"This—a—gauntlet, lieutenant, was lying with some other things on top of the bureau. Were you going to pack it in the trunk?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, a single right-hand glove won't be of much use to the relatives of the deceased, especially an old worn one like this. Where's the mate?"

"I don't remember seeing one."

"Well, you soldiers don't generally keep one glove without the other. Where was this before you put it with the things?"

"I picked it off the floor near the head of the bed."

"And there wasn't another thereabouts?"

"I saw none."

The detective went back to his work, and the officers with Mr. Green to the letters. When they had read them through to the end, Blake arose.

"You will admit, Mr. Warner, that I have excellent reason for asking and expecting permission to rejoin my incarcerated friend now," said he, with sarcastic emphasis. "If that doesn't knock the court-martial charges cold as a wedge, what will?"

"I never fully believed Mr. Ray guilty of those charges, Blake, and you know it. I must see the colonel, of course, and show him these letters."

"Pardon me, Mr. Warner," said the lawyer. "Tell him of them if you see fit, but as Mr. Ray's legal adviser I do not propose to let such important evidence for the defence fall into the hands of the prosecution." (Warner flushed hotly.) "I do not refer to you, my dear sir, but to your commanding officer, who is understood to have worked up the case against my client, and will naturally feel chagrined to find what liars his witnesses were. Human nature, sir; human nature."

"No, Warner, I don't mean you either,—in that case, that is," said Blake, all excitement over the late discoveries; "but these are ours, and by gad! we mean to hold them. Whoop! Fiat justitia, rue it, Whaling's! Go and tell your distinguished chief that I will be pleased to know whether he has considered my application yet. Here! Hold on, Warner. D—n it all, man! I'm unpardonable for mixing you and him up in the matter. Forgive me, but I'm all unstrung these last few days. If you fellows only knew Ray as we do there wouldn't have been this trouble."

And they shook hands, and Warner went off to see his chief, and had a quick conversation with him that brought the blood to the usually colorless face of the well-preserved veteran. The colonel arose hastily and said he would go with them. He wanted to see those letters, and he did, and looked strangely perturbed as they were read to him, and then Blake again preferred his request for permission to visit town and to remain all night. The colonel hemmed and hawed. These papers, of course, had an important bearing on the case as it originally stood before the court-martial as ordered, but matters had changed materially. "Mr. Ray is now on trial for his life, you see, and before, he was only on trial for—a——"

"Only for his honor," put in Blake, at the instant. "Very true, colonel, only for his honor, and we have a singular fashion in our regiment of looking upon the one as quite as important as the other."

The colonel was wrathy. He was essentially what is called an office soldier. He had regulations and papers at his fingers' ends; his whole army existence had been spent in the preservation of his health and the cultivation of the peaceful branches of his art. No one ever heard of his shooting, riding, hunting, or taking a risk of any kind. His habits were methodical as those of the office clock, and his one dissipation was the billiard-table. His theory of success was founded on common sense: Take care of your health, avoid dissipation, shun any and all danger, volunteer for nothing, do only what you are compelled to do, shift all possible work on somebody else's shoulders, preserve a purely negative record, and—you are bound to rise to the highest grades in the army. It must be admitted that the laws of promotion are admirably calculated to foster just such a line of argument, and that Whaling's "head was level." Now, though wrathy at Blake, he saw at once that he had been egregiously deceived as to the evidence to be given by Rallston on the pending court; it was better policy to avoid all that might look like persecution of Ray or Ray's friends; he gave a moment of thought to the matter, and then said,—

"You may go, Mr. Blake, because I desire you and your regiment to understand that I have no wish to obtrude my ideas of discipline upon you at such a time. At any other I would not have overlooked your misconduct."

"At any other time, sir, it probably would not have occurred," said Blake, still hotly; but the entrance of the detective put an end to the talk. He still carried the gauntlet in his hand.

"There is no mate to this in that room. What is more, this glove never belonged to Lieutenant Gleason; it is four sizes too small for him. What officer or soldier ever wore one like that?" he asked.

It was a worn and rein-soiled gauntlet, originally of white wash-leather, finely stitched in silk, and with a cuff or gauntlet heavily stiffened with leather inside; and this cuff instead of being joined was slashed from wrist to end on the under side, and three little buttons and straps were used to fasten it snugly to the arm after being slipped over the hand. It was utterly unlike any gauntlet in use in the United States cavalry at the time; it was utterly unlike those for sale in the stores of Cheyenne. Blake examined it curiously, but could remember none that resembled it. Leaving the others examining the glove, he walked up the row.

Mrs. Stannard and Marion both came down. The mere sight of his face brought eagerness and hope into their eyes. It was to be observed at this juncture that Mrs. Stannard's arm was around that slender waist. The symptom has no significance, of course, among school-girls or womanhood in general, but it meant a good deal where either one of these women was concerned, and Blake knew it.

"What wouldn't I give if the major were only here!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "There are three letters from Rallston there with a lot of others, showing clearly what a conspiracy had been worked up against Ray by that—by Gleason. The last one was written in Denver only two days before—only three days ago, and it shows that he had completely gone back on Gleason, and accuses him of all manner of blackguardly work. He had some conscience after all, for he swears he never thought Gleason would use what he told him to get Ray into trouble. He was mad because Ray wouldn't pass his horses. Oh, it breaks up the whole business! Green thinks he should be secured at once, and is going to have the detectives after him the moment we can telegraph. Whew! Excuse me, ladies, but I'm warm!" And Blake leaned limply against the railing and mopped his brow.

"Mr. Blake, have you eaten a thing to-day?" asked Mrs. Stannard. "Do come in and let me get you a sandwich and a glass of wine."

"Not a morsel! I want to hurry back to town to hug Billy. I'm only waiting for Green. He tells me that everything can be arranged so that Ray shall stay where I left him,—in a comfortable room in the jailor's home instead of where that old bag of skin and bones thought he'd get him." And he vengefully shook his fist at the colonel, who was returning homeward to tell his wife the wonderful tidings of the discoveries in Gleason's pockets. Mrs. Stannard had not smiled for two entire days, but Blake's reviving spirits and the welcome news combined to bring back the sunshine to her tired face. Marion, too, though listening in silence to what was said, clung closer to her friend, and looked up with thanksgiving in her eyes. Just then the lawyer and the little detective came, talking earnestly together, up the row, and, naturally, all three studied their looks and gestures with eager attention.

"That little Denverite is on a scent," said Blake in a low tone; "he has been hunting high and low for a mate to a peculiar gauntlet that was found there. He says Gleason could never have owned it."

"A gauntlet? What was it like?" asked Miss Sanford, with a start.

"Like nothing we wear, that I ever saw. It's old and worn, but was a handsome glove once."

"Mr. Blake, I—I want to see it! ask him if I may." And she stepped eagerly forward, her blue eyes dilating, her whole frame tremulous.

Blake sprang from the railing, and was by the detective's side in three long strides. At the whispered words he spoke both the lawyer and the detective glanced quickly and keenly at the ladies: the former took off his hat to them, the latter seemed to hesitate for a moment, then stepping forward, he courteously bowed, took the gauntlet from an inner pocket, and handed it to her. The instant she caught sight of it she shuddered and shrank, though an eager, triumphant light shot into her eyes; then, as though by an effort, she overcame the horror and repugnance that had seized her, took it as she might a frog or worm, between thumb and forefinger, and darted into the house, leaving all but Mrs. Stannard petrified with amaze. "Never fear," said Mrs. Stannard. "I know where she has taken it. She will be back in a moment."

Up the stairs she flew and into the front room, where Mrs. Truscott sat by the window in a low rocking-chair.

"Grace Truscott! Look at this. Don't touch it! Look at those fastenings—those buttons. Who was the only person you ever saw wear a glove like that?"

"Sergeant Wolf, Marion. Where—how?"

But she was gone like a flash. Down the stairs again, her feet twinkling like magic, out in the free air among them all, her heart bounding, her blue eyes blazing, her color vivid, brilliant.

"Take it!" she cried. "Take it! The man who murdered him, the man who wore that glove, was Wolf, the deserter."



CHAPTER XXVI.

REVELATIONS.

When Colonel Rand arrived from Omaha the next afternoon, and Blake met him at the depot, he found that there was less for him to do than he imagined. He had known Ray well for many years of his army life, had served with him in Arizona, and was one of his stanchest friends. He was wild with enthusiasm when Truscott's despatch was received, telling of Wayne's rescue and Ray's heroic conduct, and he was furious over the tidings that his gallant friend had been placed in arrest on charges that had not been investigated at department headquarters, or by anybody who could represent Ray's interests. Even before the telegrams came in from the regiment protesting against Ray's trial in their absence, he had started for Kansas City armed with a copy of the charges and specifications, had easily determined that the civilians cited as witnesses were men who really knew little or nothing, but had only a vague, "hearsay" idea of matters, which vigorous cross-questioning developed that they had mainly derived from letters or talks of Gleason's, or had got from Rallston himself, who, said they, was riled because he couldn't play off a lot of broken-down mustangs for sound horses on that board. No one could swear that he had seen Ray drink; no one could swear he had played any game for any stake; no one could testify to a single act of his that was in the faintest degree unofficerlike or unbecoming a gentleman. Indeed, even the cads with whom Gleason consorted seemed to have become inspired with contempt. And Rand went back to Omaha satisfied that the charges were all conspiracy. But Rallston had kept out of his way. He could not reach him. No one knew where he was. Some went so far as to say he was ashamed of having been mixed up with Gleason in such a low piece of business. Even Mrs. Rallston at Omaha could tell nothing of her husband's whereabouts, and was in great distress over the letters from her brother announcing the trouble in which he was enveloped, all on account of Rallston's rascality as she felt, though he would not say. Then came the fearful news that Gleason was murdered by her brother, and the next day she had sold one of the beautiful solitaires that Rallston had given her in the days when he was a dashing wooer, and on the same train with Colonel Rand she hastened to Cheyenne. Blake was presented to her as she alighted from the cars, and conducted her to the parlor of the hotel, where in few words he told them of the discovery of Rallston's letters in the dead man's pockets, and of Wolfs gauntlet in the dead man's room. The detectives had urged that nothing should be revealed in this last matter, as every effort was now being made to capture the ex-sergeant, and that little man from Denver had already a reply from his chief, saying that Rallston was there and could be produced at any time. Poor Mrs. Rallston! She winced at the professional technicalities, but wrote a hurried despatch, care of the Rocky Mountain Detective Agency, enjoining him to come to them at once; breathing no word of reproach or blame, but telling him that his letters were now in Ray's hands, and they felt that he bitterly regretted the part he had taken in connection with Gleason. He must come and exonerate her brother from the charge of accepting a bribe, to which he was assigned as the sole witness.

There was a further conference that need not be detailed. Colonel Rand desired first to see some of the prominent business men whom he knew, as he proposed to have Ray bailed out instanter no matter what that young gentleman's wishes might be, and Blake, giving her his arm, escorted Mrs. Rallston through the bustling streets until they reached the jail. Even then there was a little knot of hangers-on watching with wolfish curiosity every comer. The officials touched their hats to Blake and his veiled companion, and looked admiringly at her tall, graceful form. Already something was beginning to whisper that justice had been blinder than ever, had been groping painfully in the dark, and had nabbed the wrong man. Mr. Perkins and his jury had been basely and ungratefully alluded to as a batch of leather heads, and it behooved the sheriffs and others to look to the buttered side of their bread, lest it, too, should fall in the municipal mud. Blake felt her trembling as they passed through the office into a long and dimly-lighted hall.

"Courage, Mrs. Rallston," he whispered. "We are going to lose him, you and I, but it's to a very different captivity. Oh, he's gone this time past all saving. Just wait till you see her!" And before she could ask one question in her wonderment, a door was opened, there was a fond, welcoming cry of "Nell!" and for the first time in all her life, so far as Ray could tell, the sister fell forward, fainting, into his arms. Blake assisted in carrying her to the sofa, brought a glass of water, and then, as she began to revive, he silently withdrew and left them together.

Later that afternoon Colonel Rand, Mr. Green, and Blake had a quiet consultation with the prisoner. The matter of bail, said Rand, was already settled. On his representations half a dozen prominent citizens had signified their willingness to act. Mr. Green stated that he had received advice of other offers, at which Blake was seen to give him a kick under the table whereon their papers were spread. There was really nothing to prevent the arrangement being made this evening so that he might not have to pass another night under the jail roof, but Ray was firm. He would not return to Russell in arrest; he would not accept his release until it could be freedom; he was treated courteously and considerately by the sheriff's people, was allowed this comfortable room instead of a cell, and he resolutely refused all offer of bail so long as there remained a pretext for the continuance of his arrest on other charges. Rand himself, who had been accustomed to his quick, impetuous ways for years, could hardly recognize in the Ray of to-day the reckless, devil-may-care, laughing fellow of two years ago. He seemed utterly changed. He was years older in manner, grave, patient, tolerant of the opinions of those about him, but doubly tenacious of his own, and surprisingly capable of demonstrating their justice.

"It has simply come to this, colonel. I stand charged at division headquarters of crimes that if proven would dismiss me from the service. The death of the principal witness is the worst mishap that could have befallen me. It leaves me unvindicated, because now we cannot impeach his testimony; because now my enemies can say that had he lived the result might have been different. I urge, I claim that I must be tried; and Blake here is my witness that I have said so from the very first. Nothing but a trial can clear me fully of the infamous charges you hold there, and no friend of mine will delay it an instant. So far from postponing that court, I say hasten it. Let it sit at once. I am ready to-day, any day to meet and refute the charges. I need no friend from the regiment, from anywhere. I shall not draw on my field record for a cent's worth of consideration. The case must be tried on its merits. I do not believe a witness need be called for the defence, but until vindicated I protest against any step that may send me back to Russell. Answer as to that, and then we will come to this matter of my situation here."

And Rand agreed with him that the court should meet forthwith, and that telegrams should be sent at once to division headquarters urging that no postponement be granted. The despatch was written, and Blake took it to the office. Then Ray went on with his talk:

"And now, colonel, I have waited for your coming that in your presence I might refer to two points that, as Mr. Green has said, bore heavily against me with the coroner's jury, and would have to be met should the case come to trial. Until it come to trial there are one or two matters which I will not explain, simply because they concern others more than they do me. As you have seen, suspicion is already pointing to Sergeant Wolf. I have connected him with the murder from the first. The detective has ascertained beyond doubt that that was his glove; that a horse was tied at the northeast corner of the hospital yard about the time of the occurrence, and that a bandsman—the drummer—is almost certain that my pistol, which did the work, was in the sergeant's possession the night he deserted. I know it was: this note will prove it." And he produced from an envelope bearing the Laramie City postmark, and addressed to him at Russell, a sheet of note-paper on which, without date or signature, was written, "I had to take your pistol. Time was everything. The enclosed twenty dollars will pay." "Compare that writing," he continued, "with dozens of specimens to be found in the office at Russell, and that will settle it.

"Now, the jury could not understand why I refused to let Hogan have my pistol that night. It was because I knew it was gone, and I did not wish any one else to know it. The colonel could not understand why I would not tell the cause of Wolf's desertion. I did not wish any one to know. Everybody, I presume, wanted to know how I explained away the presence of my pistol at the scene, and that was another thing I wanted kept in the dark until—until released from a promise that involved the peace of one whom I was bound to protect. (Mrs. Rallston's eyes were dilating to twice their usual size.) As soon as notified of the decision of that jury, I wrote saying that it might soon be necessary to save my honor to reveal what I had kept so sacred. No answer came until—until last night; full and free release from my promise; but I believe that all may be kept sacred still. You will understand that I am prepared to explain these matters should the case come to trial, but not before."

Even as he was speaking there came a knock at the door: a telegram for Mr. Green. The lawyer opened and read it, thought earnestly a moment, and then left the room, saying he would soon return. It was getting dark, and Ray lighted the oil lamp that stood upon its bracket. Rand was watching his every movement, and had been quietly jotting some memoranda of his statements. As the young cavalryman returned to his seat by his sister's side and took her hand in his, the colonel remarked,—

"Ray, I thought I knew you pretty well all these years, but I believe I'm only just beginning to get acquainted with you. Blake said you had astonished him, but your capacity for taking things coolly is an unexpected trait to more than one, I fancy. Now I'm going to take Mrs. Rallston over to the hotel for tea, and then we are coming back. Tell Blake I want him to apply to his post commander for a seven days' leave to-night. I'll send it out and see that he gets it. If you won't go back to Russell he must be here with you. Ah! here he comes now!"

"Where's Green?" was the exclamation that greeted their ears as Blake bolted in, all excitement. "I want him, quick. Billy, they've got that man Wolf, and he wants to see you or somebody. He's pretty near gone and fought like a tiger, they say."

"Where is he?" asked Rand, springing to his feet.

"Just out here at the edge of town in a blackguardly sort of dive. It's my belief they've kept him there hid ever since the night of the murder. Come, we must have Green and the sheriff. I know Ray can go with us. There'll be a carriage in a minute."

"Let me escort you to the hotel, Mrs. Rallston," said Rand, "then I can go with them. This means confirmation of our theory and the end of our troubles," he said, reassuringly. Ray, very pale and very quiet, kissed her good-night and saw her to the hall, promising to send for her as soon as was possible. Then, as for a moment he was left alone, he took from an inner pocket a crumpled little note that Blake had brought him the previous evening, read it lingeringly, though with eyes that softened and glowed with a light that no one yet had seen, and when he had finished he stood there gazing at the signature and the few words with which the note was concluded:

"Believe me, dear Mr. Ray, she never for an instant thought you guilty. And now good-night. I shall pray God to watch over and cheer you. Need I tell you that your trouble has made me only the more

Loyally your friend,

MARION SANFORD."

Oh, Ray! Ray! Here was strength and cheer and comfort for twenty men. No wonder you could bear the slings and arrows of your outrageous fortune with that charming endorsement! No wonder people thought you changed! What would people think—or rather what would they say if they knew of that letter and its very comforting conclusion? What will be said of our heroine, Marion, when these damaging particulars are brought to light? What would the girls at Madame Reichard's have said? though they knew she had a romantic streak in her, and was a worshipper of heroes? What will the cold and unsympathetic and critical reader remark of the unmaidenly lack of reserve which prompted those last few lines? What will Marion herself say when she hears of them as thus ruthlessly dragged to the bar of public opinion? Poor Marion! Her cheeks will redden, her eyes flash and suffuse, her heart beat like a trip-hammer, her white teeth set, her soft lips will firmly close. She will be annoyed. She may admit that in cold blood—under any other circumstances—she would never have so committed herself, and that nothing but the thought of the wrongs and sorrows and sufferings that had been heaped one after another upon the undeserving head of that luckiest of young Kentuckians would ever have betrayed her into such an outburst of sentiment. She may admit what indeed was the truth, that she wrote the whole thing after a vehement interview with Grace, at a time when she thought she saw her gallant friend dragged off to jail, believing he had been denied by those whom he was actually suffering to shield. She may say that, had there been time, she would have less pointedly worded the closing sentence. But of one thing you may be certain,—once and for all,—she said just what she thought, and now—against the opinion of the whole world if need be—she will stand by those words through thick and thin,—she will never retract.

And as for Ray: he gazed upon them as he might upon a heaven-inspired message from a better world; he bowed his head and kissed, reverently, humbly, prayerfully, the sweet and thrilling words; and then, and then—he bent his knee and bowed his head, and with deeper reverence, with humility such as he had never known before, with a prayer that came from the depths of his loyal heart, he thanked God for the infinite blessing that had come to him through the darkness of his bitter trials; he rose calm, strengthened, steadfast, as he heard the rapidly-approaching footsteps of his friends.

Less than half an hour thereafter a little group sat in silence around a rude bed in a darkened room. Outside, sullen and scowling, two rough-looking men, the owners of the establishment, were guarded by the officers of the law, while within, Ray, Blake, Mr. Green, the sheriff, and an officer of the territorial court were listening to the dying deposition of the Saxon soldier Wolf,—the physicians had declared it impossible for him to live another day.

Late on the night of the murder three men, returning townwards from the "house on the hill," had come suddenly upon a gray horse dragging a man by the stirrup. They picked the man up and carried him into the gambling-house at the edge of town, where they laid him upon this bed. Noting the U. S. on the shoulder of the horse and his cavalry equipments, they sent him away in charge of one of their number, and proceeded to search the pockets of the still insensible soldier, who was clad in comparatively new "ranchman's" clothing, and who wore a gauntlet on his left hand. He had revived for a moment, was told that he was among friends and had nothing to fear. He said his horse had stumbled into an acequia in the darkness and fallen on him, and now he wanted to get up. They assured him no horse was there; that, finding him insensible, they had carried him to this place, where he was all right "if he kept quiet," and Wolf soon realized that he was in a notorious "dive" where soldiers were often drugged and robbed of their money. He was locked in that night, and though suffering intensely from internal injuries, he strove to make his escape. The next morning people in the neighborhood heard appalling cries and uproar, but such things had often happened there before in the drunken fights that took place, and not until this day had it leaked out in some way that there was a man there dying from injuries received partly in a runaway and partly in a fight in the house. The police made a raid, and there discovered the very man for whom the detectives and the military were searching high and low. His first words were to ask for Lieutenant Ray, then for a physician and a lawyer. And now his story was almost done. Ray was fully, utterly exonerated.

In brief, it was about as follows: He was mad with rage at the treatment he had received at the hands of Lieutenant Gleason, and at a deed of his which he would not detail,—Lieutenant Ray knew, and that was enough. He himself had only one thought,—to follow at once on the trail, to find him alone if possible, and to compel him to fight him as gentlemen fought, a outrance, in the old country. He took Ray's pistol, and after getting some papers and some clothing he needed from the band barracks, he went to the stables, raised the shutter, and crept into the window of the stall which held his horse, led him noiselessly out over the earthen floor to the rear entrance, which was easily opened from the inside, and long before dawn was on the road to Fetterman, in pursuit of the stage. He had no fear of ranch people betraying him as a deserter. They knew nothing but what he was carrying despatches. He had received plenty of money but a short time before through friends in Dresden; he hoped to secure fresh horses, and overtake the stage before it reached a ranch where they stopped for meals several hours south of Fetterman. His plan was wild and impracticable, enough to throw doubts on his sanity, but he only thought of revenge, he said; he was determined to waylay Gleason and force him to fight. But his plan failed. His horse gave out long before he could get another; he left him at a cattle ranch finally, and went ahead on a borrowed "plug," but to no purpose. Gleason reached Fetterman ahead of him, and by the time he neared there he knew that his desertion had been telegraphed. Still he thought to follow as a scout or teamster, and bought rough canvas and woolen clothing; hung around the neighborhood, but avoided all soldiers; learned of Gleason's going with Webb, and actually crossed the Platte and followed on their trail, until he met him coming back at the head of the little escort. Keeping his eager lookout far ahead, he had easily hidden himself and his horse where he could watch them as they went by, and had recognized his victim, turned on his tracks, and once more trailed him back; had lost him and followed the wrong "buckboard" from Fetterman, and had gone towards Rock Creek before he found out that Gleason went by way of Fort Laramie. A countryman going in to Laramie City had taken, some days previous, the note with its enclosure to Ray,—he could not steal, he said, and at last, having recovered his horse, he returned by night to Cheyenne, easily learned of Lieutenant Gleason's presence at Russell, and that very night rode out across the prairie, tied his gray to a post near the northeast corner of the hospital enclosure, and stole to Gleason's back-yard. Not for an instant had he ever flinched in his purpose. He knew the lieutenant was officer of the day, and that he would be out to visit his sentries after midnight; but it occurred to him he would have no weapon but the sabre, and he meant to offer him fair fight. A light was burning in the rear room. He peeped through the blinds and saw him undressing as though to go to bed. He could wait no longer. He opened the kitchen door, which Shea had left unlocked, entered the house, and rapped at Gleason's door. The lieutenant supposed it to be Shea, probably, and opened it himself. "Behold the man you have outraged, I said. I give you one instant only to get your pistol. We fight here to the death. He sprang back, still facing me; he was livid with fear; he called for help, help! he ordered me to leave, he was a craven and would not fight; he called louder, and then I fired; he gave a scream and fell towards me on his face. I had hurled my gauntlet at him as I challenged, but there was no time to pick it up. I turned and fled. Some one seized me at the back gate, but I hurled him aside and ran on tiptoe to my horse. I heard voices coming, but no one could hear me. I led my horse some distance; then mounted and galloped madly this way. Near town he stumbled, fell, and rolled on me, and I knew no more till I heard them say he was dead and that the Herr Lieutenant had killed him. Then I strove to escape, and we had a fearful fight. They overcame and drugged me, I think, but again I came to, and begged to be let to see you. They keep me for the reward, perhaps, but they see me dying, and the police come at last."

In the solemn hush of the darkened room, far from the land where he had been known and loved, where doubtless his gifts had been valued, and his life, until wrecked by that duel, was honored, the Saxon soldier lay breathing his last. Mad or sane, there was no one there to rightly judge. The one trait that shone to the end was the strong love of the profession which he could have adorned so well. His glazing eyes looked wistfully into Ray's pale face; his tremulous hand sought that of the young officer, who knelt there by his side; in faint, broken accents he spoke his last earthly plea:

"I was a gentleman once, Herr Lieutenant. I am soldier—even now. You are the soldier the men all love. May I not take your hand?"



CHAPTER XXVII.

VINDICATED.

Life at Russell had lost for the time being so much of its customary gayety as to warrant Mrs. Turner's discontented descriptive of "poky." With all but three or four officers absent on campaign; without even letters or news from them; with Mr. Gleason's tragic fate and Mr. Ray's romantic and mysterious connection therewith, there was too much of solemn and shudder-inspiring element in the daily talk to render conversation at all cheerful. All sorts of odd things had happened since the death of that deserter, Wolf, and Mrs. Turner was at her wit's end to make her conclusions fit together. She had by no means ceased to jump,—that saltatory satisfaction at least remained to her,—but she missed the mark so often as to seriously impair, for a while at least, her confidence in her theories, and nothing but a series of serious shocks could have achieved that result. She, too, had her sorrows, poor lady, for her regimental companions in number eleven had shunned her society to such an extent as to set the whole garrison talking about it, though it took very little to accomplish that.

To begin with, Mrs. Truscott rarely went out at all, and had denied herself to visitors on many occasions. Mrs. Stannard and Marion were all the companions she cared to see much of, though, to Mrs. Turner's incredulous wrath, Mrs. Wilkins was admitted on the very days when she, herself, had called and penetrated no farther than the parlor. Mrs. Wilkins had enjoyed—we use the term advisedly—a furious quarrel with the wife of the commanding officer, and had driven that exemplary and forgiving woman from the field in utter dismay. There had been no love lost between them from the first, but Mrs. Wilkins had hotly resented Mrs. Whaling's lamentations over Ray's prospective conviction and his undeniable guilt, and had given the venerable black silk a dusting the very day that Ray was carried off to prison. Then came the electrifying intelligence that Wolf's dying confession had completely exonerated Ray, and both Mrs. Whaling and Mrs. Turner had flown to Mrs. Stannard to assure her that neither one of them could have believed in his guilt had it not been for the other. Mrs. Whaling was positive that she had never spoken of him except in the love and charity she would have used towards her own son, and nothing but Mrs. Turner's accounts of his wildness and dissipation would have shaken her faith in him for a moment. She had always admired his frank and fearless character, and so had "the general," who was heart-broken to think he had been so outrageously imposed upon by Ray's enemies. Mrs. Turner vowed that she had really loved Mr. Ray like a brother, but that Mrs. Whaling had told her of the positive evidence the general had against him, and so what could she think? Mrs. Stannard listened to both with uncompromising and decidedly chilling silence, and each withdrew discomfited.

Colonel Rand spent much of the morning after Wolf's revelation in overhauling papers with Colonel Whaling, but his visit to the ladies at number eleven was of unusual length and cordiality. He left only in time to see Ray and Blake a few moments in town before taking the eastern train. It had been Mrs. Stannard's intention to drive thither to call on Mrs. Rallston, but she was too late. Mr. Green's telegraphic message from Denver had warned him that Rallston was delirious with fever, and after the rapturous interview between brother and sister that followed upon his return from Wolf's bedside, Ray had gently broken the news to her of her husband's illness, and before the coming of train time on the following day Rand had obtained telegraphic authority for him to escort her to, and remain with her in, Denver. His release by the civil authorities would have had about it something of the nature of an ovation, when at noon on that day the full details of Wolf's confession were "spread upon the records," but by ingeniously circulating the story that he would return to the fort at sunset, Blake managed to throw the public off the track. His arrest was suspended by the telegram from division headquarters. Rand was ordered to come thither at once with his documentary proofs of the falsity of the charges against Ray, and the latter went quietly off to Denver with a ten days' leave, conducting his sister to her husband's bedside. He saw no one at Russell before going, but we have reason to believe that the plethoric missive he sent to Mrs. Stannard derived much of its bulk from an enclosure that was not meant for her eyes at all, and Blake went back to Russell to the lionizing he deserved.

But the gloom at the garrison was dispelled perforce by the arrival of troop after troop, company after company, from east, west, and south, fast as cars could carry them,—all bound for the Black Hills to meet and support Crook, who was reported fighting his way southward through unknown regions and unknown numbers of the red men. Nothing had been heard even by telegraph from the —th from any source whatever since the steamer came down to Bismarck with sick and wounded, and the news that they had pushed out again for the Little Missouri country the last of August, and here it was beyond mid September. A whole regiment of cavalry encamped for a day or two on the prairie, then marched northward. Natty artillerymen from San Francisco dropped in to pay their respects on their way to "the Hills;" not a day passed without the arrival of strange officers, scores of men, and squadrons of horses. Russell had suddenly blossomed into first rank as a great supply depot, and in all the excitement of greeting the new-comers, and sending messages and missives to the dear ones at the front, the pall of tragedy was lifted from the post. Gleason and Wolf were, alike, wellnigh forgotten.

And then with sudden thrill the news tore through the post, and flashed over the wires in every direction, that a courier had ridden down from the northern limits of the hills bringing despatches from Crook, and announcing that, though half starved, ragged, and practically dismounted, the followers of the Gray Fox had reached the Belle Fourche, and would soon be able to push on to the agencies. They had dashed upon the Sioux villages at Slim Buttes, capturing hundreds of their fat ponies (and greedily eating many of them that very night), had found the lodges crammed with the spoil of the Custer battle, had killed several warriors and burned every ounce of Indian stores or provisions they could not use, and had two days' ringing, spirited fighting with Crazy Horse and his charging hosts among the fog wreaths and dripping crags of those strange, picturesque upheavals; then burying their dead and bringing away their wounded, they were once more within reach of supplies, though it might be weeks before they could come home. "Another battle and we not there," was Blake's sympathetic despatch to Ray at Denver; but now the last seemed to be recorded. Another week and letters might be expected. Another fortnight and it was known that all the forces were concentrating at Red Cloud to disarm the disaffected bands near the agencies. And then Blake and Ray, too, had both sped northward again to join their regiment. Ray's affairs had been summarily settled in this wise.

Rallston's illness had been severe, and Ray and Nell had been constantly at his side. When the fever broke and consciousness returned, and the patient realized where he was and who were his nurses, the man's remorse and shame were something pitiable. Of him, as an impartial historian, it is difficult to write, since long association with Stannard had forcibly impressed his views as to Rallston's character. Perhaps we were as reluctant to hear of his subsequent behavior and to believe in his contrition as Mrs. Whaling with all her meek and lowly piety was to conceive of Ray's innocence of the various charges laid at his door; but, in the absence of proof to the contrary, we simply place before the patient reader Nellie Ray Rallston's own statement: that her husband emerged from that trying illness a very different man, that he humbly begged Will's forgiveness and hers, and that when he was well enough to be moved home he had grown so fond of Will that he could not bear to have him out of his sight, and that he was rejoiced when orders came for Will to go to Chicago, as it enabled him to travel with them as far as Omaha. But you must remember, we feel bound to say, that she was of that loyal loving Kentucky nature—singularly like her brother for that matter—that having once given itself in its entirety to the service of lover or friend, is apt to stick to it through thick and thin. We may be pardoned—we worldlings—for doubting as yet the depth and sincerity of Rallston's repentance. "When the devil was ill, the devil a saint would be," etc. You know the application; but, for the time being, Mrs. Rallston went home happier than she had been for ages.

And Ray went on to division headquarters at Chicago, wondering what on earth was up now. He was still on leave, still clamoring to be tried, that he might be cleared of those charges and allowed to rejoin his regiment. His wound had healed, though he was still thin and worn, and he could not bear to think that there might be any more fighting for the dear old —th and he not there.

But Rand had taken Rallston's letters and some other papers with him to Chicago, as directed, and the commanding general had seen in less than no time what an outrageous case had been built up against a young officer whose record up to date had been one that appealed to all his sympathies. Ever since that daring night ride Ray had been an object of the liveliest interest to the general,—himself the cavalry leader par excellence of his day,—and when Rand laid before him all the papers in the case there was an eruption that made the rafters ring.

But when it came to cooling down and acting on the case, much as the general might think Ray deserved a triumphant vindication at the hands of a court, there were a dozen things to make it impracticable. To begin with, the court had been ordered before it looked so black for Crook's command and the Black Hills settlers, and all those infantry officers who were on the original detail were now plodding up to Red Cloud. The division was wellnigh stripped of everything but staff-officers, and if a court did meet, what a scoring it might give old Whaling and to his own staff-officer, who took all that hearsay talk down around Leavenworth and never gave Ray's friends a chance. It ended in the general's impetuously directing that the court be dissolved, and that Ray be ordered there post-haste. "I'll vindicate him!" he said.

And he did. Ray's pale, anxious face turned all sorts of colors when the general jumped up from his chair and griped his hand like a vise, and looked into his brave young eyes and said things to him that filled them with tears and his soul with confusion. Ray had no words, but his heart was full of a delight that none but soldiers know, and the lionizing he got that day at division headquarters would have spoiled many another fellow. The general could, indeed, "vindicate" him. He showed him the draft of the letters sent to the regiment, and asked with a smile if he didn't think that would do as well as the "not guilty" of a court; and that evening Ray took the westward train so as to stop over in Omaha one night and see Nell, and then hurry on by the Union Pacific to Cheyenne. His heart was bounding with hope, with pride, with gratitude and joy; but through it all there was a sense of something strange and new to him that tempered every feeling of exultation. He had been tried as by fire, and humbled, softened, chastened by the fierceness of the flame. Even bitterness and resentment seemed expelled from his soul. Ray was a changed, a graver man. All that was truthful, gallant, loyal in his nature was there yet, but the recklessness of the past was gone.

Many letters had come to him in the few days he had spent at Denver by Rallston's sick-bed, and while Mrs. Stannard had frequently written to tell him how they all were, and the colonel sent a courteously-worded expression of his regret at the credence he had given to the statements of a brother officer and what he termed the "misunderstandings" of the summer, Ray was most touched at Warner's "solid" and earnest appeal to be regarded as a friend and not as one of the opposition.

He answered promptly and cordially everything Mr. Warner wrote with a single exception. The young adjutant was requested by Colonel Whaling to put in a word or two for the Hibernian quartermaster whom Blake had cut dead, and who was perturbed in spirit over the prospect of being otherwise lacerated when Ray got back. Warner thought that the colonel or the quartermaster himself should make the proper amende in this case, but the latter was a poor hand at epistolary expression, and the former had long been a pronounced adherent of that "divine right of" commanding officers which makes the adjutant the transmitter and medium of all correspondence involving matters of delicate or diplomatic import. If the result be successful, all right. It was written by direction of Colonel So and So, and is presumably his own wording. If it fail, then anybody can see that failure is due solely to the clumsy and blockheaded manipulation of the adjutant.

Mr. Warner conveyed a hope that the quartermaster might be included in the general amnesty, but to this Ray made no response. He drew the line at those who had been unkind to Dandy.

And now he was hurrying back to Russell to conduct a large body of recruits and horses up to "the Hills" to meet the regiment; and a party of young officers had joined, many of them graduates of that very year's class at the Point, young fellows whom Mrs. Truscott had known well but a few months previous, when they wore the gray under Jack's tuition at squadron drill and riding-hall work. Their regiments being in the field on active campaign, they abandoned much of the leave of absence due them and hastened to report for duty. Their services were most needed in getting the recruits into shape, and here they were at Russell enthusiastic at the prospect of seeing Captain Truscott again, devoting themselves to the ladies at his army home, and eager to a man to see and know Ray, whose name was on every lip, whom every man of them envied, and who would arrive at noon on the morrow.

Mrs. Stannard's piazza was the scene of a levee this lovely, sunshiny autumn afternoon. She was there with Miss Sanford and Mrs. Truscott, who was reclining in a comfortable wicker chair, and vastly enjoying the sunshine, the bracing air, and above all the merry chat of these young troopers, and envying them their northward march. Would they not be with Jack in a fortnight? Half a dozen of the "boys" were flocking around the ladies, and Blake was there sprawling over the railing as was his wont, and convulsing the assemblage every now and then with his outrageous travesties and declamatory outbursts. Blake was in the wildest possible spirits. He was bubbling over with fun and the milk of human kindness, except for that poor devil of a quartermaster, at whom he scowled diabolically whenever they met. He had forgiven Mrs. Turner, who was quick to see where the "gang" had gathered that afternoon, and was early on hand to lure the new victims. Already she was making a deep impression on Mr. Corry, who was gazetted to her husband's troop, and was fetching him farther into the meshes with every glance of her eyes. And then came Mrs. Whaling, whom Blake hastened to meet, and with elaborate genuflexions to usher into the circle, where she was speedily seated and regaling the company with her views on the chances of the campaign. It being the ardent desire of every cavalry lady in garrison that the —th should be ordered thither for winter quarters, Mrs. Whaling was full of information which "the general" had received from confidential sources going to prove that a great infantry post was to be established there, which he would command, while the cavalry remained in the Hills until spring. Blake noted the silence among the young officers and the anxious look in Mrs. Truscott's face (Mrs. Stannard had long since ceased to be influenced by Mrs. Whaling's statements), and he determined on a diversion. He felt morally certain that the only "confidential" communication the veteran post commander had received from any superior in a week was the stinging rap from division headquarters anent the bungle he had made in Ray's affair, and on general principles he felt that he couldn't let an opportunity slip.

"Oh, come now, Mrs. Whaling, don't crush all the hopes we had of spending the winter with you here. 'Lady, you are the cruellest she alive' if you will lead us to believe such ill report, and here we were all rejoicing that Ray comes to-morrow."

"Oh! Mr. Ray, to be sure! and how delightful it is to think that he has justified all our confidence in him! He returns like—a—the Bayard of old; the chevalier sans peur et—et——"

"Sans culotte?" suggested Blake.

"Ah, yes; thanks! Mr. Blake. As though I could have forgotten it for a moment! Quite like the chevalier sans peur et sans culotte. Such a knightly fellow as he always was!"

"Oh, Lord, yes! All nightly, especially when the luck ran his way."

"Now, Mr. Blake, how you distort my meaning!"

"Madame, you do me wrong, notorious wrong! I did but echo the words you spake a week agone. You marvel at my meaning. Nay, then, 'tis not less strange and weird than the tongue in which you tell of his perfections; less bizarre, if you will have French."

"Mr. Blake, you tilt at wind-mills." ("Gad! that's neat!" quoth he, sotto voce.) "I never said anything about a bazaar, though that reminds me that every one of you gentlemen should go to town and do something for the church before you leave. The fair has been going on two days now, and not one of you has spent a cent there. And they so need an organ——"

"Mrs. Whaling, tell them to have Jarley's waxworks, and you'll be Mrs. Jarley—or Mrs. Partington; I'll be John or Ike,—I don't care which,—and their fortune's made," said Blake, shaking with laughter; so, too, was Mrs. Stannard behind the palm-leaf fan which concealed, at least, her face. Miss Sanford, biting her lips, looked reproachfully at Blake, and Mrs. Truscott hid her face in her hands.

"Now, Mr. Blake!" protested Mrs. Turner, "you never have been in town to church since your coming here, and it's shocking the way you officers neglect it. I'm sure I've offered to drive you in with me a dozen times."

"True, fair lady; but those eminently safe animals of yours take an hour to traverse the intermediate league. I have to get up too early."

"But Mr. Ray went once; though, to be sure, Miss Sanford and Mrs. Stannard brought that about."

"Oh, yes! and came home sold. He never would have gone only he heard that the text was to be from the Sermon on the Mount, and he thought it was some new wrinkle in cavalry tactics."

"Mr. Blake, you are simply outrageous!" "Wretch!" "Shocking!" and a volley of like exclamations greeted this outburst. Mrs. Stannard rose from her chair and shook her fan at him.

"You shall not teach so irreverent a doctrine here! Mr. Ray went gladly, and was far more devout and reverential in church than some of the ladies."

"Any man could be devout sitting next to Miss Sanford," he persisted; but seeing no sign of levity in her face, and that her blue eyes were bent upon him "in pity rather than anger," he abruptly changed his tone to one of melodramatic gravity.

"'Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I cannot stand and face thy frown.'

I'm not appreciated. I must betake myself to other fields. Ladies, when I get in a gale it takes something sterner than feminine rebuke to stop me. I'll away and see Mrs. Wilkins. She likes it. If aught I've said to wound thee," he continued, bowing with hand on his heart in front of Miss Sanford, "remember, Miss De Vere, in the words of your favorite Tennyson,—

'The cold upon your old stone gates, Is not more lyin' to you than I.'"

"Did you ever know such a rattlepate?" exclaimed Mrs. Turner, as the long legs went striding down the row, and the young officers sat gazing after him in wonderment.

"Never," replied Mrs. Stannard; "and yet he has as true a heart and as tender a nature as almost any man I know. There was no fun in him while Mr. Ray was in trouble; and no more devoted and loyal friend could he find. I like Mr. Blake, and always have liked him."

But Mrs. Whaling shook her head. "No right-principled young man could speak so lightly of sacred things. Ah! here comes the orderly with the mail." And as she spoke the trim young soldier entered the gate carrying his budget of letters. Mrs. Whaling stretched forth her hand to take the packet.

"Please, ma'am," said he, "I left yours at the colonel's, and my orders is not to give the others to anybody but them as they belongs to."

"I will distribute them here, orderly," she replied, with a superior smile, "as I know all these ladies and gentlemen and you do not." She was determined to see who received letters and from whom, if a possible thing, and she carried her point. Most of them were for the officers. Nothing came as yet from the regiment. Mrs. Truscott received two or three letters from the East, which were not handed her until the self-appointed postmistress had scrutinized the superscriptions; so, too, she inspected the bills and billets that came to the young subs, and two letters for Miss Sanford,—one from New York, the other, addressed in a bold, vigorous hand, was from Headquarters, Division of the Missouri, Chicago. At this, through

"All her autumn tresses falsely brown,"

she shot sidelong daggers, indeed, as she passed it with significant smile.

"I thought he'd write even though to-morrow would bring him here himself," she said; and Miss Sanford bit her lip and colored far more in indignation than in confusion; but, rallying like the little heroine she was, and bent now on baffling the schemes of the wily interloper, she quickly leaned forward and took the letter, glanced brightly at Mrs. Stannard, and exclaimed, with all the delight and naivete of genuine surprise,—

"Why, it is for me, Mrs. Stannard! Now you shall not see a line of it, for you would not show me yours." And then with provoking coolness, while Grace gasped in admiration and astonishment, Marion opened and read with beaming smile her letter from Ray,—the only one he had time to write in Chicago.

It was very brief, yet when 'twas finished she wished, with all her heart, she could escape to her own room and read it once again, all by herself. It was the first letter—in the least like it—she ever received. It made her pulses bound, and it put her mettle to the test to turn at once to conversation with the one youth who had received no letter. It made her long for stable-call to sound that she might be alone and read it again and again, and yet it was very, very simple and direct. The trumpets rang their signal soon enough. The young cavalrymen doffed their caps and scurried away. Mrs. Stannard, smiling knowingly, said she would take a walk with Mrs. Turner, and then the two school friends were left alone.

"Maidie, what does he say?"

"Let me read it quietly, Grace dear. I couldn't there."

She had not seen him since sending that very, very outspoken letter the afternoon after he was taken to Cheyenne, and the letter he had written in answer to that was full of gratitude for her faith in him,—full of assurance that with such words as those to cheer him he would bear his further trials as became a man, but, until fully vindicated of every charge, he would not return to Russell and could not hope to see her; but, once freed from the odium of any and every allegation affecting his integrity, he should come to thank her in person for the strength and comfort her beautiful letter had given him.

And now—he was coming. He could not wait for his own arrival, since he had to stop over one day. The instant he left the colonel's presence he had asked for a desk in the aide-de-camp's room, had penned a few hasty lines to her first of all, had hurried with them to the Rock Island Depot, only a few squares away, that they might catch the mail just starting, and she—she who had proved so gallantly her faith in him, be the first to know of his complete vindication. Ray never wrote such a letter in his life before:

"Only thirty minutes before the westward mail starts, and this moment I have come unnerved and weak from the presence of the general with the fullest vindication man could ask. In the first glow of thoughtfulness my thoughts turn instantly to you. May God bless you for the words that came to bless me in my darkest hours! May He teach me to show you—I can never tell it—the infinite value of your words to me! May He so guide my future that, henceforth, my life shall prove worthy the trust you placed in me! Until it has, in some measure, so redeemed the past, I may not say more. Only this: you, before all the world, I desire to know of my acquittal of every allegation. To-morrow I shall hope to see you before we march, for I shall go at once to the regiment. There may be little opportunity for words even if I dared trust myself to speak. Last time, in laughing talk, it was agreed that I should wear your colors; but now, even your will would be powerless to prevent me, for my heart and soul are pledged to them forever.

"WILLIAM P. RAY."

Nor did he mean to "say more" when writing that letter. He meant that she—he did not care who else—should know that the thought of her friendship and faith had been his mainstay in the troubles which had so suddenly involved his life and wellnigh wrecked him. He wanted her to know, and he did not care who knew, that from this time forth he was her knight, sworn to her service, and bound to her by a tie he could not break if he would. Seldom as they had met, there had been from the first a halo of romance about their association, and she had come to be, even before he could realize it, the one fair woman in whom was centred the fealty and devotion of his loyal nature. He dare not hope: he would not expect that one like her could so soon, so unsought, unwooed, have learned to look upon him as anything more than a friend whose loyalty to Grace, her one intimate, and whose friendship for Mrs. Stannard had conspired to make him an object of interest in their daily talk. With the humility of true manhood he well knew that his name, clouded with the recklessness and debts of his past life, was not one that he dare lay at her feet; but this, too, he knew, and knew well, and would have faced the world to own it as fearlessly as he faced a foe: he loved her, and, as yet, could ask nothing in return.

And yet, when Blake met him at the station next day, and they drove rapidly out over the hard prairie roads, and he saw again the white peaks in the south and the sunlight dancing over the distant slopes, and the flag waving aloft over the dingy brown buildings of the post, and his heart beat with eager joy at thought of seeing her again, of touching that soft white hand and looking down into the depths of her clear, truthful eyes, and studying the face that, lovely always, had grown exquisite in beauty to him, he wondered how he could meet her, how he could speak to her, and control the longing to implore her to overlook his past life with its follies and its sins, and let him prove to her how strong and steadfast he could be if she would but bid him hope. And then he set his teeth and tossed his head,—the old Ray-like gesture,—and vowed that without a single word of hope she should see how the faith of "one fair woman" had changed his whole life. He could hardly answer Blake's eager, enthusiastic talk. He could hardly hear what he was saying until he caught the words "To-morrow morning, four hundred recruits, five hundred horses, and you go in command."

So soon, then? And yet 'twas what he had prayed for. He was eager to see the dear old regiment again. He knew well how many faces of officers and men would light up in welcome at his coming. In all the misery of the past month he had almost forgotten that in July he was with them at the front. How very far away that night ride seemed,—the ride that Wayne's and Truscott's fellows at least had not forgotten! It made him think of Dandy, and he questioned eagerly if Dandy were still there.

"Still there? You bet he is, Billy! Hogan's heart will break if you don't say first thing that he looks better than he ever did in his life."

"Why! How is it that Hogan has him again? I don't understand."

"Why? You can't go without a horse, man, and as commanding officer of the whole crowd you would be entitled to your choice. I thought you'd rather have Dandy, and so said. You can take another if you want to; there are lots of them, and beauties. Now we're to go to Mrs. Stannard's for dinner at once. Shall we stop and knock off the dust?"

They were whirling in at the fort gate, the gate through which he had last driven a prisoner in the grasp of the law. The broad parade was covered with squads of recruits drilling busily and with knots of young officers, who looked eagerly at Blake and the dark-eyed young gentleman in gray by his side. Along the row were many of the ladies of the garrison and romping children, all of whom nodded and smiled and waved their hands as they flashed by.

"Quick, Billy," said Blake, between his set teeth. "Out with you and into the house, unless you want to be snared by Mrs. Turner. Oh, by the Lord! Here she comes, and Mrs. Whaling, too. Scoot!"

And Ray sprang from the light wagon, and lifting his hat in salute to the ladies who were hastening down the walk, he darted into the house,—into the cool, darkened rooms which he had last seen when there was not a spark of comfort, of hope, or love in a world of black despair. And now, here was Hogan,—all joy and welcome and delight. There lay the "swell" undress uniform, his cap and gloves and little walking switch, all in readiness on the bed, and not until he became accustomed to the dim light after the glare of the Wyoming sun, and the mists of emotion had begun to clear away, could he see that Hogan's blue-gray eyes were wet, and that he was ready to break down again with sheer ecstasy. Ray laughed, the real old, joyous, ringing laugh again, as he gripped the faithful Irishman's hand.

"Why, Hogan, old fellow. It's good to see you again; and so Dandy is here, too, is he?"

"He is, sir, and it's he that'll be glad to have you on his back again. Oh, murther! Did the lootenant tell ye how he dumped the quarthermasther in the creek? He didn't?——"

"Come, Billy. No time to lose. Mrs. Stannard's waiting for you. She had early dinner, as there's to be a farewell hop to-night, and I've seen the colonel and you needn't report until afterwards. Come, man," called Blake, hurrying in; and so Hogan's ecstasies were cut short, and in a few moments more Mrs. Stannard's beaming face welcomed them at the door, and both her hands were cordially clasping Ray's, and yet—somehow, drawing him in and passing him along into the little parlor, while she herself remained volubly chatting with Blake, who did not pass the portals with any rapidity at all. Ray never could realize, much less explain it, but in another moment he was standing in the little parlor, and Marion Sanford, lovely in her grace and beauty, lovely in her shyly welcoming smile, lovely in the soft flush that had mantled her bonny face, was slowly rising from her chair to welcome him. All she said was "Mr. Ray!" as with trembling hands he quickly seized the cool, white, plump little member that was half extended to greet him, and—he could not speak; he knew not what to say or do; he longed for the first time in his life to kneel at a woman's feet and press her hand to his lips, but that would be an unwarrantable demonstration in these conventional days. He simply bowed low, held it one lingering moment in both his,—she must have felt their eager trembling,—and then, without the kiss for which his soul was longing, reluctantly let it go and looked once into her eyes.

"Miss—Marion, I—cannot tell you how glad I am to see you!" Low-toned, heartfelt, eager, they were all he dare say. He meant to be true to his resolve, and to prove his worth and his gratitude by something better than words. And for once at least in his gallant debonair life, Ray was mute and at a loss in a woman's presence. He was indeed conquered,—heart and soul.

A delightful dinner they had, that little partie carree; Mrs. Truscott had declined, because she said one more woman would spoil it all, and she wanted to write to Jack. And then Ray had to go and see the colonel and have a long talk with him about the big command he was to take north on the morrow, and to shake hands gravely with the embarrassed veteran, and cordially and gladly with Warner, and to welcome the dozen handsome, soldierly, enthusiastic young graduates, who came in a body to call and pay their respects and tell their young commander how their recruit companies were doing; and then there were a host of other affairs to attend to, and an inspection of all the five hundred horses that were to bear them northward in the morning, and afterwards the four hundred recruits who were to go to the cavalry regiments with him. And then came retreat parade, and the solemn dinner with the colonel and his amiable better half, a dinner which seemed interminable, but which was as much a duty as attending roll-call, and so it was late when he could get into full-dress uniform and go over to the hop and see her once again. Warner, lucky devil, was to be her escort, and the young officers would have taken every dance but for the waltz he found courage to ask for at dinner. How he rebelled at the idea of having to escort Mrs. Whaling! Still, it was all part of his self-imposed penance, thought he, with a grave, quiet smile, as Hogan was helping him to dress, and the strains of the dance music came floating witchingly over the parade. He had only time to see Dandy one moment, to pet and fondle him and praise his beautiful condition (to Hogan's delight), and then, just as tattoo was sounding, there came into the room the quartermaster's clerk with some papers for his signature.

"What are these?" he asked in surprise. "Requisition for forage for one private horse, the property of First Lieutenant William P. Ray, —th Cavalry. Why, man! I own no horse."

"Them's the quartermaster's orders, sir. Lieutenant Blake got permission to buy the horse. It's Dandy, sir, but he said as how it was yours, and you'd sign the papers directly you got back. The forage was issued on that understanding."

"Shure it's all thrue, sir," said Hogan. "Dandy was bought last week, sir, and I thought as how Mr. Blake had told you."

Ray said no word more. His eyes were filling; he signed the papers, finished dressing in silence, escorted Mrs. Whaling with entire civility, and never heard a word she said though she talked volubly every inch of the way; and once at the hop-room and he could break loose from Mrs. Turner, who seized him to upbraid him for not stopping to speak to her, and to tell him she had saved three dances expressly for him, and she had such a host of things she wanted to tell him, and she had been hearing such a host of things about him, etc., etc., he found Blake and caught him by the sleeve.

"No dodging now, Blakey. Who bought Dandy? Who gave him to me?"

"Well—dang it! I did. Haven't I a right to?"

"No, old man; and, forgive my saying it, you and I cannot afford such presents. What was he appraised at?"

"Oh, they fixed it low; because he was to be yours, you know. I got him for two hundred."

"But, Blake, you hadn't ten dollars when I went away. I know full well how much I owe you in this matter. Bless you, old man! But—the truth now. You can afford to tell me when I say I must know before it comes to saying good-night to her. What had Miss Sanford to do with it?"

"Everything, Billy."



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE COLORS ENTWINE.

She was talking brightly with a knot of half a dozen young officers, all clamoring for "extras," when, soft and sweet, the strains of "Immortellen," that loveliest of Gungl's waltzes, floated on the air, and Ray stood there before her.

"My waltz, Miss Sanford. Can I claim you in face of such an array of aspirants?"

She rested her hand on his arm, nodding blithely to the group, and calling laughingly back to them as he led her away. Then she noticed how silent he was, and for the first time looked up in his face.

"You have not been dancing, Mr. Ray?"

"No, Miss Marion; and it was a piece of selfishness in me to ask this. I have not danced since coming back from the Cheyenne, and yet—I could not go without one. Shall we try?"

Will he ever forget her as she looked that night? How gloriously deep and soft and tender were her eyes, how wavy and rippling her hair, how exquisite the delicate tints of her complexion, how rich, how lovely the warmth of her parted lips! Her dress seemed as airy, as fair as her own quiet grace. For the life of him he could not describe it, but it was the first time he had seen her in evening attire, and Marion Sanford's neck and shoulders and arms were perfect,—fair and white and round and lovelier than an angel's, thought Ray, as his glowing eyes looked down in rapture upon her. She had glanced up in his face as he spoke, but his eyes met hers with such uncontrollable worship in their gaze that she could not face them. His arm twined lightly about her waist, and without a further word they swung away in the long, gliding measure that seemed so perfectly in accord with the spirit of the dreamy music. She danced lightly as a fairy; "guided," as he would have said, "with the faintest touch of the rein," and he forgot the stiffness of the wounded thigh, and everything else but that, to the music of all others he fancied most (surely the leader had an unusual fit of inspiration that night), he was dancing at last with the girl whose beauty enthralled his every sense, whose loyalty to him in all his troubles had won his undying gratitude, and whom he loved, humbly 'tis true, yet thrillingly, passionately. He never saw that all over the ball-room curious eyes were watching eagerly. Hers were downcast, while his were fixed almost in adoration on her face. Sweeter, softer, dreamier rose and fell the exquisite strains. Will he ever forget the "Immortellen"? Soft ripples of her hair were drifting close to his lips. Their delicate fragrance stole over his senses like a spell. He felt the light pressure of her tiny hand upon his arm, and envied the dead gold of his shoulder-knot, when once, as they reversed and a quick turn was necessary to avoid collision with a bulkier couple, her flushing cheek had rested one instant upon it. He could not speak; a lump rose in his throat and his heart beat wildly. What could it mean? what could it mean? this strange thing Blake had confessed to him? She—she had bought Dandy to give to him? He must find words to thank her, but how could he without betraying all?

Such silence could not last. Even in the thrilling instant of an avowal the woman does not live who so far forgets herself as to be insensible to the gaze of lookers-on. Totally ignorant of the extent of his knowledge, since she had charged Blake that it was all to be kept a profound secret; thinking only of the necessity of breaking that treacherous, betraying silence, she summoned her courage, and, looking up one instant, she made some laughing allusion to the fact that Mrs. Turner would never forgive him if he left without dancing with her; and, indeed, he must dance with Miss Whaling, since he had dined there that evening.

"I will try. I will do anything you ask or suggest; only, Miss Marion, we march at eight to-morrow morning. Come with me to the gallery one minute. I must speak to you."

So after all she had only precipitated matters. He had ceased waltzing directly opposite one of the open doors, and, without waiting for reply, with the quick decision that so marked him at times, he led her, speechless, from the room, snatching up a cavalry cape from a chair, and this, as they stepped out on the low wooden piazza, he threw over her shoulders. Several other couples were promenading slowly up and down, or gazing in at the dancers. He led her rapidly past all these until they came to the end of the platform, and there, with the moonlight shining full on his eager features, Ray turned and faced his fate. She knew he was trembling; she knew his voice was low and broken and husky. His words had been hardly audible to her in the hop-room, but his emotion any woman could see. Oh, how white and cold and still the distant mountains shone in the pallid light! Oh, how silent, peaceful, deserted, the far-away slopes and ridges over the prairie! Oh, how faint and far and glimmering were the night lights of the stars, dimmed into nothingness by the broad, brilliant, overwhelming radiance of the Queen of Heaven! Oh, how sweet, luring, love-lighting were those witching waltz strains floating out upon the breathless air! Oh, how warm and close was the pressure of his strong arm as it held her hand upon his beating heart! Knowing—well knowing what must be coming, powerless, even if determined to check him, she bowed her sweet face, and the young soldier's surging love words broke, low, tremulous, but irresistible, upon her listening ears.

"God knows I meant to hide as yet, until my life could have shown the influence you and your blessed faith have had.—God knows I meant to have striven to show myself worthy before coming to say what now I cannot restrain; but to-night the truth came out that to you I owe my pet, my Dandy. No; let me speak," he went on, impetuously, as for one instant she raised her head as though to check him; he had seized her hand, too, and held it down there under the folds of that happy cavalry cape. "I ask nothing. I know I've no right to hope or expect anything as yet. You have blessed me infinitely beyond my deserts already; but now I could not go, I could not go without giving you to do with as you will the only thing on earth I have to offer,—my heart, Marion. Oh, my darling, my darling, don't shrink from me! Listen, sweet one. There can be no wrong, no shame in your knowing that I love you, love you beyond any power of mine to tell you. Were I to go now, after all you have done for me, and hide all this simply because I did not and could not hope you would return it,—yet, I would hang my head in shame. The man who loves as I do must tell it, no matter what the answer be."

And then there was a moment's silence, through which she could plainly hear the loud beating of his heart, in which she could not find words to speak, and yet there lay her hand in his, since it was powerless to check him.

"Have I startled you, Marion?" he whispered low. "Did you not read much of this in my letter?"

She looked bravely up in his eyes. Her own were full of unshed tears. Her sweet face was lovely in the pale moonlight, and as once more she saw the worship in his eyes, the flush of joy, pride,—of what else could it be?—again mantled her soft cheeks. She made no effort to withdraw her hand.

"I have no right to be startled, Mr. Ray. I could not but see something of this all in your letter, though that might have been attributed to a very unnecessary gratitude. But I would not have you think anything like—like this due to me because of my interest in all that has taken place this summer. We all thought—Mrs. Stannard and Grace and I—that you had been most outrageously wronged, and it did seem as though everything had turned against you, and I made Mr. Blake buy Dandy because that seemed the only way to save him, too, from being abused. I couldn't bear it. Oh, Mr. Ray, the letter did not half prepare me for all this! I have liked you. I do like you better than any man I know," she said; and now her swimming eyes were fixed full on his, and his lips were quivering in their eagerness to kiss away the tears, but he drew her no closer.

"That in itself is more than I had a right to hope, that in itself nerves me to tell you this. I go back to my duty with a stimulus and to my temptations with a safeguard I never knew before. I never have been worthy your faintest thought, much less your love."

"Mr. Ray, don't say that! I know well that no man who has been such a friend of Mrs. Stannard's, such a friend to Captain Truscott and Grace, could be what you paint yourself. Oh, don't think—don't think for an instant I undervalue the gift; you—you shall not speak of yourself that way! Do you think any woman who deserves a thought could fail to glory in such a name as you have won? Oh, Mr. Ray, Mr. Ray, I hardly realize that it is possible that you care for me! You, so brave and loyal and daring."

His eyes were blazing with a rapture he could not control. It was so infinitely sweet to hear her praise.

"You make me hope in spite of yourself, Marion," he murmured, with trembling eagerness. "Oh, think; look way down into your heart, and see if you cannot find one little germ of love for me,—one that I may teach to grow. Try, my darling, try. Ah, heaven! am I mad to-night?"

And now her head was drooping again and her heart beating. She felt that since it had come she could not bid him go comfortless.

"Only within the last day or two," she whispered, "have I been thinking that—that—I've been wondering how I dared write to you as I did when you were—in Cheyenne, wondering whether—if Dandy were not yours to-day—I could find courage to say what I did to Mr. Blake. Does—that—tell you anything, Mr. Ray?"

"Marion! Marion! Oh, my darling! let me see your face."

She struggled one instant. She even hid it upon his breast, and the helmet cords made their mark upon her blushing forehead; but quickly he took her face between his strong, trembling hands, gently but firmly raised it until his eyes could drink in every lovely feature, though the fringed lids still hid from him the eyes he longed to see.

"Marion, sweet one. Maidie! with all my life and strength I love you. Have you not one little word for me?"

"What—must I say?" she murmured, at last, still shrouding her eyes.

"Say,—'Will, I think I love you just a little.'"

No answer. Only beating hearts, only quick-drawn breath, only the distant call of the sentry, "Half-past eleven o'clock;" only the dying strains of the "Immortellen" wafting out through the open casements.

"Try, Maidie," he whispered, eagerly. "Try before the call comes back to the guard-house. Try before the last notes of that sweet waltz die away for good and all. Try, sweet love,—'Will, I think I do.'"

A moment's pause, then—then—

"Will, I—I know I do."

And the strong, straining arms clasped about her under that blessed cavalry cape, and the bonny face was hidden on his breast, and Ray's trembling lips were raining passionate kisses on that softly rippling bang, just as the last thrill of the "Immortellen" dreamed away, and the rich, ringing, soldierly voice of the sentry on number one echoed far out over the moonlit prairie the soldier watch-cry, "All's well."

* * * * *

What a gem of a morning was the morrow when they rode away northward! After the command had filed out of the garrison, led by the band on their placid grays, and the ladies all along the row had waved their good-byes and kissed their dainty white hands, and the children had hurrahed and shouted and rushed out among the horses' hoofs in their eagerness to have one more farewell shake of the hand from some favorite officer or man, and two or three dames and damsels had stolen away to the back rooms up-stairs, Marion Sanford stood with tear-dimmed eyes at the window, gazing far out over the prairie at the long blue column disappearing in the dust over the "divide." By her side stood Grace Truscott, twining her arms around that slender waist and clinging to her with a new and sweeter sympathy. Who, who was the cynic that wrote that even as she stood at the altar plighting her troth to the husband she had chosen, no woman yet forgave the man whom, having rejected, she knew to have consoled himself with another? Grace never for a moment admitted that Ray had been her lover in Arizona; he had been devoted to her—always—for Jack's sake; but there were those who thought that only a little encouragement would have tumbled Mr. Ray over head and heels in love with her in those queer old days. But all that was past. There was no doubt that Mr. Ray was desperately, deeply in love now, and that two women in that garrison—Mrs. Stannard and Mrs. Truscott—knew it well, and rejoiced that his love was requited. But, late as it was, Ray had had a very happy yet earnest talk with Marion on their return from the hop. He told her plainly that he had a term of probation to serve, and that not until he had freed himself from his burden of debt and furnished his quarters, so that he might not be utterly ashamed to welcome her to such a roof as even frontier cottages afforded, he would not ask her to be his wife; he would not ask her to consider herself even engaged to him. He had no right, he said, to speak to her of his love, much less to plead for hers; but that was irresistible,—'twas done. Long engagements are fearful strains, and our social license of questionings renders them wellnigh intolerable to men and women, who naturally shrink from speaking of matters which are to them so sacred. Ray declared that she should not be harassed by any such torturing talk and prying and questioning as that which has to be undergone by almost every girl whom civilized society fancies to be engaged. She could never doubt him for an instant, he felt assured, and he—well, he couldn't begin to realize his blessed fortune at all, so she must excuse his incredulity; but he declared he would leave her utterly untrammelled. There should not even be an "understanding." He would not ask her to accept his class-ring, all he had to offer, but write to her he would. Grace and Mrs. Stannard should know if she saw fit, and Truscott, but no one else at Russell. Then, if she came to her senses when she went back to New York and her friends the Zabriskies in November, and met some fellow worthy her acceptance, why—but here a little white hand was laid firmly upon his lips; he said no more, but compromised by kissing it—rapturously.

But he, and Dandy, too, had come to say good-by before marching, and Dandy's coat shone like silk, and he arched his pretty neck and looked at her with his soft brown eyes as though he wanted to tell her he knew all about it, as indeed he did. Had not Ray gone into the stable early that morning while he was crunching his oats and whispered it all, and ever so much more, into that sensitive ear? A famous confidant was Dandy on the long march that followed, for Ray used to bend down on his neck and talk about her to him time and again, to the wonderment of his "sub." Ray breakfasted at Mrs. Stannard's the morning of the start, and when he came away and it was time to mount, he wore in the button-hole of his scouting-shirt a single daisy—Marion's own flower—and a tiny speck of dark-blue ribbon. The yellow facings of the cavalry were linked with the Sanford blue.

And wasn't Blake in a gale that morning? Rattling with nonsense and misquotation and eagerness to be off, he strode from gallery to gallery with his Mexican spurs clattering at his heels. He had bought in town a little china match-safe, which he gravely presented to Mrs. Whaling as a slight addition to the collection of what she termed her brick-a-braw. He implored Mrs. Turner to sing to him just once, for singing was a doubtful accomplishment of hers, and she had already good reason to know that he had paraphrased one of her songs, because of her defective enunciation, into—

"Some day, some day, some day I shall meat chew,"

and she never forgave ridicule. He declared he meant to kiss Mrs. Wilkins good-by, and dared Mrs. Stannard to come down and see him do it; but when it was really time to ride to the head of his troop of recruits, he bowed to Miss Sanford with a knowing look in his eye, and bent low over her hand.

"'Love sought is good, but given unsought is better;'

and yet, fair lady, you fail to see the overpowering advantages of accepting mine. In the language of Schillerschoppenhausen, Ich habe geliebt und gelebt, which being interpreted means, I've loved and got left. Fare ye well." And away he rode, bestriding his horse like a pair of bent dividers on a broad grin.

And Ray,—though pale from recent illness and confinement and lack of the old open air life,—never had he looked so full of hope and buoyancy and life as, after one thrilling little squeeze of her hand, he swung into saddle, doffed his broad-brimmed hat to all, and went bounding away to take his place in front of the long mounted line that awaited his coming. Then his voice rang out clear and firm and true, and with the daisy nestling in his breast he galloped to the head of column. Duty, Loyalty, and Hope were leading on before.

Two long weeks of marching it took to carry them to the romantic valley in the Black Hills where the old —th so eagerly awaited them, and meantime letters were flying to and fro. Ray meant to bring his new riders and new horses in perfect trim to their regiments, and so made short marches and constant inspection of his stock. Heavens! what a gloom had settled over the regiment that miserable day, when one of their number, having ridden into Deadwood, came back with a several days' old Cheyenne paper giving the fearful details of Gleason's death and Ray's probable guilt. It was three days more before they met the mail-stage fairly laden down with bags of letters for them. Stannard had been almost sick, Truscott sad, silent, but incredulous. There had been a difference between him and Billings, for the latter was inclined to believe the story true, and Truscott said that he was prepared to hear this from other men in the regiment but not from him. Eager as lovers and husbands to get their mail, every man had dropped the letter he happened to be reading when young Hunter, searching a later Cheyenne paper, set up a whoop that made the pine-crested heights echo again and again. Then waving his paper and dancing like a madman, the youngster yelled at the top of his voice,—

"Ray's innocent! Ray's acquitted! 'Twas a deserter, Wolf, who did it! He's confessed. Now, Crane. By heaven, swallow your words! Wh-o-o-o-p!"

Officers and men, the whole regiment sprang to their feet and came tearing to the spot, and such a scene of hand-shaking and shouting and jubilee the Black Hills never knew before or since. It was easy enough for the officers to hurry back to their letters from wives and children or sweethearts, but for hours the men kept up their hurrah; Ray had been their hero for years, and the affair of the July fight of Wayne's command had simply intensified the feeling.

Naturally, the letters bearing the postmarks of latest dates were those first opened. Fancy the faces of Stannard and Truscott as they read, letter by letter, backward through that summer's record. Turner looked as sad and anxious as ever; almost the first one he opened said, "If you have not already seen and read those that precede this, please burn them without reading. I was mistaken;" and Turner well knew that when his wife got so far as to admit that she had been mistaken, it meant that in some way she had been playing the mischief. He never read, therefore, all her graphic details of Ray's mysterious flirtation with Mrs. Truscott, or of the thrilling evidence in Mrs. Turner's possession of his guilt. A good fellow was Turner, a loyal soldier and husband, who loved his pretty and capricious better half, and deserved a still better one.

That night when the first keen frosts of October made the camp-fires doubly welcome, old Stannard and Jack went off among the pines and built a little blaze all by themselves, and there talked gravely over the strange events of the summer now so fully set before them in those volumes from Russell. All Wolf's wild infatuation. All Gleason's cunning malice, and—ah! De mortuis nil nisi bonum. May God forgive him! All Ray's loyal and devoted services, and his cruel suffering and wrongs. What wonder was it that for days the regiment could talk of nothing but Ray? What wonder that they could not fathom the secret of the tie that made Stannard and Truscott inseparable now? What wonder that those two officers obtained permission to ride forward a day's march and meet Ray and his command, and that when they came upon him cantering gayly up through Buffalo Gap, he hardly knew them, so gaunt, worn, and ragged were they; they hardly knew him, so radiant was the halo of hope and love around his once devil-may-care face; so earnest, so grave, yet so joyous had become his once flippant, reckless mien. Yet, in their very greeting, Ray well knew that deep and faithful as had been the old trust, there was new born from the harsh ordeal of this strange, sad summer a friendship firmer, deeper, than ever earthly menace could shake—a trust and loyalty that was registered in heaven. Not one word for hours was interchanged between Jack and Ray as to that scene in which he carried to Grace the letter Gleason had stolen, or found. Together, with Blake occasionally injecting his rattling comments, they talked over all the sea of troubles through which he had passed, and together they would have mourned it all anew but for Ray.

"No, major. No, Jack. I see well that it was all for the best. God knows I have been ten times rewarded for anything I may have suffered then. There was a lesson I had to learn, and did learn: that there are hundreds of people who think that when a man drinks at all there is no crime that may not properly be lodged at his door. It has been a hard siege, but every hour has been inestimable in result and in reward."

But before they rolled in their blankets that night Truscott looked him in the eyes one moment, then held out his hand.

"Is it necessary for me to say how I value what you did and bore for Grace and me, Billy?"

"Not a word, Jack."

Then came the march to meet the regiment, the royal, ringing welcome, a day devoted to lionizing Ray, greeting the new officers, choosing horses, assigning recruits to companies, and then a dash down the Cheyenne, a week's ride in the glad October sunshine, and, one brilliant evening as they returned, heading in toward the agencies, there met them the courier with despatches and letters, and Ray's heart went bounding up into his throat as four dainty envelopes, all addressed in the same hand, were lifted up to him as he sat on Dandy, and then Jack Truscott came riding quickly to his side, his eyes glowing, though wet with emotion, his lips compressed, yet a world of joy and gratitude shining in his face. Ray looked up eagerly, and their hands clasped.

"I have a son, Billy, and all is well,—thank God!"

* * * * *

And then came the day when with the long skirmish lines deployed, far as eye could see, the —th, with the comrade battalions of the other regiments that had shared the rigors of the Yellowstone campaign of '76, came sweeping over the open prairies from the north, and whirling in ahead of them the sullen, scowling, blanketed bands of old Machpealota; "herding" them up the valley of the White River towards the agency, and penning them between the glistening crags of Dancer's Butte and the barrier bluffs on the other side, while MacKenzie's troopers, trim and fresh in their natty garrison dress, "rounded them up" from the south and west, and by night the work of disarming and dismounting the silent Indians was begun. New forces were all there ready to take the field against the hordes of Cheyennes still lurking in the mountains; but for the —th the campaign of the centennial year was virtually over. A few days of rest and jubilee and greeting of old and new friends among the regiments there assembled, and then they turned their horses' heads southward, gave one backward look at the valley where they turned the tables on the Cheyennes, where Wayne had so nearly sacrificed his whole command, where Ray had run the gauntlet of death by torture to save them, where Truscott's night dash to the rescue had brought him charging just in time, and over the rolling prairies they marched to seek far to the south their winter homes.

Thither had Ray and Truscott already gone. The summer's work was done. The campaign was ended, and there came by telegraph from Cheyenne a notification that Lieutenant Ray would be needed as a witness on the trial of the owners of that gambling-den in which the soldier Wolf had been done to death. The "Gray Fox" was sending in his ambulance and a staff-officer at that very moment. He sent for Ray to bid him good-by and offer him the welcome lift. And just as Truscott was writing some hurried lines to Grace, cheering her with the news that in two weeks he could reach her, the colonel laid a quiet hand upon his shoulder,—an unusual demonstration, and one that meant a good deal,—and said, "It has occurred to the general that you might like to go ahead with Ray, captain; he appreciates the circumstances under which you hurried to join us, and thinks that now Mrs. Truscott is entitled to claim you, so Mr. Billings will send your orders after you by mail." He did not say that he had himself gone to the general to ask this indulgence for Truscott, but so it happened that long before sundown the three old comrades, Truscott, Ray, and Mr. Bright, of the staff, were whirling ahead towards Laramie, and that the precious inmates of number eleven at Russell were electrified by the news that Jack and Will,—"Jack and Will!" would be there ten days ahead of the anticipated time.