayne, colonel, and I've known him to go poking off on side scouts and losing time 'topogging' over pretty country when he ought to have been making tracks for home." (Stannard would use the vernacular of the frontier when at all excited.) "Now it would be just like Wayne to have lost a day in just such a manner. I hope not,—but I fear it."

"He has Ray with him," suggested Captain Turner.

"I know that; but Wayne is butt-headed as a billy-goat on some points, and one is that he can't be taught anything about Indians. He's as innocent and unsuspicious and incapable of appreciating their wiles as the average Secretary of the Interior; and Wayne isn't the kind of man to be influenced by Ray's opinions. He'd be more apt to tell Ray to keep them to himself. It couldn't be helped, of course, but it's a pity two companies had to be sent on that scout. I'd feel safer under Ray with one troop than under Wayne with two."

"I confess I wish we could see just where they were and what they were doing," said the colonel, with an anxious look on his sun-blistered face; "but we have our hands full as it is. Come, Mr. Adjutant, it's time we were off! Get the men in saddle and have the arms and ammunition inspected,—fifty rounds to the man, at least. Major Stannard, where would you locate Truscott's command this morning? I shall send couriers back from here to find him and tell him to join Wayne."

To join Wayne! Well, just at that particular moment Wayne was wishing that he might,—or somebody equally strong. And if the colonel could but have seen the fix that doughty dragoon was in—fifty miles away—the concern on his ruddy face would have been intensified. Wayne had succeeded in justifying everything Stannard had said of him. He had, indeed, been "fooling away his time" on side scouts, and now, before he had fairly dreamed of the possibility of such a thing, the hills around him were alive with Indians.

Ray, with his troop, had been assigned to the captain's command for a scout of some importance over towards the reservations three days before this unlucky morning. Rumors of the disaffection of the Cheyennes had come to the colonel. Everybody knew that the Indians would be wild with delight over the news from Sitting Bull. Indeed, there was reason to believe that it was being whispered at the reservations before the telegraph flashed the tidings broadcast on the 5th of July. Were there not two days there on the Mini Pusa—the 2d and 3d of July—when little parties of Indians were chased towards as well as from the White River? Wayne's orders were to scout the valley and report whether Indians were venturing out that way. Before he had been two days away from the regiment he found trail after trail of war-parties crossing the valley northward. Signal-smokes and night-fires were in the hills beyond. The evidence was conclusive to expert eyes, but Wayne said that, all told, no more than one hundred warriors could have gone out. He was bent on going farther and seeing how many more there were. Ray, as second in rank among the five officers present, ventured to suggest that they had seen quite enough, and that without delay they should either return directly to the regiment or send word. Wayne would not send because only a hundred tracks had been seen, and by the time he had run over double that number the two scouts with them refused to go back. "We would be cut off and killed, sure as fate," was their comprehensive reason. They bivouacked that night in the timber, keeping out strong guards and pickets, but with early dawn were astir, moving back up the valley. Once again had Ray offered a suggestion,—that they should put back during the night, but Wayne was nettled at the fact that Ray's prophecy had come true. They had stayed too long and gone too far. He was a John Bull sort of fellow, full of the ponderous, bumptious courage which prompts the men of that illustrious island empire to be shot down like cattle by Boers and Zulus and Arabs and Afghans, adhering rigidly to the tactics of Waterloo to fight the scientific light troops of the savages sooner than depart from that which was the conventional British method of making war. Wayne was lacking only in moral courage. He was afraid to say he was wrong and Ray was right. Before they had gone two miles he was forced to admit it. He was hemmed in on every side.

The valley had narrowed considerably just here, and the bare, rounded bluffs came down to within two hundred and fifty yards of the timber along the stream. Willows in sparse groups and cottonwoods in sun-bleached foliage were scattered along the level bench on both sides of the river-bed. Broad wastes of sand extended in places from bank to bank, and what water there was lay in heated pools. Here and there the white incrustation on the sand told of the strongly alkaline nature of the soil and the consequent impurity of the fluid. The little column, with scouts well out on front and flanks, was moving four abreast up the south bank along their trail of the previous day. Every now and then some officer or man would note a new signal-smoke puffing up to the sky among the hills some distance off the valley, and Wayne was riding in rather sulky dignity at the head of the command. He had come to the conclusion that he had done an idiotic thing the morning previous, in pushing on down the valley after discovering beyond question that so many Indians were already on the move. He well knew that Ray was the last man in the regiment to counsel avoiding danger, unless it were danger which would prove overwhelming and for encountering which there could be no excuse. He knew he had been idiotic now, for he could see indications that Indians were closing in on him from every side; but, worse than that, he knew that he had added to his idiocy a performance that was simply asinine: he had lost his temper and said an outrageous thing to Ray, and some of the men had heard it. From earliest dawn the lieutenant had been out with the pickets eagerly scanning the surrounding country. Indians, of course, were not to be seen. They kept out of sight behind the bluffs and ridges, but their signals were floating skyward from half a dozen different points, and Ray knew it meant that they were calling in their forces to concentrate on this lone command. At last he had gone to Wayne, who was sipping his coffee with as much deliberation as though the troops had nothing on earth to do all day.

"Captain Wayne. May I ask if anything further has been done towards getting word back to the regiment?"

Wayne looked curiously at his junior a moment. He had the unpleasant conviction that whatever his own views might be, the regiment generally would be more apt to back Ray's opinions as to the chances in Indian fighting than they would his. He could not complain of the lieutenant's manner in the least, but all the same he felt certain that Ray had a higher opinion of his own judgment than he had of his, the squadron commander's. It was time to take him down.

"Why do you ask, Ray?" he said, with assumed composure, setting down his tin cup and motioning to the attendant that he desired to have it refilled.

"Because—we are now pretty well hemmed in, and unless word has gone, there will be little chance of sending any."

"Well, Mr. Ray, why should we send any?"

"Because, Captain Wayne, we have neither ammunition nor provisions for a siege, and the chances are in favor of our having to stand one."

"Oh, trash! Ray. I expected more nerve of you, and you are the first man in the crowd to get stampeded."

For an instant there was danger of an explosion. Ray's eyes blazed with wrath. He would have burst into a fury of denunciation, captain or no captain, but there—close at hand—stood many silent groups of the men. For once in his life Ray said not a word. For one long ten seconds he stood there, looking Wayne straight in the eye, then turned on his heel and left him.

The captain would have given much to recall the words. He knew their utter injustice. He knew, worse luck! that if they succeeded in getting back to the —th in safety, about the very first thing he would be called upon to do would be to eat them. For the moment he was Ray's commanding officer and there was no resenting them; but once back with the —th, then there would be fun!

Wayne rode for the first mile or so in sulky dignity, as has been said. Ray was out in front with the scouts. He had gone without saying a word to the commander, and though that was a breach of etiquette, the captain well knew that there of all others was the place for Ray to be. None of his other subalterns came near him. There were only two,—Dana and Hunter,—and they were riding each at the head of the troop to which he was attached. A young assistant surgeon was with the party, and a civilian who had charge of the half-dozen pack-mules ambling alongside, but even these men seemed indisposed to chat with the commanding officer. The column was riding "at ease," but in silence. No whistling, joking, or singing was going on. To the right was the timber through which, well to the front, half a dozen skirmishers were pushing so as to secure the main body against surprise. To the left, full eight hundred yards away, rose the low line of bluffs, sweeping around the left front so as to approach the stream. Two or three men rode warily along their crest, keeping sharp lookout to the south, while scattered across the valley a like distance ahead were half a dozen active troopers, the two guides, and Ray. The latter, easily recognized at that distance by his riding and by "Dandy's" elastic stride, had discarded his coat, and was moving rapidly from point to point in his dark-blue scouting-shirt.

Nearing the bluffs that bent around their front, it could be seen that the guides were hanging back a little, so were the skirmishers in advance; but the men on the flanks pushed ahead. No Indians could be seen from their more elevated position.

"They're shy of that bluff," said Wayne between his teeth. "Here, Mr. Dana, send a sergeant and two sets of fours forward, and stir them up a little. Wait a moment! There goes Ray."

Sure enough, Ray and a couple of horsemen, opening out considerably, could be seen spurring diagonally across the bottom towards a point of bluffs that rose higher than the general line off to the left. Before they had gone two hundred yards, out from the very crest of the bluff there leaped half a dozen quick puffs of smoke; half a dozen little spirts of dust and sand flew up from the prairie near the three horsemen farthest to the front, two of whose steeds were seen to veer and shy violently, and then six sharp, spiteful, half-muffled reports were borne on the still air.

Even before the shots were heard Wayne was turning in his saddle.

"Deploy to the front, Dana; only your first platoon," he added, as the young officer was about throwing forward the whole troop. "Look out for the bluffs on your left. I'll have Hunter face them. Half front your line that way so as not to let them enfilade you. I'm going right out to the front." With that he rode back, said a few words to Hunter, and then, followed by his orderly trumpeter, went thumping off at ponderous gallop towards his distant advance.

Almost at the same instant the flankers on the bluffs to the left were seen waving their hats and spurring about in violent excitement, pointing towards the south. Then they fired two or three wild shots in that direction, and, ducking as though to avoid return fire, came sweeping down the slopes at full speed.

It was stirring to mark the bearing of the little command just then. Every man knew that the unseen foe was present in front and flank in heavy force. Every hand seemed nerved to sudden strength. The horses tossed their heads and pricked up their ears, looking eagerly in the direction of the firing. In obedience to his orders, Dana was rapidly deploying his leading platoon, and a sheaf of skirmishers went scattering out to the front in support of the advance, while Hunter, left for the moment alone, divined in an instant that the Indians were coming with a rush upon the southern flank. He wheeled his fours to the left, and, dismounting his skirmishers, sent them at the double-quick out across the prairie. Not an instant too soon! Almost simultaneously the ridge to the south, the bluffs out in front, and even the narrow level between them and the timber fairly bristled with daring, dashing horsemen,—the Cheyennes in all their glory.

Oh, what a brilliant sight they made with plume and pennon, floating war-bonnet, lance and shield; the sunlight dancing on their barbaric ornaments of glistening brass or silver, on brightly-painted, naked forms, on the trappings of their nimble ponies, on rifle and spear! All at full speed, all ayell, brandishing their weapons, firing wildly into the valley, leaping, some of them, for an instant to the ground to take better aim, then, like a flash, to saddle and top speed again; through every little swale, over every ridge they popped like so many savage Jacks-in-the-box, and came swooping, circling down on the little column at the old-time tactics of the stampede. Warily though, with all their clamor, for though they whoop and yell and shoot and challenge, they veer off to right or left long before they get within dangerous range of those silent skirmishers of Hunter's, now sprawling in long blue line out on the dusty prairie, ventre a terre, and every fellow with his carbine at the front just praying the painted scamps will come a little closer. Warily in front, too, where Ray is skilfully retiring, face to the foe, but keeping them back while Wayne has time to return to the column and move his horses into the sheltering timber and prepare for vigorous defence.

It is the only course now open to him. This is not civilized warfare, remember, and far different rules must govern. It would be no difficult matter against ordinary troops to lead a dashing charge, cut through the opposing line, and so make his way back to the regiment. Of course many men might be unhorsed and wounded, and so left behind, but they would be cared for as prisoners until exchanged or the war was at an end. But war with the Indian means, on his side, war a outrance,—war to the cruellest death he can devise. When he is cornered, all he has to do is surrender and become the recipient of more attention and the victim of higher living than he ever dreamed of until he tried it, and found it so pleasant that it paid him to go on the war-path every spring, to have a royal old revel in blood and bestiality until fall, and then yield to the blandishments of civilization for the winter. But to officer or soldier capture means death, and death by fiendish torture as a rule. The Indian fights for the glory and distinction it gives him. He has everything to gain and nothing to lose. The soldier of the United States fights the red man only because he is ordered to. He has nothing to gain—even glory, for the Senate has fixed a bar sinister on gallantry in Indian warfare. He has everything to lose. However, no words of mine will ever effect a change of political heart in such matters. The fact remains that the one thing left for Wayne to do—finding himself cut off by some two hundred Cheyennes—was to take to the timber and stand them off.

By this time the fray was spirited and picturesque in the extreme. The whole line of bluffs was alive with Indians dashing to and fro, occasionally swooping down as though to burst through or over the slender skirmish line. Others had swung clear around to the left, and were circling about in the valley below them. From all but the north side, therefore, the bullets came whistling in, and occasionally some stricken horse would plunge and snort madly, and one or two men were being assisted to the bank of the stream, where the young doctor had already gone to work. Hunter's dismounted men, sturdily fronting the south and southeast, were holding five times their force in check, while Ray's and Dana's mounted skirmishers, fronting southwest and west, were slowly falling back fighting. The Cheyennes encircled them on every side but the north.

Busy in getting his horses into shelter under the bank, which was a few feet high, and directing where the provisions and pack-mules should be placed, Wayne was suddenly accosted by Ray.

"If twenty men can be spared, sir, I'll put them on that island," pointing to a clump of willows and cottonwoods that stood along the opposite shore. "The Indians are crossing above and below, and we'll soon have their fire on our backs."

Wayne was soldier enough to see the force of the suggestion. He was man enough, too, to want to ask Ray's pardon for his language of the morning, but there was only time to accede to the request. The Kentuckian, still mounted on Dandy, was darting across the sandy space with a dozen or more of his men at his heels. The island was a Godsend. In less than five minutes the warriors who had ventured across, and were now seeking for a shot at the safety-roost along under the bank, were met by a score of well-aimed bullets that drove them to cover, dragging with them the lifeless body of one of their number.

"Spread out there, men!" shouted Wayne. "Seize every point you can get on t'other shore. Run up-stream fifty yards or so and scoop holes for yourselves in the sand." And then he rode out to the front again to superintend the retirement of his slender lines.

But all this time the firing had been rapid and almost incessant. As the troopers came slowly in towards the timber and the Cheyennes realized that it was impossible to drive them into panic or stampede, they seemed to give far more attention to the accuracy of their aim, and for this purpose the best shots had thrown themselves from their ponies and were striving to pick off the officers and prominent sergeants. Still, the greater number remained in saddle whooping and yelling and darting to and fro at a comparatively safe distance, banging away at anything or anybody within the soldier lines, and offering tempting though difficult marks for the sorely-tried skirmishers. Until he noted the distant war-parties crossing to the north side of the stream, Ray had been riding up and down the lines checking the useless waste of ammunition. Everywhere his voice could be heard, placid, almost laughing at times, as he rebuked the senseless long-range shooting of the men.

"Hold your fire, men. You can't hit those skipping jack-rabbits half a mile away. What on earth are you shooting at, Mulligan? You couldn't hit a whole barn at that distance."

But all the same he was seriously worried. He knew well that at the utmost there were no more than fifty rounds per man with the troopers, and that rapid firing would soon reduce this to next to nothing. The indications were that once hemmed in to the timber they would need every shot to stand off the Cheyennes until relief could come, and before galloping off to secure the timbered island in rear of their position and so form a partially protected "corral" for the horses, he had cautioned Dana and Hunter to be most sparing in their fire,—to allow no shot unless the Indians charged.

The foe, on the contrary, were flush with ammunition. Mr. ——'s cartridges were abundant among them, and from east, south, and west the bullets were whizzing overhead, ripping up little grass tufts from the prairie and raising a dust wherever they struck. The mounted skirmishers sheered off into the timber quite early, as they were being shot at from three sides, sprang from their horses and took to the trees, but before they could do so several casualties had occurred. Six horses were lying dead out on the prairie, others were wounded and bleeding, but worse than that, two old Arizona sergeants, veterans of a dozen fights, and five of the men were severely wounded. Ray's efforts to keep down the return fire were futile. As long as the men had cartridges and he was not about, they would fire. Just as Wayne the second time rode out to the front he found Dana slowly dismounting.

"Are you hit?" he asked.

Dana nodded, pressed his hand to his side, and saying nothing, walked up to a neighboring cottonwood and leaned against it, looking rather pale.

"Damn the luck!" growled Wayne. "This won't do. I must get the whole crowd under cover."

"You get under yourself," grinned Dana. "That hat of yours looks like a sieve now. Yi-ip! There goes your horse." And forgetting his own pain, he strove to aid the captain, whose horse had suddenly plunged forward, and was now rolling and kicking in the agony of death.

"I'm all right, Dana. Poor old Ned! he's carried me many a mile. Here, sergeant, help the lieutenant back to the doctor. Go, Dana! I'll get the men where they belong. We're all right, once we get in the timber."

And so, little by little, slowly and steadily the skirmishers fell back to the shelter of the trees. There in big semicircle they were distributed, each in a little, hastily constructed rifle-pit or shelter of his own, and by nine o'clock this bright July morning the first phase of the combat was at an end, and there was time to "take account of stock."

Dana was shot through the side by a Henry or Winchester bullet, and was lying under the bank faint, thirsty, but plucky. Sergeant Gwinn and two of the men were dead, and eight men now needed the care of the surgeon; three of them were senseless, probably mortally hurt. At least fifteen horses were killed or rendered useless; the others were "corralled" under the bank, where, in a deep bend, they were safe except from long-range fire. Ray's men on the island had improved their advantage by seizing defensible positions on the north bank, and, as against two hundred and fifty Indians, with two days' rations left, with abundant water to be had by digging in the sand, with pluck and spirit left for anything, they were not badly off, provided the Indians were not heavily reinforced and provided their ammunition held out.

The Cheyennes now resorted to other tactics. Leaving but few warriors scurrying about on the open prairie, both north and south, they gathered in force in the timber up- and down-stream and began their stealthy approaches, keeping up all the time a sharp fire upon Wayne's position. Every now and then would come a frantic cry from some stricken horse as a random bullet took effect, but few struck among the men. The surgeon and the wounded were well sheltered in a concave hollow of the bank.

There was fortunately little wind. With a gale blowing either up- or down-stream, the Indians could have fired the timber and soon driven them out. This was well understood on both sides. But the besieged knew as well that other methods would be resorted to, and speedily they were developed. The rattling fire that had been kept up ever since the first assault had died away to an occasional shot, when suddenly from the down-stream side there came a volley, a chorus of frantic yells, and then a pandemonium of shots, shouts, howls, and screeches, answered by the soldiers with their carbines and the billingsgate of some irrepressible humorist. A savage attack had begun on Hunter's men. Even as Wayne and Ray, bending low to avoid the storm, went scurrying through the trees to his assistance, followed by some half a dozen of the "old hands," there came from up-stream just such another assault, and in ten seconds every able man in the command was hotly engaged.

"For God's sake, captain, don't let them waste their fire!" shouted Ray. "I'll go back to the other front and hold them there."

"All right! I understand, Ray. You watch the same thing over there," answered Wayne, who at another time would have resented any suggestions, but had seen the value of Ray's words a dozen times that day. "Damn it! men. Fire slow. Don't throw away a shot. Let them come closer; that's what we want," he shouted to the soldiers, who, lying behind logs or kneeling among the trees, were driving their missiles through the timber, where the smoke-wreaths told of the otherwise invisible foe. Out on the prairie, too, the mounted warriors went careering about, dashing at full speed towards the woods, as though determined to charge, but invariably veering off to right or left as they came within three hundred yards. Of course, there was no direction from which the bullets did not come whizzing into the timber, and men were more likely to be hit in the back than elsewhere,—one of the many disheartening features of such warfare. Almost every moment somebody was hit, though at the time it could not be seen or known, as all were too busy with what was in their front to look around. Once in a while, too, some lucky shot would send an Indian pony to his knees out on the prairie, or a warrior would drop and be borne off by a ducking, dodging trio of his fellows. Then there would be a shout of triumph from the timber, answering yells of rage and defiance from the foe; but finally, after nearly an hour of such savage work, the Cheyennes seemed to give it up. Then came another respite, another "taking of stock."

One of the scouts, one who had refused to try and ride through to the regiment, was shot dead, and lay on his face among the trees. So, too, were two more of the men, while six were wounded, and Wayne himself had a flesh wound in the thigh. The hot sun of noonday was pouring down, and matters looked ugly.

"Do you know how much ammunition we have left?" asked Mr. Ray, in a low tone, of the commanding officer about an hour later.

"No," said Wayne, looking anxiously in his face.

"Not twelve rounds to the man."



CHAPTER XIV.

RAY'S RIDE FOR LIFE

Darkness has settled down in the shadowy Wyoming valley. By the light of a tiny fire under the bank some twenty forms can be seen stretched upon the sand,—they are wounded soldiers. A little distance away are nine others, shrouded in blankets: they are the dead. Huddled in confused and cowering group are a few score horses, many of them sprawled upon the sand motionless; others occasionally struggle to rise or plunge about in their misery. Crouching among the timber, vigilant but weary, dispersed in big, irregular circle around the beleaguered bivouac, some sixty soldiers are still on the active list. All around them, vigilant and vengeful, lurk the Cheyennes. Every now and then the bark as of a coyote is heard,—a yelping, querulous cry,—and it is answered far across the valley or down the stream. There is no moon; the darkness is intense, though the starlight is clear, and the air so still that the galloping hoofs of the Cheyenne ponies far out on the prairie sound close at hand.

"That's what makes it hard," says Ray, who is bending over the prostrate form of Captain Wayne. "If it were storming or blowing, or something to deaden the hoof-beats, I could make it easier; but it's the only chance."

The only chance of what?

When the sun went down upon Wayne's timber citadel, and the final account of stock was taken for the day, it was found that with one-fourth of the command, men and horses, killed and wounded there were left not more than three hundred cartridges, all told, to enable some sixty men to hold out until relief could come against an enemy encircling them on every side, and who had only to send over to the neighboring reservation—forty miles away—and get all the cartridges they wanted. Mr. —— would let their friends have them to kill buffalo, though Mr. —— and their friends knew there wasn't a buffalo left within four hundred miles.

They could cut through, of course, and race up the valley to find the —th, but they would have to leave the wounded and the dismounted behind,—to death by torture,—so that ended the matter. Only one thing remained. In some way—by some means—word must be carried to the regiment. The chances were ten to one against the couriers slipping out. Up and down the valley, out on the prairie on both sides of the stream, the Cheyennes kept vigilant watch. They had their hated enemies in a death-grip, and only waited the coming of other warriors and more ammunition to finish them—as the Sioux had finished Custer. They knew, though the besieged did not, that, the very evening before, the —th had marched away westward, and were far from their comrades. All they had to do was to prevent any one's escaping to give warning of the condition of things in Wayne's command. All, therefore, were on the alert, and of this there was constant indication. The man or men who made the attempt would have to run the gauntlet. The one remaining scout who had been employed for such work refused the attempt as simply madness. He had lived too long among the Indians to dare it, yet Wayne and Ray and Dana and Hunter, and the whole command, for that matter, knew that some one must try it. Who was it to be?

There was no long discussion. Wayne called the sulking scout a damned coward, which consoled him somewhat, but didn't help matters. Ray had been around the rifle-pits taking observations. Presently he returned, leading Dandy up near the fire,—the one sheltered light that was permitted.

"Looks fine as silk, don't he?" he said, smoothing his pet's glossy neck and shoulder, for Ray's groom had no article of religion which took precedence over the duty he owed the lieutenant's horse, and no sooner was the sun down than he had been grooming him as though still in garrison. "Give him all the oats you can steal, Hogan; some of the men must have a hatful left."

Wayne looked up startled.

"Ray, I can't let you go!"

"There's no helping it. Some one must go, and who can you send?"

Even there the captain noted the grammatical eccentricity. What was surprising was that even there he made no comment thereon. He was silent. Ray had spoken truth. There was no one whom he could order to risk death in breaking his way out since the scout had said 'twas useless. There were brave men there who would gladly try it had they any skill in such matters, but that was lacking. "If any man in the command could 'make it,' that man was Ray." He was cool, daring, keen; he was their best and lightest rider, and no one so well know the country or better knew the Cheyennes. Wayne even wished that Ray might volunteer. There was only this about it,—the men would lose much of their grit with him away. They swore by him, and felt safe when he was there to lead or encourage. But the matter was settled by Ray himself. He was already stripping for the race.

"Get those shoes off," he said to the farrier, who came at his bidding, and Dandy wonderingly looked up from the gunny-sack of oats in which he had buried his nozzle. "What on earth could that blacksmith mean by tugging out his shoe-nails?" was his reflection, though, like the philosopher he was, he gave more thought to his oats,—an unaccustomed luxury just then.

There seemed nothing to be said by anybody. Wayne rose painfully to his feet. Hunter stood in silence by, and a few men grouped themselves around the little knot of officers. Ray had taken off his belt and was poking out the carbine-cartridges from the loops,—there were not over ten. Then he drew the revolver, carefully examined the chambers to see that all were filled; motioned with his hand to those on the ground, saying, quietly, "Pick those up. Y'all may need every one of 'em." The Blue Grass dialect seemed cropping out the stronger for his preoccupation. "Got any spare Colts?" he continued, turning to Wayne. "I only want another round." These he stowed as he got them in the smaller loops on the right side of his belt. Then he bent forward to examine Dandy's hoofs again.

"Smooth them off as well as you can. Get me a little of that sticky mud there, one of you men. There! ram that into every hole and smooth off the surface. Make it look just as much like a pony's as you know how. They can't tell Dandy's tracks from their own then, don't you see?"

Three or four pairs of hands worked assiduously to do his bidding. Still, there was no talking. No one had anything he felt like saying just then.

"Who's got the time?" he asked.

Wayne looked at his watch, bending down over the fire.

"Just nine fifteen."

"All right. I must be off in ten minutes. The moon will be up at eleven."

Dandy had finished the last of his oats by this time and was gazing contentedly about him. Ever since quite early in the day he had been in hiding down there under the bank. He had received only one trifling clip, though for half an hour at least he had been springing around where the bullets flew thickest. He was even pining for his customary gallop over the springy turf, and wondering why it had been denied him that day.

"Only a blanket and surcingle," said Ray, to his orderly, who was coming up with the heavy saddle and bags. "We're riding to win to-night, Dandy and I, and must travel light."

He flung aside his scouting hat, knotted the silk handkerchief he took from his throat so as to confine the dark hair that came tumbling almost into his eyes, buckled the holster-belt tightly round his waist, looked doubtfully an instant at his spurs, but decided to keep them on. Then he turned to Wayne.

"A word with you, captain."

The others fell back a short distance, and for a moment the two stood alone speaking in low tones. All else was silent except the feverish moan of some poor fellow lying sorely wounded in the hollow, or the occasional pawing and stir among the horses. In the dim light of the little fire the others stood watching them. They saw that Wayne was talking earnestly, and presently extended his hand, and they heard Ray somewhat impatiently, say, "Never mind that now," and noted that at first he did not take the hand; but finally they came back to the group and Ray spoke:

"Now, fellows, just listen a minute. I've got to break out on the south side. I know it better. Of course there are no end of Indians out there, but most of the crowd are in the timber above and below. There will be plenty on the watch, and it isn't possible that I can gallop out through them without being heard. Dandy and I have got to sneak for it until we're spotted, or clear of them, then away we go. I hope to work well out towards the bluffs before they catch a glimpse of me, then lie flat and go for all I'm worth to where we left the regiment. Then you bet it won't be long before the old crowd will be coming down just a humping. I'll have 'em here by six o'clock, if, indeed, I don't find them coming ahead to-night. Just you keep up your grit, and we'll do our level best, Dandy and I; won't we, old boy? Now I want to see Dana a minute and the other wounded fellows." And he went and bent down over them saying a cheery word to each; and rough, suffering men held out feeble hands to take a parting grip, and looked up into his brave young face. He had long known how the rank and file regarded him, but had been disposed to laugh it off. To-night as he stopped to say a cheering word to the Wounded, and looked down at some pale, bearded face that had stood at his shoulder in more than one tight place in the old Apache days in Arizona, and caught the same look of faith and trust in him, something like a quiver hovered for a minute about his lips, and his own brave eyes grew moist. They knew he was daring death to save them, but that was a view of the case that did not seem to occur to him at all. At last he came to Dana lying there a little apart. The news that Ray was going to "ride for them" had been whispered all through the bivouac by this time, and Dana turned and took Ray's hand in both his own.

"God speed you, old boy! If you make it all safe, get word to mother that I didn't do so badly in my first square tussel, will you?"

"If I make it, you'll be writing it yourself this time to-morrow night. Even if I don't make it, don't you worry, lad. The colonel and Stannard ain't the fellows to let us shift for ourselves with the country full of Cheyennes. They'll be down here in two days, anyhow. Good-by, Dana; keep your grip and we'll larrup 'em yet."

Then he turned back to Wayne, Hunter, and the doctor.

"One thing occurs to me, Hunter. You and six or eight men take your carbines and go up-stream with a dozen horses until you come to the rifle-pits. Be all ready. If I get clear through you won't hear any row, but if they sight or hear me before I get through, then, of course, there will be the biggest kind of an excitement, and you'll hear the shooting. The moment it begins give a yell; fire your guns; go whooping up the stream with the horses as though the whole crowd were trying to cut out that way, but get right back. The excitement will distract them and help me. Now, good-by, and good luck to you, crowd."

"Ray, will you have a nip before you try it? You must be nearly used up after this day's work." And Wayne held out his flask to him.

"No. I had some hot coffee just ten minutes ago, and I feel like a four-year-old. I'm riding new colors; didn't you know it? By Jove!" he added, suddenly, "this is my first run under the Preakness blue." Even there and then he thought too quickly to speak her name. "Now, then, some of you crawl out to the south edge of the timber with me, and lie flat on the prairie and keep me in sight as long as you can." He took one more look at his revolver. "I'm drawing to a bob-tail. If I fail, I'll bluff; if I fill, I'll knock spots out of any threes in the Cheyenne outfit."

Three minutes more and the watchers at the edge of the timber have seen him, leading Dandy by the bridle, slowly, stealthily, creeping out into the darkness; a moment the forms of man and horse are outlined against the stars: then, are swallowed up in the night. Hunter and the sergeants with him grasp their carbines and lie prone upon the turf, watching, waiting.

In the bivouac is the stillness of death. Ten soldiers—carbine in hand—mounted on their unsaddled steeds are waiting in the darkness at the upper rifle-pits for Hunter's signal. If he shout, every man is to yell and break for the front. Otherwise, all is to remain quiet. Back at the watch-fire under the bank Wayne is squatting, watch in one hand, pistol in the other. Near by lie the wounded, still as their comrades just beyond,—the dead. All around among the trees and in the sand-pits up- and down-stream, fourscore men are listening to the beating of their own hearts. In the distance, once in a while, is heard the yelp of coyote or the neigh of Indian pony. In the distance, too, are the gleams of Indian fires, but they are far beyond the positions occupied by the besieging warriors. Darkness shrouds them. Far aloft the stars are twinkling through the cool and breezeless air. With wind, or storm, or tempest, the gallant fellow whom all hearts are following would have something to favor, something to aid; but in this almost cruel stillness nothing under God can help him,—nothing but darkness and his own brave spirit.

"If I get through this scrape in safety," mutters Wayne between his set teeth, "the —th shall never hear the last of this work of Ray's."

"If I get through this night," mutters Ray to himself, far out on the prairie now, where he can hear tramping hoofs and guttural voices, "it will be the best run ever made for the Sanford blue, though I do make it."

Nearly five minutes have passed, and the silence has been unbroken by shot or shout. The suspense is becoming unbearable in the bivouac, where every man is listening, hardly daring to draw breath. At last Hunter, rising to his knees, which are all a tremble with excitement, mutters to Sergeant Roach, who is still crouching beside him,—

"By Heaven! I believe he'll slip through without being seen."

Hardly has he spoken when far, far out to the southwest two bright flashes leap through the darkness. Before the report can reach them there comes another, not so brilliant. Then, the ringing bang, bang of two rifles, the answering crack of a revolver.

"Quick, men. Go!" yells Hunter, and darts headlong through the timber back to the stream. There is a sudden burst of shots and yells and soldier cheers; a mighty crash and sputter and thunder of hoofs up the stream-bed; a foot dash, yelling like demons, of the men at the west end in support of the mounted charge in the bed of the stream. For a minute or two the welkin rings with shouts, shots (mainly those of the startled Indians), then there is as sudden a rush back to cover, without a man or horse hurt or missing. In the excitement and darkness the Cheyennes could only fire wild, but now the night air resounds with taunts and yells and triumphant war-whoops. For full five minutes there is a jubilee over the belief that they have penned in the white soldiers after their dash for liberty. Then, little by little, the yells and taunts subside. Something has happened to create discussion in the Cheyenne camps, for the crouching soldiers can hear the liveliest kind of a pow-wow far up-stream. What does it mean? Has Ray slipped through, or—have they caught him?

Despite pain and weakness, Wayne hobbles out to where Sergeant Roach is still watching and asks for tidings.

"I can't be sure, captain; one thing's certain, the lieutenant rode like a gale. I could follow the shots a full half-mile up the valley, where they seemed to grow thicker, and then stop all of a sudden in the midst of the row that was made down here. They've either given it up and have a big party out in chase, or else they've got him. God knows which. If they've got him, there'll be a scalp-dance over there in a few minutes, curse them!" And the sergeant choked.

Wayne watched some ten minutes without avail. Nothing further was seen or heard that night to indicate what had happened to Ray except once. Far up the valley he saw a couple of flashes among the bluffs, so did Roach, and that gave him hope that Dandy had carried his master in safety that far at least.

He crept back to the bank and cheered the wounded with the news of what he had seen. Then another word came in ere long. An old sergeant had crawled out to the front, and could hear something of the shouting and talking of the Indians. He could understand few words only, though he had lived among the Cheyennes nearly five years. They can barely understand one another in the dark, and use incessant gesticulation to interpret their own speech; but the sergeant gathered that they were upbraiding somebody for not guarding a coulee, and inferred that some one had slipped past their pickets or they wouldn't be making such a row.

That the Cheyennes did not propose to let the besieged derive much comfort from their hopes was soon apparent. Out from the timber up the stream came sonorous voices shouting taunt and challenge, intermingled with the vilest expletives they had picked up from their cowboy neighbors, and all the frontier slang in the Cheyenne vocabulary.

"Hullo! sogers; come out some more times. We no shoot. Stay there: we come plenty quick. Hullo! white chief, come fight fair; soger heap 'fraid! Come, have scalp-dance plenty quick. Catch white soldier; eat him heart bime by."

"Ah, go to your grandmother, the ould witch in hell, ye musthard-sthriped convict!" sings out some irrepressible Paddy in reply, and Wayne, who is disposed to serious thoughts, would order silence, but it occurs to him that Mulligan's crude sallies have a tendency to keep the men lively.

"I can't believe they've got him," he whispers to the doctor. "If they had they would soon recognize him as an officer and come bawling out their triumph at bagging a chief. His watch, his shoes, his spurs, his underclothing, would all betray that he was an officer, though he hasn't a vestige of uniform. Pray God he is safe!"

Will you follow Ray and see? Curiosity is what lures the fleetest deer to death, and a more dangerous path than that which Ray has taken one rarely follows. Will you try it, reader?—just you and I? Come on, then. We'll see what our Kentucky boy "got in the draw," as he would put it.

Ray's footfall is soft as a kitten's as he creeps out upon the prairie; Dandy stepping gingerly after him, wondering but obedient. For over a hundred yards he goes, until both up- and down-stream he can almost see the faint fires of the Indians in the timber. Farther out he can hear hoof-beats and voices, so he edges along westward until he comes suddenly to a depression, a little winding "cooley" across the prairie, through which in the early spring the snows are carried off from some ravine among the bluffs. Into this he noiselessly feels his way and Dandy follows. He creeps along to his left and finds that its general course is from the southwest. He knows well that the best way to watch for objects in the darkness is to lie flat on low ground so that everything approaching may be thrown against the sky. His plainscraft tells him that by keeping in the water-course he will be less apt to be seen, but will surely come across some lurking Indians. That he expects. The thing is to get as far through them as possible before being seen or heard, then mount and away. After another two minutes' creeping he peers over the western bank. Now the fires up-stream can be seen in the timber, and dim, shadowy forms pass and repass. Then close at hand come voices and hoof-beats. Dandy pricks up his ears and wants to neigh, but Ray grips his nostrils like a vice, and Dandy desists. At rapid lope, within twenty yards, a party of half a dozen warriors go bounding past on their way down the valley, and no sooner have they crossed the gulley than he rises and rapidly pushes on up the dry sandy bed. Thank heaven! there are no stones. A minute more and he is crawling again, for the hoof-beats no longer drown the faint sound of Dandy's movements. A few seconds more and right in front of him, not a stone's throw away, he hears the deep tones of Indian voices in conversation. Whoever they may be they are in the "cooley" and watching the prairie. They can see nothing of him, nor he of them. Pass them in the ten-foot-wide ravine he cannot. He must go back a short distance, make a sweep to the east so as not to go between those watchers and the guiding fires, then trust to luck. Turning stealthily he brings Dandy around, leads back down the ravine for some thirty yards, then turns to his horse, pats him gently one minute, "Do your prettiest for your colors, my boy," he whispers; springs lightly, noiselessly to his back, and at cautious walk comes up on the level prairie, with the timber behind him three hundred yards away. Southward he can see the dim outline of the bluffs. Westward—once that little arroya is crossed, he knows the prairie to be level and unimpeded, fit for a race; but he needs to make a detour to pass the Indians guarding it, get way beyond them, cross it to the west far behind them, and then look out for stray parties. Dandy ambles lightly along, eager for fun and little appreciating the danger. Ray bends down on his neck, intent with eye and ear. He feels that he has got well out east of the Indian picket unchallenged, when suddenly voices and hoofs come bounding up the valley from below. He must cross their front, reach the ravine before them, and strike the prairie beyond. "Go, Dandy!" he mutters with gentle pressure of leg, and the sorrel bounds lightly away, circling southwestward under the guiding rein. Another minute and he is at the arroya and cautiously descending, then scrambling up the west bank, and then from the darkness comes savage challenge, a sputter of pony hoofs. Ray bends low and gives Dandy one vigorous prod with the spur, and with muttered prayer and clinched teeth and fists he leaps into the wildest race for his life.

Bang! bang! go two shots close behind him. Crack! goes his pistol at a dusky form closing in on his right. Then come yells, shots, the uproar of hoofs, the distant cheer and charge at camp, a breathless dash for and close along under the bluffs where his form is best concealed, a whirl to the left into the first ravine that shows itself, and despite shots and shouts and nimble ponies and vengeful foes, the Sanford colors are riding far to the front, and all the racers of the reservations cannot overhaul them.



CHAPTER XV.

RESCUE AT DAWN.

The short July night wears rapidly away in the high latitudes of the Northwest. It is barely dark at nine, and in six hours

"Morn, in the white wake of the morning star, Comes furrowing all the Orient into gold."

Yet the night wears wearily, watchfully away in the bivouac down among the cottonwoods south of the Black Hills. Exhausted with the excitement and fatigue of the day, some few men sleep fitfully at times, and other few doze once in a while among the watchers. All the livelong night there is jubilee among the Indians above and below. They keep up their howlings and war-dances in prospective triumph, for, so far as they can learn, they have done no more damage to the soldiers than the killing of a few horses and the wounding of some half a dozen men. Their own loss has been greater than that, and there is mourning for some of the braves slain in the combat of the day. They know that escape is impossible to the soldiers. They feel that with another day they can wear out the besieged; tempt them into firing off their ammunition, and, if they can only keep off their friends,—the regiment,—they have them sure.

All the same it is pleasing to Indian ideas of humor to keep up a delusion among the besieged of having captured their messenger. We know Ray is safely off, but Wayne and his men have no such comfort, for, for hours the Indians shout their taunts of "Catch white soger; eat 'um heart," and in their deep anxieties many of the men seem ready to believe it. To tell the truth, Wayne has hard work keeping up the pluck and spirits of some of the men, and towards morning the sufferings of the wounded are more than he can bear. Every little while the roystering Indians send a rattling fusillade in among the timbers, but do no great damage beyond making people uncomfortable. Some of them crawl close to the lines of sentries, but find nothing to encourage further inspection or advance. But Dana begs to be lifted in his blanket and carried some distance up-stream, where he can lie on the sand and get away from the sound of others' suffering, and Wayne and Hunter, with two or three men, bear him thither, and there, under the starlight and the waning moon, they lie at full length and softly talk over the situation. There is no disguising the truth. Their condition is most precarious: hemmed in on every side; ammunition almost gone, thanks to the reckless extravagance of the men in twelve hours' fighting, their only hope lies in Ray's reaching the —th that night and "routing out" the whole command for a dash to the rescue. They never dreamed, poor fellows, that Ray would never find the —th where they left it. All hope would have died had they known their comrades had gone.

Yet that very circumstance stands at this moment in their favor. The Cheyennes had learned with huge delight that the strange soldiers had marched off westward, apparently abandoning that watch near the reservations, and leaving it safe for them to scurry forth with bag and baggage, with women and children, on their rush for freedom—and Sitting Bull.

Sighting this little detachment of soldiers venturing on down the valley instead of hurrying back, they had signalled all over the country calling in war-parties to their aid, and formulated their scheme to ambuscade and "corral" it at the narrows of the valley; but Ray's vigilance and plainscraft had defeated that scheme; though they had good chances yet, if they only knew where the regiment had gone. Late the previous evening it had disappeared behind a prominent headland far up a valley farther to the south, and probably had there gone into camp for the night. Late this night they get the news that gives rise to vast speculation and some genuine anxiety. Runners come in who say that instead of camping there, the White Chief rode all night; turned northward soon as it was dark; crossed this very valley far above them at dawn, and where he went from there they couldn't say. They dare not follow. Was it possible the White Chief was going to beat them at their own tactics? Could it be that he was going to head them off? Attack them in the early morning far to the northwest? Lying on the ground, the officers heard many hoof-beats dying away in the distance, and wondered what it might mean. It meant that some fifty of their foemen had galloped away to look for their families and the rest of the band, and warn them of the new danger. It was more than certain that no help could come to the soldiers in the valley; but they must guard their people against this mysterious move. At daybreak those left behind would resume the effort to dislodge the soldiers, and then there would be a revel.

And daybreak comes all too soon. Far to the east the stars are paling, and a grayish veil rises slowly from the horizon. One by one the night-lamps in the heavens lose their sparkle and radiance, as the filament of the dawn shrouds and stifles them. Far down the valley tumbling outlines of ridge and height are carved out in sharper relief against the lightening sky. There is a stir in the leaves o'erhead and the soft rustle of the morning breeze. Presently the pallid veil at the east takes on a purplish blush, that is changing every instant to a ruddier hue. Faces are beginning to be dimly visible in the groups of defenders, pinched and drawn and cold in the nipping air, and Wayne notes with a half sob how blue poor Dana's lips are. The boy's thoughts are far away. Is he wandering? Is it fever already?

His eyes are closed, and he whispered to himself but a moment ago. Hunter is taking a cat-nap. Wayne is too anxious, too unhappy to sleep, and his wound is stiff and painful. A veteran first sergeant comes creeping up to them for orders, and they are brief enough:

"Don't let the men waste a shot. It's our only hope of holding out until help can come. They'll be on us again soon as it is fairly light."

"Captain," whispers Dana, "have you been awake all the time?"

"Yes, lad. Why?"

"Have you heard nothing,—no signal?"

"Nothing; not a sound. Why do you ask?"

"I'm afraid I've been only dreaming; yet I thought, I surely thought a while ago I heard a trumpet-call,—far away—far out on the prairie."

"Which way, Dana?"

"Off to the southwest. I didn't like to speak of it, but I thought I heard it twice."

"If Ray got through all right that's where the —th should be coming from. It may be, Dana. It may be, for they'd lose no time, though Ray thought six would be the earliest hour at which he could fetch them even at a trot. It's only about three now, or a little after. I'll put men on watch and have them listen. Go and bring the trumpeter to me," he said, to one of the men.

The light grows broader every moment. Already forms can be dimly distinguished up and down the stream-bed, and mounted Indians darting about out on the prairie. A sergeant comes up to the group of officers with quiet salute:

"Those fellows up-stream are getting ready, captain. Several of them mounted a few minutes ago and rode away rapidly towards the southwest. I saw others out on the prairie heading over to the bluffs. They seemed excited-like, and looked to be in full fighting trim."

Dana's eyes light with eager hope.

"Captain, they heard what I did. Some of our fellows are off there, taking short cut across country to find us, and are signalling with their trumpets. Let us go farther out,—to the prairie. I'm sure I heard it, and we can answer."

Almost broad daylight now, though it is long before sun-up, but in very short time Wayne, Dana, and the trumpeter are crouching just at the edge of the timber, listening, listening, while a prayer goes up with every heart-beat.

At last Dana's weakness tells upon him. He sinks down at the bottom of a tree exhausted, but his ears are still alert. Suddenly he springs again to his knee. "There! for God's sake listen. What is that?"

And far, far out to the southwest, far beyond the line of bluffs, there rises upon the still morning air soft, clear, floating, and oh! sweeter than the harmonies of seraphs, the quick, joyous notes of officer's call. Oh, heaven! was ever reveille so blessed?

"Up with you, Rheinhart! Answer them! Blow your whole soul into it, but make 'em hear!" shouts Wayne; and the burly young Prussian rolls over on his back, braces his copper clarion at his lips, and rouses the echoes of the valley with the ringing, jubilant, pealing reply. None of the dolorous business of Roland at Roncesvalles about Rheinhart's performance this time! It is like the bugle-horn of Roderick vich Alpine Dhu,—

"One blast were worth a thousand men."

From rifle-pit and stunted log, from shore to shore, the timber leaps into life and rings with the triumphant cheers of the besieged.

"Down with you, you idiots! back to your holes!" yell the officers, none too soon, for with vengeful howls every Indian in the valley seems at the instant to open fire, and once more the little command is encircled by the cordon of savage sharpshooters. Holding their own fire except where some rabid young foeman too daringly exposes himself, the men wait and listen. Little by little the fury of the attack draws away, and only scattering shots annoy them. They can see, though, that already many Indians are mounting and scurrying off to the north side of the valley, though plenty remain in the timber to keep vigilant watch over their every move. Hunter begs permission to mount and move out with twenty men to guide the rescuers, but there is no ammunition to warrant it. All men are needed just where they are. Scattering shots keep coming in; the yells of the Indians still continue; the trumpeter raises a lusty blast from time to time, but officers and men are again all eagerly listening.

"They're coming! they're coming!" is next the cry, for distant shots are heard, then the thunder of hoofs, the shouts and yells of excited Indians; then warrior after warrior comes darting back over the bluffs at the south, springing from his pony at the crest, as though for one more shot at rapidly-advancing foe; more shots and yells; a trumpet-blare, and then,—then ringing like clarion over the turmoil of the fight,—echoing far across the still valley, the sound of a glorious voice shouting the well-known words of command, "Left—front—into line—gallop!" And Dana can hold in no longer. Almost sobbing, he cries aloud,—

"Jack Truscott, by all that's glorious! I'd know the voice among a million!"

Who in the —th would not? Who in the old regiment had not leaped at its summons time and again? Who that was there will ever forget the scene,—the welcome those wellnigh hopeless fellows give it now? Dana's men break from their cover, and cheering madly, go dashing through the timber towards their persecutors of the day before. Hunter's skirmishers push eastward through the trees for one more crack at the besiegers. Others—cheering too, yet spell-bound—cling to the spot, and go wild with joy as the long blue line comes flashing into view across the bluffs from the south, the just rising sun flaming at their crests and tinting the wild war-bonnets of the foe, who go tumbling and scurrying away before them; and their old adjutant comes thundering down the slopes with ninety splendid troopers at his heels, sweeping the valley of their late humiliation,—riding home to the rescue.

Fired by the sight, some of Wayne's men seize their saddles and throw them on their excited steeds, but before they can mount Truscott's men are whirling up and down the valley, driving the few remaining warriors to the other side, and leaving some wounded ponies and two bedizened braves prone upon the prairies. Quickly the leader comes darting through the timber with hearty, yet laughing, greeting for Wayne, and a wave of the hand to the cheering group. There is no time for compliments now. Out go the skirmishers across the river bottom, through the trees, and spinning away across the valley northward, whirling the Cheyennes before them until they are driven to the bluffs. Then, as the "halt" is sounded, and the vigilant line forms big semicircle to ward off further attack, and the little pack-mules with their escort come ambling briskly in from the south, Jack Truscott comes quietly back, lining his broad-brimmed scouting-hat and wiping the sweat from his brow; and as they throng about him—officers and men—almost the first question asked is,—

"And where is Ray?"

"Safe, but badly wounded."

And then little by little the story was told. But for Ray no rescue could have come. The regiment was miles away across country. Truscott's squadron had reached their late camp the previous evening to find them gone. There was a stockade there, where, with underground defences and stout palings, a little company of infantry stood guard over a lot of ammunition and supplies. They found there the sick and two wounded of the regiment, a doctor and some scouts who had backed out of going, and they also found a letter to Truscott from the colonel commanding, telling him that Wayne ought to be somewhere west of him up the next valley, to push on and join him, and then together they would be strong enough to ride through the Cheyenne trails and find the regiment. Fearing that Wayne would get too far up the valley, Truscott decided to make a night march due north and strike it some distance up-stream. From four P.M. until eleven they had rested, then had coffee, fed the horses, and started. Somewhere about one o'clock through the dim light of the waning moon they caught sight of a mounted man rapidly nearing them from the east, and heard the whinny of a horse. That was enough to prove 'twas no Indian. Who could it be? One or two flankers galloped to meet him, and the next thing a sergeant came rushing to Truscott at the head of column.

"My God! captain, it's Loot'nant Ray, an' he's most dead."

In an instant Truscott had halted the command and was at the side of his old friend, whom the men had lowered, weak and faint, to the ground. The surgeon came, administered stimulant, examined and rebound his wound; a bullet had torn through the right thigh, and he had bled fearfully, but all he seemed to think of was the errand on which he came. In few words he told of Wayne's position, pointed out the shortest way, and bade them be off at once. Three men were left with him, one galloped back to the station for an ambulance and the hospital attendant there, and with his faint blessing and "good luck to you, fellows!" Ray had sent them at lively lope bound for the valley and the rescue. There were men that July morning who hid their heads to hide their tears as Truscott quietly told of Ray's heroism and suffering, his narrow escape, his imminent dangers, all met and borne that they might live. There were others who cared not if their tears were seen. There was no one there who did not vow that it would go hard with him if ever man ventured to malign Billy Ray in his presence; but there was no one there who dreamed that even while daring death to save them the man whose praise was on every lip stood bitterly in need of friends, that blackest calumny, that lowest intrigue, had conspired to pull him down.

It was a week before the four companies rejoined the —th, and the reunited regiment pushed northwestward towards the Big Horn Mountains; but by that time Ray with other wounded was being carefully wheeled back to Russell, where the news of his heroic exploit had preceded him, and where widely different feelings had thereby been excited. One household heard it as it will never be forgotten. Mrs. Truscott and Miss Sanford were just seating themselves at breakfast one bright morning, when Mrs. Stannard came rushing in all aglow with mingled excitement and emotion.

"Hurrah for the Sanford colors!" she cried. "Read that! I cannot,—I cannot!" And throwing them a long despatch, she astonished her next-door neighbors by fairly bursting into tears.

It was with difficulty that the ladies could recover composure in time for the inevitable visit that they knew must come from Mrs. Whaling, and did come at ten o'clock.



CHAPTER XVI.

HOW WE HEARD THE NEWS.

Some strange things had been happening at Russell. Among others the midnight serenade at Mrs. Truscott's had been repeated. Miss Sanford and Mrs. Truscott both heard it this time, and when Mrs. Truscott would have gone to the window to peep and see who it was who sang so delightfully, Miss Sanford restrained her, quietly saying that this was his second visit, and she knew it to be Sergeant Wolf. Mrs. Turner and other ladies, eagerly and naturally curious to find out who it was that serenaded one house in the garrison twice, and similarly honored no others, had plied Mrs. Truscott with questions. It was agreed that they should tell Mrs. Stannard and seek her advice, but avoid all talk with others. Such resolutions are all very well, but rather impracticable in view of the indomitable energy with which the sex will pursue a train of inquiry. It was delightfully romantic, said the ladies, delightfully sensational some of them thought, and their theory was that some one must be paying his devotions in this way to Miss Sanford, which would account for his total obliviousness to the charms of others—married and single. Mr. Gleason, when first questioned, had assumed that air of conscious negation, of confirmatory disclaimer, which is calculated to impress the hearer with the belief that, despite denial, he was deserving the soft impeachment. Gleason would gladly have assumed the responsibility. For a whole day he was the hero, to many feminine minds, of the serenades, and the recipient of a dozen warm invitations to come and sing for them that evening; but before nightfall one theory received a shock which was followed in an hour by another. The first was when Mrs. Whaling placidly asserted that she knew all about the serenades. That while the supposed unknown had honored Miss Sanford's window twice, it was getting to be an old story at the colonel's, as the troubadour had appeared under her Cecilia's window almost every night for—oh, she didn't know how long. Cecilia had blushingly confessed that morning, and she, Mrs. Whaling, had frequently heard his tinkling guitar and sweet tenor at odd times. Now, among the infantry ladies it was an older story that fair Cecilia had a way of arrogating to herself attentions never intended for her, and of having a fertility of invention which enabled her at a moment's notice to discount any story of devotions to another girl with exuberant descriptions of others more intense of which she was the prior object. Any statement of her sainted child was promptly backed by her adoring mother, and, well, there was disbelief, not loud but deep, of this statement among the infantry ladies. As for "ours,"—Mrs. Stannard listened in silence but with glistening eyes; Mrs. Truscott and Miss Sanford with evident relief; Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Wilkins with exclamatory interest.

The second shock came when a party of ladies, Miss Cecilia Whaling being of the number, alluded to Mr. Gleason as the probable Manrico, and this for the purpose of "drawing out" Mrs. Turner. "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Turner. "Mr. Gleason has no more voice than a frog. He thinks he can sing, but—you just ought to hear him."

"Why, but, Mrs. Turner," said one of the fair advocates, eager to sustain the theory she advanced, "Mr. Gleason as much as admitted that he was the man."

"He? of course he would! Mr. Gleason imagines there is no accomplishment he does not possess. If you need conviction ask him to sing."

Ah, me! And this was the same lady who so vehemently stood up for Gleason in the days when he was her devotee—before she discovered that poker had attractions for him before which her own could but "pale their ineffectual fires. Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?"

If it wasn't Gleason, then, who was it? That was what the ladies demanded to know,—Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Wilkins being as determined as their sisters of the infantry. It was evident all too soon that the subject annoyed and embarrassed Mrs. Truscott. She colored painfully when it was mentioned in her presence. This only whetted the zeal and inquisitiveness of the inquisitors. In one form or other it was constantly being brought up in her presence, and her every look and gesture was narrowly scanned. Mrs. Turner grew wild with curiosity. Here was a mystery indeed! From Mrs. Stannard she could extract nothing. From Miss Sanford she received smiling, gracious treatment at all times, but nothing tangible in the way of information. She almost made up her mind to be gracious to Mr. Gleason, to be enticing, in fact; but before her wiles could take effect other developments had rendered that course impracticable.

Gleason himself, as we have seen, had taken prompt measures to satisfy himself as to the identity of the serenader. His next step was to institute inquiries as to just what was meant by these demonstrations on part of the sergeant. Insidious questions were propounded to Mrs. Stannard, Mrs. Truscott, and Miss Sanford, only to mystify him the more. They would say nothing to enlighten him; but he plainly saw that each one of the three was conscious that Wolf was the midnight visitor, and that two of the three were in possession of knowledge with regard to the mysterious soldier which he could not fathom. He took to studying Wolf; sent for him frequently; had long talks with him ostensibly as to his duties with recruits, but began to "draw him out" as to his past. All he could learn was that he had come to this country determined to enlist, had served a few months with Truscott at the Point, and had secured a transfer because he wanted active service. He declined to tell what had been his connections or his life before coming to our shores, but he was evidently a man of education and refinement; he was an admirable horseman, swordsman, and drill-master; he had evidently been trained for the military profession. Now, how was it that he had so readily acceded to the detail which kept him on duty at Russell, when, if he so wanted active service, he could have been sent with the regiment? Gleason's one interpretation of that was that the sergeant "loved, alas, above his station." It behooved him now to find out which of the ladies at Truscott's had inspired this romantic passion. It occurred to him that the discovery might be made very useful. He was plainly losing ground there. Invitations to tea and dinner had not been forthcoming since Truscott's squadron marched away, and his efforts to see Miss Sanford alone had been frustrated. Having secured the detail which kept him at the post while the regiment was out roughing it, he relaxed the assiduity of his attentions to Mrs. Whaling, but kept up his hand with the old colonel through the medium of pool and billiards, though he lost less frequently. He was always having confidential chats with the colonel, and when Captain Buxton came through on his way to catch the regiment, three days after Ray's departure, Gleason took him to see the colonel, and the three were closeted for some time together. It worried Mrs. Stannard, who felt sure there was mischief brewing, and she so wrote to the major, who tackled Buxton the moment he joined with questions about Ray, and Buxton was dumb as Sam Weller's drum with a hole in it. Ray was there and "chipper" as a cricket. Everybody noted how blithe, buoyant, and energetic he was, but this very trait prevented Stannard's having more than one talk with him before the separation of Wayne's command from the regiment. Ray was off on scouts from morning till night. Stannard frankly told him how worried he had been, and Ray looked amazed, declaring he had never been more temperate, and that his accounts were straight as a string. He had played billiards but had not touched a card.