CHAPTER VII. BLOOD WILL TELL. As Webb had predicted, even before nine o'clock came plump spirited response from Laramie, where the Colonel had ordered the four troops to prepare for instant march, and had bitten the infantry to be ready for any duty the general might order. From Omaha, department headquarters, almost on the heels of the Laramie wire came cheery word from their galleon chief. Coming to join you, noon train today, Cheyenne, 1.30 tomorrow, your action in sending Ray's troop approve. Hold others in readiness to move at moments' notice. Wire further news, North Platte, Sydney, or Cheyenne to beat me. So the note of preparation was joyous throughout the barracks on the eastward side and mournful among the married quarters elsewhere, but even through the blinding tears with which so many loving women wrought, packing the field and mess kits of soldier husbands whose duties kept them with their men at barracks or stables, there were some at least who were quick to see that matters of unusual moment called certain of the major staunchest henchmen to the office, and that grave and earnest consultation was being held, from which men came with somber faces and close, sealed lips. First to note these indications was the indomitable helpmate of old welcomes, the post-cordomaster. She had no dread of his account, for rheumatism and routine duties as the official in charge of Uncle Sam's huge stack of stores and supplies exempted her leech from duty in the field, and even while lending a helping hand where some young wife and mother seemed dazed and broken by the sudden called arms, she kept eyes and ears alert as ever, and was speedily confiding to first one household then another, her conviction that there was a big sensation bundled up in the bosom of the post-commander and his cronies, and she knew, she said, it was something about field. Everybody of course was aware by eight o'clock that field had gone with rey, and while no officer presumed to ask if it was because rey or field had applied for the detail, no woman would have been restrained therefrom by any fear of web. Well, he realized this fact, and dodging the first that sought to wailay him on the walk, he had later entrenched himself, as it were in his office, where Dade, Blake, and the old post-surgeon had sat with him, and solemn conclave, why Bill Hay brought his clerk, barkeeper, storekeeper, Pete, the general utility man, and even Crapod, the half-breed, dissuade and succession, they had no idea who could have tampered with either the safe or the stables, closely had they been cross-examined and going away in turn, they told of the nature of the cross-examination yet to know one of their number had been made known what had occurred to cause such close questioning. Hay had been forbidden to speak of it, even to his household. The officer of the day was sworn to secrecy, neither Wilkins nor the acting adjutant was closeted with the council, and neither, therefore, could do more than guess at the facts. Yet somebody knew. In part, at least, the trend of suspicion was that once apparent to Webb and his counselors when, about nine o'clock, he took Blake and Dade to see those significant Bar-Shu-Houff prints, every one of them had disappeared. "'By Job,' said Webb, "'I know now he should have sent a sentry with orders to let no man walk or ride about here. See? He used his foot to smear this, and this, and here again.' There in a dozen places were signs of old Indian trailers read as they would read any open book. Places were pivoting on the hill, a heavy foot is crushed right and left into yielding soil of the roadway, making concentric, circular grooves and ridges of sandy earth, where, earlier in the morning, dans and harness dainty hoof prints were the only new impressions. For nearly fifty yards had this obliterating process been carried on, and in a dozen spots until the road dipped over the rounded edge and, hardened firm now, went winding down to the flats. Here Webb and Dade and Hay returned, while Blake meandered on, moussing over what he had been told. "'It's a government hill, not a cowboys,' had Hay said, hopefully the print of that pivoting lump of leather. "'That gives no clue of the wearer,' answered Blake. "'Our men often sell their new boots or give their old ones to these hangarans about the post. So far as I am concerned, the care of which the print had been erased is proof to me that the major saw just what he said. Somebody about Hay's place was mighty anxious to cover his tracks. But a dozen somebodies, besides the stablemen, hung there at all hours of the day, infesting the broad veranda and bar room and stores, striving to barter the skin of a coyote's skunk or beaver or, when they had nothing to sell, pleading for an unearned drink. Half a dozen of these furtive, beetle-browed, swathees' sons of the prairie lounged there now, as the elder officers and the trader returned, while Blake went on his way exploring. With downcast eyes he followed the road to and across a sandy water course in the low ground, and there, in two or three places found the fresh imprint of that same bar shoe, just as described by Webb, then with long, swift strides, he came stalking up the hill again, passing the watchful eyes about the corral without a stop, and only checking speed as he neared the homestead of the Hay's, where once again he became engrossed in studying the road and the hard pathway at the side. Something that he saw, or fancied that he saw, perhaps a dozen yards from the trader's gate, induced him to stop, scrutinize, turn, and with searching eyes, to cross diagonally the road in the direction of the stables, then again to retrace his steps and return to the eastward side. Just as he concluded his search, and once more went briskly on his way, a blithe voice hailed him from an upper window, and the radiant face and gleaming white teeth of Nanat Flower appeared between the opening blinds. One might have said he expected both the sight and question. Lost anything, Captain Blake? Nothing but a little time, Miss Flower. Was a proper reply, as without a pause the tall Captain, raising his forge-cap, pushed swiftly on. But I found something, muttered he to himself between his set teeth, and within five minutes more was again clasivid with the post-commander. You saw it? asked Webb. He asked three or four places, down in the araral. More than that, where's he? He broke off suddenly, for voices were sounding in the adjoining room. Here would date in the doctor. Then—but Blake got no farther. Breathless and eager, little Sandy Ray came bounding through the hallway into the presence of the officers. He could hardly gasp his news. Major, you told me to keep watch and let you know. There's a courier coming hard. Mother saw him, too, through the spy-glass. She said they see him too at Straybers. She's afraid. Right! cried Webb. Quick, Blake, rush out a half a dozen men to meet him. Those devils may indeed cut him off. Thank you, my little man! He added, bending down and patting the dark curly head. As Blake went bounding away. Thank you, Sandy. I'll come at once to the bluff. We'll save him. Never you fear! In less than no time, one might say, all Fort Frane seemed hurrying to the northward bluff. The sight of tall Captain Blake bounding like a greyhound towards his troop barracks and shouting for his first sergeant of Major Webb, almost running across a parade towards the flagstaff, of Sandy rushing back to his post at the telescope of the adjutant and officer of the day tearing away towards the stables where many of the men were now at work, were signs that told unirringly of something stirring, probably across the plat. As luck would have it, in anticipation of orders to move, the troop horses had not been set out to graze, and were still in the sun-shiny corrals, and long before the news was fully voiced through officer's row, Blake and six of his men were in saddle, and darting away for the ford. Carbine's advanced the instant they struck the opposite bank. From the bluff Webb had shouted his instructions. We could see him a moment ago. For half a dozen field-glasses were already brought to bear. Six miles out, far east of the road, feel well out to your left, and head off any of Straber's people. Three of them have been seen galloping out already. Aye, aye, sir! came the answering shout as Blake whirled and tore away after his men. There had been a time in his distant past when the navy, not the army, was his ambition, and he still retained some of the ways of the sea. Just as Webb feared some of Straber's young warriors had been left behind, and their eagle-eyed lookout had sighted the far-distant courier almost as soon as Sandy's famous telescope.  But he seemed to have totally vanished, level as appeared the northward prairie from the commanding height on which stood the throng of eager watchers. It was, in reality, a low-rolling surface, like some lazily heaving sea that had become suddenly solidified. Long, broad, shallow dips or basins lay between broad, wide, far-extending, yet slight upheavals. Through the shallows turned and twisted, dozens of dry rarrows all gradually trending toward the plat, the drainage system of the frontier. Five miles out began the ascent to the taller divides, at ridges that gradually, and with many an intervening dip, rose to the watershed between the plat and the score of tiny tributaries that united to form the South Cheyenne. It was over Moccasen, or Ten Mile Ridge, as it was often called, and close to the now-abandoned stage road, Ray's daring little command had disappeared from view towards eight o'clock. It was, at least two, possibly three miles east of the stage road, that the solitary courier had first been sighted, and when later seen by the major and certain others of the swift gathering spectators, he was heading for Frayne, though still far east of the high road. And now Mrs. Ray on the North Piazza, with Webb by her side, and Nanny Blake, Mrs. Dade and Esther in close attendance, was briefly telling the major, which he had seen upstream. One glance through Sandy's glass had told her the little fellow had not watched in vain. Then, with the ready binocular, she had turned to the Indian encampment up the plat, and almost instantly saw signs of commotion, squads and children running about, ponies running away, and Indian boys pursuing. Then, one after another, three Indians, warriors, presumably, had lashed away northward, and she had sent Sandy on the run to tell the major, even while keeping watch on the threatening three until they shot behind a long, low ridge that stretched southward from the foothills. Beyond doubt, they were off in the hopes of begging the solitary horseman, speeding with a warning of some kind for the shelter of Fort Frayne. By this time, there must have been nearly two hundred men, women and children, lining the crest of the bluff, and speaking in low, tense voices when they spoke at all, and straining their eyes for the next sight of the coming courier, or the swift dash of the intercepting Sioux. Well out now, and riding at a gallop, Blake and his half dozen, wildly separating so as to cover much of the ground, were still in view, and Dade and his officers breathed more freely. See what a distance those beggars of strabers will have to ride, said the veteran captain to the little group about him. They dare not cross that ridge short of three miles out. It's my belief they'll see Blake and never cross at all. Then up rose a sudden shout, There he is! There he comes! See! See! And fifty hands pointed eagerly northward, where a little black dot had suddenly popped into view out of some friendly winding water course, four miles still away, at least count, and far to the right and front of Blake's eastern most trooper. Every glass was instantly brought to bear upon the swiftly coming rider, Sandy's shrill young voice ringing out from the upper window. It isn't one of Papa's men, his horse is gray. Who then could it be? And what could it mean, this coming of a strange courier from a direction so far to the east of the traveled road? Another moment, and up rose another shout. Look! There they are! Sioux for certain! And from behind the little knob or knoll of the meridian ridge, three other black dots had swept into view and were shooting eastward down the gradual slope. Another moment, and they were swallowed up behind still another low divide. But in that moment they had seen and been seen by the western most of Blake's men, and now one after another as a signal swept from the left, the seven swerved. Their line of direction had been west of north. Now riding like mad, they veered to the northeast, and a grand race was on between the hidden three and the would-be rescuers. All headed for that part of the low rolling prairie where the lone courier might next be expected to come into view. Friends and foes alike, unconscious of the fact that following one of those crooked areros with its stiff and precipitous banks, he had been turned from his true course full three-quarters of a mile, and now with a longer run but a clear field ahead was steering straight for frame. Thus the interests of the onlookers at the bluff became divided. Women with straining eyes gazed at the lonely courier, and then fearfully scanned the ridgeline between him and the northward sky, preying with white lips for his safety, dreading with sinking hearts that at any moment those savage riders should come darting over the divide and swooping down upon their helpless prey. Men with eyes that snapped and fists that clenched, or fingers that seemed twitching with mad desire to clasp pistol butt or saber hilt, or loud barking carbine ran in sheer nervous frenzy up and down the bluffs, staring only at blakes, far distant riders, swinging their hats and waving them on, preying only for another sight of the Sioux in front of the envied seven, and craving with all their soldier hearts to share in the fight almost sure to follow. Unraised Piazza, with pallid face and quivering lips, Esther did clung to her mother's side. Mrs. Ray had encircled with her arm the slender waist of nanny Blake, whose eyes never for an instant quit their gaze after the swift speeding dots across the distant prairie. All her world was there in one tall vehement horseman, other troopers mounting at the stables had spurred away under Captain Greg, and were splashing through the Ford. Other denizens of Fort Frayne hearing of the excitement came hurrying to the bluff, hangers on from the trader's store and corral, the shopman himself, even the barkeeper and his white-jacket napron. Two or three, panting, low muttering half-breeds, their eyes of flame, their teeth gleaming in their excitement, then hay himself, and with him her dark-faced almost livid, her hair discolored and lips rigid and almost purple, with deep lines at the corners of her mouth, Nanette Flower. Who that saw could ever forget her as she forced her way through the crowd and stood at the very brink, saying never a word, but swiftly focusing her ready glasses. Hardly had she reached the spot when, wild, sudden, exultant, a cheer burst fiercely from the lips of the throng. Look, look, by God they got them! Yield man after man in mad excitement. Three black dots had suddenly swept into view, well to the right of Blake's men, and came whirling down grade straight for the lone courier on the gray. There's had been the short side. Ours the long diagonal of the race. There's was the race, perhaps, but not the prize. For he had turned up far from the expected point. Still they had them, if only, if only those infernal troopers failed to see them. There was their hope, plainly in view of the high bluff at the fort. They were yet hidden by a wave of prairie from sight of the interceptors. Still heading for the ridge, the warriors had just left behind. Only for a second or two, however, a yell of fierce rejoicing went up from the crowd on the bluff, as the Eastermost of Blake's black specks was seen suddenly to check, then to launch out again. No longer to the north, but straight to his right, followed almost immediately by every one of the seven, then to swerve the would-be slayers, in long graceful circles, away from the wrath to come. And while the unconscious courier still rode, steadily loping toward the desired refuge, away from the breaks and ravines of the sleeping bear, lashed the thwarted sue. Away in hopeless stern chase spurred the pursuers. And while women sobbed and laughed and screamed, and men danced and shouted and swore with delight, one dark-faced, livid fearsome, turned back from the bluff, and Dr. Tracy hastened to the side of his enchantress. Caught in amaze, these words almost hiss between the set of grinding teeth, seven to three. Shame. End of Chapter 7 Section 8 Of A Daughter of the Sue This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Ken Campbell. A Daughter of the Sue by General Charles King. Chapter 8. More Strange Discoveries But Frane was far from done with excitement for the day. For a while all eyes seemed centered on the chase, now scattered miles towards the east, and save for two of the number left behind, blown spent in hopeless lay out of the race, soon lost to the view among the distant swalls and ravines. Then everyone turned to welcome the coming harbinger, to congratulate him on his escape, to demand the reason for his daring assay. Greg and his men were first to reach him. And while one of them was seen through the leveled glasses to dismount and give the couriers fresh horse, thereby showing that the gray was well nigh exhausted, the whole party turned slowly toward the post. Then one of their numbers suddenly darted forth from the group and came spurring a top speed straight for the Ford. That means news of importance, said Webb, at the instant. And Greg and all of his squad are coming in, not following Blake. That means he and they are more needed elsewhere. Come on, Mr. Ross, we'll go down to meet that fellow. Orderly, have my horse sent to the Ford. So, followed by three or four of the young officers, the married men being restrained has a rule by protesting voices. Close at hand, the commanding officer went slipping and sliding down a narrow winding pathway, a mere gold track, many of the soldiers following at respectful distance, while all the rest of the gathered throng remained at the crest, eagerly almost breathlessly awaiting the result. They saw the trooper come speeding in across the flats from the northeast, saw as he reached the bench that he was spurring hard, heard even at the distance the swift batter of hoofs upon the resounding sod, could almost hear the fierce panting of the racing steed, saw horse and rider come plunging down the bank and into the stream and shoving breasts deep through the foaming waters, then his shoe dripping on the hither shore, where turning loose his horse, the soldier leaped from the saddle and saluted his commander, but only those about the major heard the stirring message. Captain Greg's compliments, sir. It's Rudge from the Dry Fork. Sergeant Kelly feared that Kennedy hadn't gone through, for most of Lame Wolf's people pulled away from the fork yesterday morning, coming this way, and the sergeant thought it was to unite with Straber to surround any small command that might be sent ahead from here. Rudge was ordered to make a wide sweep to the east so as to get around them, and that's what took him so long. He left not two hours after Kennedy. In spite of his years of frontier service and training in self-control, Webb felt, and others saw, that his face was paling. Ray, with only fifty minutes back, was now out of sight, out of reach, of the post, and probably face to face with, if not already surrounded by, the combined forces of the Sioux. Not a second did he hesitate. Among the swarm that had followed him was a young trumpeter of K-Troop, reckless of the fact that he should be at Barracks, packing his kit. As luck would have it, there it is back hung the brazen clarion, held by its yellow braid and cord. Boots and saddles carry quick, ordered the Major. And as the ringing notes re-echoed from bluff and building wall, and came laughing back from the distant crags at the south, the little throng at the bank and the crowd at the point of the bluff had scattered like little covies, the men full run for the barracks and stables, never stopping to reason why. Nearly half an hour later, gray-haired Captain Dade stood at the point of bluff near the flagstaff. Esther, pale and tear-filled by his side, waving a dew and godspeed to Webb, who had halted in saddle on reaching the opposite bank and was watching his little column through the ford. Three staunch troops, each about sixty strong, reinforced by half a dozen of Ray's men left behind in the forward rush of dawn, but scorning disqualification of any kind now that danger menace their beloved Captain and their comrades of the Sorrel Troop. In all the regiment, no man was loved by the rank and file as was Billy Ray. Brilliant soldiers, gifted officers, sterling men were many of his comrades. But ever since he first joined on the heels of the Civil War, more than any one of its commission lists, Ray had been identified with every stirring scout and campaign fighter incident in regimented history. Truscott, Blake, Hunter and Greg, among the junior captains, had all had their tours of detached duty, instructing at West Point, recruiting in the big Eastern cities, serving as aide-de-camp to some general officer, but of Ray it could be said he had hardly been east of the Missouri from the day he joined until his wedding day, and only rarely and briefly since that time. More than any officer had he been prominent in scout after scout. Arizona, Mexico, Texas, the Indian Territory, Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, Wyoming, the Dakotas, Montana, even parts of Idaho and Utah. He knew as he used to know the roads and runways of the blue grass region of his native state. From the British line to the Gulf of Mexico in California, he had studied the West. The regiment was his home, his intense pride, and its men had been his comrades and brothers. The veterans trusted and swore by. The younger troopers looked up to and well nigh worshiped him. And now, as a story that the Sioux had probably surrounded the Sorrel Troop, went like wildfire through the garrison. Even the sick in hospital begged to be allowed to go, and one poor lad, frantic through fever and force confinement, broke from the hold of the half-hearted attendant. Tore over to K. Troop barracks demanded his kit of Sergeant Shriver, and finding the quarters deserted, the men all gone to the stables, dared to bust into the magnet's own room in search of his arms and clothing, and thereby roused a heavy sleeping soldier who damned him savagely until through wild raving, he gathered that some grave danger menace Captain Ray. Even his befuddled senses could fathom that, and while guards and nurses bore the patient, shrieking and struggling back to the hospital, Kennedy sounds to his hot head in the cooling waters of their frontier lavatory, and was off like a shot to the stables. It was long before he found his horse, for the guard had taken Kilmaine to F. Troop stables, and Kennedy had been housed by K. It was longer still before he could persuade the guard that he had a right, as he put it, to ride after the Major. Not until Captain Dade had been consulted where they let him go. Not indeed until in person Kennedy had pleaded his case with that cool-headed commander, Dade noted the flushed and swollen face, but reasoned that nothing would more speedily shake the whiskey from his system than a long gallop in that glorious air and sunshine. Major Webb is following the trail of Captain Ray, said he. You follow the Majors, you can't miss them, and there are no more Indians now to interpose. You should catch them by noon, then give them this. This was a copy of a late dispatch just in from Laramie, saying that the revolt had reached the Sioux at the agencies and reservations on the White Earth, and would demand the attention of every man at the post. No reinforcement, therefore, could be looked for from that quarter until a general came. It was no surprise to Dade. It could be none to Webb. For old Red Cloud had ever been an enemy. Even when bribed and petted and fed and coddled in his village on the Wacpa Chica, his nephew led the bolt afield. No wonder the old war chief backed him with abundant food, ammunition, and eager warriors sent from home. But it was after eleven when Kennedy drove his still wearied horse through the Platte, and far to the north saw the Dun Dust Cloud that told where Webb's little column was trotting hard to the support of the Sorals. His head was aching, and he missed the morning drought of soldier coffee. He had eaten nothing since his cold lunch at the Majors, and would have been wise had he gone to Mistress McGann's and begged a cup of the fragrant Java with which he had stimulated her docile master air he rode forth. But the one idea uppermost in Kennedy's muddled brain was that the Sorals were trapped by the Sioux, and every trooper was needed to save them. At three in the morning he felt equal to fighting with a whole Sioux Nation, with all its dozen tribes and dialects. At three thirty he had been whipped to a stand by just one of their number, and mother of Moses, one that spoke English as well, or as ill as any man. Soran's soul and body was Kennedy, and Soran's stiff was his gallant bay kill-mane. When these comrades, over three years, service shook the spray of the Platte from their legs and started dodgingly northward on the trail. Northward they went for a full three miles, kill-mane sulky and protesting. The Dust Cloud was only partially visible now, hidden by the ridge a few miles ahead, when over that very ridge, probably four miles away to the right front, Kennedy saw coming at speed a single rider, and reigned to the northeast to meet him. Blake and his men had gone far in that direction, two of their number, with horses too slow for a chase after nimble ponies, had, as we had seen, drifted back and joined unprepared though they were for the field, the rear of Webb's column. But now came another, not aiming for Webb, but heading for a frame. It meant news from the chase that might be important. It would take him but little from the direct line to the north, why not meet him in here? Kennedy reigned to the right, riding slowly now and seeking the higher level from which he could command a better view. At last they neared each other, the little Irish veteran sore-headed and in evil mood, and a big, wild-eyed, scare-faced trooper knew to the frontier, spurring homeward with panic in every feature, but rejoicing at the sight of a comrade soldier. Get back! Get back! He began to shout as soon as he got with inhaling distance. There's a million Indians just over the ridge. They've got the captain. What captain? yelled Kennedy all ablaze at the instant. Speak up, ye shivering loon! Blake! He got way ahead of us! Then as to him ye should be running, not home, ye cur! Turn about now! Turn about now! And in a fury, had he'd seized the other's reign and spurred savage lay at Kilmaine, both horses instantly waking as though responsive to the wrath and fever of their little master. He fairly whirled the big trooper around and, despite fearsome protest, bore him onward toward the ridge, swift questioning as they rode. How came they to send a raw rookie on such a quest? Why, the rookie gasped an explanation that he was on the stable guard, and the captain took the first six men in sight. How happened it that the captain got so far ahead of him? There was no keeping up with the captain. He was on his big, raw, boned race horse, chasing three Indians that was firing, and it hit Meisner. But there was still three of the troop to follow him, and the captain ordered, come ahead. Until all of a sudden, as they filed around a little knoll, the three Indians they'd been chasing turned about and let them have it. And down went another horse, and Corporal Feeney was killed for sure, and he, the poor young rookie, saw Indians in every direction come and strain at him. And what else could he do but gallop for home and help? All this, told with much gasping on his part, and heard with much blasphemy by Kennedy, brought the strangely assorted pair at a swift gallop over the springy turf back along the line of that panicky yet most natural retreat.  At last they neared the Kirtning Ridge.  And if you play false, the first shot from this barker, with a slap at the butt of the spring field, goes through your heart.   Out on the prairie, three hundred yards beyond, a spotted Indian pony, heels up, was rolling on the turf, evidently sorely wounded. Behind this rolling parapet, crouched a feathered warrior and far still away, sweeping and circling on their meddlesome steeds, three more savage braves were darting at speed. Already they had sighted the coming reinforcements, and while two seemed frantically signaling toward the northwest, the third whirled his horse and sped madly away in that direction. Millions be damned, yelled Kennedy. There's only three. Come on, ye scut. And down they went, full tilt at the zoo, yet heading to cover and reach the beleaguered party in the hollow. Someone of the decease waved a hat on high. Two more carabines barked their defiance at the feathered foe, and then came a pretty exhibit of savage daring and devotion, disdainful of the coming troopers and of the swift fire now blazing at them from the pit. The two mounted warriors lashed their ponies to a mad gallop, and bore down straight for their imperiled brother, crouching behind the stricken pinto, never swerving, never halting, hardly checking speed, but bending low over and behind their chargers' necks. The two young braves swept onward, and with wild whoop of triumph, challenge and hatred gathered up and slung behind the rider of the heavier pony, the agile and bedisand form on the turf, then circled away, defiant taunting gleeful, yes, even more, with raging eyes, Kennedy sprang from saddle and kneeling, drove shot after shot at the screwing pair. Two of the three troopers at the hollow followed suit, even the big, blubbering lads so lately crazed with fear unslung his weapon, and fired twice into empty space, and a shout of wrath and renewed challenge to come back and fight it out, rang out after the zoo, for to the amaze of the lately besieged, to the impotent fury of the Irishmen. In unmistakable, yet mostly unquotable English, the crippled warrior was yelling mingled threat and imprecation. Who was it, Kennedy? And where did you ever see him before? Moment later demanded Captain Blake, almost before he could grasp the Irishmen's hands and shower his thanks, and even while staunching the flow of blood from a furrow along his sun-burnt cheek, what's that he was saying about eating your heart? And Kennedy, his head cleared now through the rapture of battle, minded him of his promise to field, and lied like a hero. Sure, how should I know him, sir? They're all of the same spit. But he called you by name. I heard him plainly. So did Meisner here, protested Blake. Hello! What have you there, Corporal? He added, as young Furnie, the surely killed, came running back, bearing in his hand a gilly ornamented pouch of buckskin, with long fringes and heavy crusting of brilliant beads. Picked it up by that pony under, sir, answered the Corporal, with a salute. Big pardon, sir, but will the Captain take my horse? He has hit too bad to carry him. Two, indeed, of Blake's horses were crippled, and it was high time to be going. Mechanically he took the pouch and tied it to his waist-belt. Thank God no man is hurt, he said. But now, back to frame. Watch those ridges and be ready if a feather shows, and spread out a little. Don't ride in a bunch. But there was a bigger game miles to the west, demanding all the attention of the gathered Sioux. There were none to spare, to send so far, and though three warriors, one of them raging and clamoring for further attempt despite his wounds, hovered about the retiring party. Blake and his fellows, within another hour, were in sight of the sheltering walls of frame, and after last and long range swapping of shots with Blake and Meisner, footing at most of the way, led their crippled mounts in safety towards the Rubicon of the West, the swift flowing plant. There were still three miles out when Blake found leisure to examine the contents of that beaded pouch, and the first thing drawn from its depth was about the last thing a Christian would think to find in the wallet of a Sioux. A dainty little billet scented with wood violet, an envelope of delicate texture containing a missive on paper to match, and the envelope was addressed in a strange, angular, characteristic hand that Blake recognized at once, to a man of whom, by that name at least, he had never heard before, Mr. Ralph Moreau, Envalet. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. A Daughter of the Sioux by General Charles King. Chapter 9 Bad News from the Front It might well be imagined that a man returning from such a morning's work as had been Blake's could be excused from duty the rest of the day. He and his little party had had a spirited running fight of several hours, with an evasive and most exasperating trio of warriors better mounted for swift work than were the troopers. He had managed eventually to bring down one of the Indians who lingered a little too long within short range of the carbines, but it was the pony not the rider that they killed. Meanwhile, other Indians had appeared on distant divides, and one feathered brave had galloped down to meet his comrades, and fire a few shots at the pursuing pale faces. But at no time until near their supports and far from the fort had the Sioux halted for a hand-to-hand fight, and Blake's long experience on the frontier had stood him in good stead. He saw they were playing for one of two results, either to lure him and his fellows in the heat of pursuit far round to the north-west, where were the united hundreds of lame wolf and stabber stalking that bigger game, or else to tempt Blake himself so far ahead of his fellows as to enable them to suddenly whirl about, cut him off, and three on one, finish him then and there, then speed away in frenzied delight, possessors of a long coveted scalp. They well knew Blake almost as well as they did Ray. Many a year he had fought them through the summer and fed them through the winter. They, their scores and purpooses, had fattened on his bounty when the snows were deep and deer were gone, and their abundant rations had been feasted or gambled away. Many of their number liked him well, but now they were at the war-game again, and business is business with the Aborigines. Blake was a big chief, and he who could wear at his belt the scalp of so prominent a pale face leader would be envied among his people. Long legs, as they called him, however, was no fall. Brave and zealous as he was, Blake was not rash. He well knew that unless he and his few men kept together they would simply play into the hands of the Indians. It would have been easy for him, with his big racer, to outstrip his little party and close with the Sioux. Only one of the troopers had a horse that could keep pace with Pyramus, but nothing he could gain by such a proceeding would warrant the desperate risk. Matchless as we have reason to believe our men, we cannot so believe our mounts. Unmatched would better describe them. Meisner's horse might have run with the captains until crippled by the bullets of the Sioux, but bents and flanigans were heavy and slow, and so it resulted that the pursuit, though determined, was not so dangerous to the enemy, but that they were able to keenly enjoy it until the swift coming of Kennedy and his captive comrade turned the odds against them, for then two of Blake's horses had given out through wounds and weakness, and they had the pursuers indeed in a hole. That relief came none too soon. Blake and his fellows had been brought to a stand, but now the Sioux sped away out of range. The crippled party limped slowly back to the shelter of Frayne, reaching the post long hours after their spirited start, only to find the women and children, at least, in an agony of dread and excitement, and even dade in his devoted men looking grave and disturbed. Unless all indications failed, Ray and his people must have been having the fight of their lives. Two couriers had galloped back from Moccasin Ridge to say that Major Webb's scouts could faintly hear the sound of rapid firing far ahead, and that through the glass at least a dozen dead horses or ponies could be seen, scattered over the long slope to the Elk Tooth Range, miles further on. Webb had pushed forward to Ray's support, and Blake, calling for fresh horses for himself and two of his men, bade the latter get food and field-kits, and be ready to follow him. Then he hastened to join his devoted young wife, waiting with Mrs. Ray upon the piazza. Dade, who had met him at the Ford, had still much to tell, and even more to hear, but at sight of those two pale, anxious faces, lifted his cap and called out cheerily, I hand him over to you, Mrs. Blake, and we'll see him later. Then turned and went to his own doorway, and took Esther's slender form in his strong arms, and kissed the white brow and strove to think of something reassuring to say, and never thought to ask Blake what he had in that fine Indian tobacco pouch swinging there at his belt, for which neglect the tall captain was more than grateful. It was a woman's letter, as we know, and that he argued should be dealt with only in a woman's way. Sorely puzzled as Blake had been by the discovery he had been able on the Long Homeward March, walking until in sight of fray and safety, then galloping ahead on the corporal's horse, to think it out, as he said, in several ways. Miss Flower had frequently ridden up the valley and visited the Indian village across the Platte. Miss Flower might easily have dropped that note, and some score picking it up had surrendered it to the first red man who demanded it, such being the domestic discipline of the savage. The Indian kept it, as he would any other treasure-trove for which he had no use, in hopes of reward for its return, said Blake. It was queer, of course, that the Indian in whose pouch it was found should have been so fluent a speaker of English, yet many as soon knew enough of our tongue to swear volubly, and talk ten words of vengeance to come. There were several ways, as Blake reasoned, by which that letter might have got into the hands of the enemy. But at any rate, with everything said, it was a woman's letter. He had no right to read it. He would first confide in his wife, and if she said so, in Mrs. Ray, then what they decided should decide him. But now came a new problem. Despite the long morning of peril and chase and excitement, there was still much more ahead. His men were in saddle, his troop was afield, the foe was in force on the road to the north, the battle mayhap was on at the very moment, and Frayne and home was no place for him when duty called at the distant front. Only there was Nan, silent, tremulous, to be sure, and with such a world of piteous dread and pleading in her beautiful eyes. It was hard to have to tell her he must go again, and at once, hard to have to bid her help him in his hurried preparations, when she longed to throw herself in his arms and be comforted. He tried to smile as he entered the gate, and thereby cracked the brittle, sun-dried court-plaster, with which a sergeant had patched his cheek at the stables.  He caught her in his left arm, laughing gaily, and drew her to the other side. Got the mate to that scoop of billies, he cried, holding forth his other hand to Mrs. Ray. It isn't so deep, perhaps, but twill serve, twill do, and I'll crow over him to-night. Come in with us, Mrs. Ray, I've something to show you. One minute said that wise young matron, let me tell the children where to find me. Sandy and Billy are on post at the telescope. They wouldn't leave it even for luncheon. With that she vanished, and husband and wife were alone. You must go, Gerald, she sobbed. I know it, but isn't there some way? Won't Captain Dade said more men with you? If he did, Nan, they'd only hamper me with horses that drag behind. Be brave, little women. Web has swept the way clear by this time. Come, I need your help. And the door closed on the soldier and his young wife. They never saw that Nanette Flower, in saddle, was riding swiftly up the row, and for the first time since her coming to Frayne, without an escort. Dade reappeared upon his front gallery in time to greet her, but Esther, after one quick glance, had darted again within. Dade saw unerringly that Miss Flower was in no placid frame of mind.  What news, Captain? she hailed, and the joyous silvery ring had gone from her voice. They tell me Captain Blake is back. Two horses crippled, two men hit, including himself. His own share is a scratch he wouldn't think of mentioning outside the family, Miss Flower, answered Dade with grim civility. He had his reasons for disapproving of the young woman, yet they were not such as warranted him in showing her the least discertesy. He walked to his gate and met her at the kerb beyond, and stood stroking the arching neck of her spirited horse, Harnie, again. Did they—were there any Indians killed? She asked, with anxiety scarcely veiled. Oh, they downed one of them, answered the Captain, eyeing her closely the while, and speaking with much precision. A fellow who cursed them freely in fluent English. Yes, she was surely turning paler. A bold, bad customer from all accounts, Blake thought he must be of lame wolf's fellows, because he seemed to know Kennedy so well and to hate him. Kennedy has only just come down from Fort Beecher, where wolf's people have been at mischief. But what became of him, what did they do with him, interrupted the girl, her lips quivering in spite of herself? Oh, left him, I suppose, answered the veteran with deliberate design. What else could they do? There was no time for ceremony. His fellow savages, you know, can attend to that. For a moment she sat there rigid, her black eyes staring straight into the imperturbable face of the old soldier. No one had ever accused Dade of cruelty or unkindness to man or woman, especially to woman. Yet here he stood before this suffering girl, and with obvious intent, pictured to her mind's eye a warrior stricken, and left unburied or uncared for on the field. Whatever his reasons he stabbed and meant to stab, and for just one moment she seemed almost to droop and reel in saddle. Then with splendid rally, straightened up again, her eyes flashing, her lip curling in scorn, and with one brief emphatic phrase ended the interview, and whirling honey about, smoked him sharply with her whip and darted away. True, said she, civilized warfare. If that girl isn't more than half savage, said Dade to himself as honey tore away out of the garrison on the road to the ford, I am more than half sue. Oh, for news of Ray. Ray indeed, it was now nearly four o'clock. Telegrams had been coming and going over the Laramie wire. The chief, as they called their general, with only one of his staff in attendance, had reached Cheyenne on time, and quitting the train, declining dinner at the hotel, and having but a word or two with the Platform Club, the little bevy of officers from Fort Russell, whose custom it was to see the westbound train through almost every day, had started straight away for Laramie behind the swiftest team owned by the quartermaster's department, while another in Wile awaited him at the Chugwater nearly fifty miles out. Driving steadily through the starlet night, he should reach the old frontier fort by dawn at the latest, and what news would Dade have to send him there? Not a word had he uttered to either the officers who respectfully greeted, or reporters who eagerly impotuned him, as to the situation at Frayne. But men who had served with him in Arizona and on the Yellowstone many a year before knew well that Graved Hidings had reached him. Dade had, in fact, supplemented Webb's parting dispatch with another, saying that Blake's little party, returning, had just been sighted through the telescope nine miles out, with two men afoot. But not until the general reached Lodge Pole Creek did the message meet him, saying that Webb's advance guard could hear the distant attack on Ray, not until he reached the Chugwater in the early night could he hope to hear the result. It was nightfall when the awful suspense of the garrison at Frayne was even measurably lifted. Blake, with three troopers at his back, had then been gone an hour, and was lost in the gloaming before Dr. Tracey's orderly, with a face that plainly told the nervous tension of his two-hours ride, left his reeking, heaving horse at the stables, and climbed the steep path to the Flagstaff, the shortest way to the quarters of the commanding officer. Despite the gathering darkness he had been seen by a dozen eager watchers, and was deluged with questions by trembling tearful women, and by grave, anxious men. There's been a fight, that's all I know," he said. I was with pack mules and the ambulances, and didn't get to see it. All I saw was dead ponies way out beyond Ten Mile Ridge. Where's the Major? I mean the Captain? No, the orderly didn't know who was killed or wounded, or that anybody was killed and wounded. All he knew was that Dr. Tracey came galloping back and ordered the ambulances to scoot for the front, and him to spur every bit of the way back to Frayne with the note for Captain Dade. All this was told as he eagerly pushed his way along the boardwalk, soldiers' wives hanging on his words and almost on him, officers' wives and daughters calling from the galleries or running to the gates, and Dade heard the hubbub almost as quickly as did Esther, who hurried to the door. By the light of the hall lamp the commander read the penciled superscription of the gummed envelope and the word immediate at the corner. The same light fell on a dozen anxious pleading faces beyond the steps. His hand shook in spite of himself, and he knew he could not open and read it in their presence. One moment he said, his heart going out to them in sympathy as well as dread, you shall hear in one moment, and turned aside into the little army parlor. But he could not turn from his wife and child, they followed and stood studying his pale face as he read the fateful words that told so little, yet so much. Reached ray just in time, sharp affair, Dr. Waller will have to come at once, as Tracey goes on with us to rescue stage-people at Dryfork, better send infantry escort and all hospital attendants that can be possibly spared, or so chaplain. Sergeant's burrows and wing, corporal foot, and troopers Denny, Flood, Kerrigan, and Prusa killed. Many wounded, left Hennanfield seriously. WEB. I'll never go back. A sharp affair indeed was that of this September day. A fight long talked of on the frontier, if soon forgotten in the States, obedient to his orders to push to the relief of the imperiled party on the Dryfork, ray had made good time to Moccasin Ridge, even those saving horses and men for the test of the later hours. Well, he knew his march would be watched by some of Stabbersband, but little did he dream at starting that Indian strategy would take the unusual form of dropping what promised to be a sure thing, leaving the people at the stage-station to the guardianship of less than a dozen braves, and launching out with a big ban to aid an attack on one lone detachment that might not come at all. But lame wolf reasoned that the people pinned at the stage-station were in no condition to attempt to escape. They were safe whenever he chose to return to them, and lame wolf knew this of Stammer that he had long been a hangar on at the military reservations, that he had made a study of the methods of the White Chiefs, that he was able to almost accurately predict what their course would be in such events as this, and that Stammer had recently received accessations whose boast it was that they had information at first hand of the White Chiefs' plans and intentions. Stammer had sent swift runners to lame wolf, urging him to bring his warriors to aid him in surrounding the first troops sent forth from Frane. Stammer had noted, year after year, that was almost invariable policy of our leaders, to order a small force at the start, and then, when that was crushed, to follow it with a big one that should have been sent in the first place. Kennedy's successful coming was known to Stammer quite as soon as it was to Webb. It may well be that Stammer let him through, feeling confident what the result would be, and then, despite a certain jealousy, not confined entirely to savage rival leaders. Lame Wolf had confidence in Stammer's judgment, ray had expected long range flank fire, and possibly occasional resistance in front, but assured of Stammer's posthumity in numbers and believing Lame Wolf too busy to send Stammer substantial aid, he thought a sharp lesson or two would clear his front of such Indians as sought to check him, and so rode serenely forward, rejoicing in his mission and his game and devoted little command. Something beyond that second ridge, he said to Field, in sending him forward with the bulk of the platoon, and Field who had been silent and brooding, woke at the summons, and all animation at the scent of danger, spurts swiftly ahead to join the advance and see for himself what manner of hindrance awaited them, leaving the baker's dozen of his platoon to trot steadily on under lead of his sergeant, while Ray with his troperter followed midway between his advance and Clayton's platoon, intact, moving quietly at the walk and held in reserve. Ordinarily Ray would himself had ridden to the far front and personally investigated the conditions, but he was anxious that Field should understand he held the full confidence of his temporary commander. He wished Field to realize that now he had opportunity for honorable distinction and a chance to show what was in him and having sent him forward, Ray meant to rely on his reports and be ready to back if possible his dispositions, nothing so quickly demolishes prejudice in garrison as prowess in the field. Not infrequently has an officer gone forth under a cloud and returned under a crown. It is so much easier to be a hero in a single fight than a model soldier through an entire season, at least it was so in the old days. But the moment Mr. Field dismounted and leaving his horse with the others along the slope had gone crotching to the crest, he leveled his glasses for one look, then turned excitedly and began rapid signals to his followers. Presently a young trooper came charging down, making straight for Ray. The Lieutenant's compliments said he, but there's a dozen suicide and he wishes to know, shall we charge? A dozen suicide. That was unusual, ordinarily the Indian keeps in hiding, lurking behind sheltering crests and ridges in the open country, or the trees and underbrush where such cover is possible. A dozen insight? How far ahead Murray asked the captain as he shook free his reign and started forward at the gallop. Did you see them yourself? Yes, sir. Most of them were bunched by the roadside jabbing with their blances at something or other. Two or three were closer in, they must have been watching us, for they only quit the ridge just before we came up, then they skedaddled. The vernacular of the Civil War days, long since forgotten except about the few veteran soldiers, home in the east, was still in use at times in regiments like the, which had served the four years through with the army of the Potomac. Old sergeants gave the tone to younger soldiers and all the customs of the service. The captain and the two men now with him had caught up with field swift trotting support by this time, and the eyes of the men kindled instantly at the sight of their leader, speeding easily by, cool, confident, and as thoroughly at home as though it were the most ordinary skirmish drill. Those who have never tried it do not quite realize what it means to ride in closed ranks and compact column, silent and unswerving straightforward over open fields towards some equally silent crest that gives no sign of hostile occupancy, and yet may suddenly blaze with vengeful fires and spit its hissing lead into the faces of the advancing force. Even here where the ridge was already gained by two or three of the advance proving therefore that the enemy could not be in possession. Men saw by the excitement manifest in the signals of the lieutenant and indeed of Sergeant Scott who had spent fifteen years in the ranks that Indians must be close at hand. The crest was barely five hundred yards in front of the section and they were still bunched, a splendid mark if the foe saw fit by sudden dash to regain the ridge and pour in rapid fire from their magazine rifles. Every ward of the nation, as a rule, had his Winchester or Henry about a six to one advantage to the red men over the sworn soldier of the government in a short-range fight. The lieutenant was a brave lad, and all that, and could be relied on to do his share in a shindy, as the Sergeant put it, but when it came to handling the troop to the best advantage giving them full swing when they met the foe on even terms and a fair field, but holding them clear of possible hemiscade, then Captain Billy as the boss in the business was the estimate of his men and every heartbeat hider at sight of him. He would know just what to do for them and knowing would do it. Even as he went loping by, Ray had half turned with something like a smile in his dark eyes and a nod of his curly head to the Sergeant commanding and a gesture of the gauntleted hand, a horizontal sweep to the right and left. Twice repeated, had given the veteran his cue and with another moment Windsor had the dozen in line, had open yet narrow intervals with carbons advanced and ready for business. They saw their captain ride swiftly up the gentle slope until close to the crest, then off he sprang, tossed his reins to the trumpeter and went hurrying afoot to join the lieutenant. They saw him kneeling as though to level his glasses and look fixedly forward. Saw Field run back to his horse and Mount Uden twinkling. Saw him whirl about as though coming to place himself at their head. Yet rain in at once. His chargers forefeet plowing the turf had some word from their leader. Field was eager to charge but Ray had seen for himself and for his men and Ray said, No. Another moment and all at the front were again in saddle. Field back with the advance Ray coolly seated as dried his pet sorrel, scouting a second ridge far to the north with his glasses and sending as before. Scott and his three troopers straight on to the front and signaling to the flankers to continue the move. Ten seconds, study of the position in the long wide shallow depression before him had fathomed the scheme of the savage, the little knot of Indians jabbering, yelping, prodding and circling about some unseen object on a turf feigning ignorance of the soldiers. Coming was at the old time trick to get the foremost troopers to charge and chase to draw them on in all the dash and excitement of the moment far ahead. Three miles perhaps of the main body and so unable all the lurking band behind that second curtain, the further ridge, to come swooping down to surround, overwhelm and butcher the luckless few. Then, be off to safe distance long before the mass of the troop could possibly reach the scene. No, you don't stabber laughed Ray as Field, not little chagrined, and the dozen at his back came trotting within hearing distance. That dodge was bald-headed when I was a baby. Look, Field! He continued, they were jabbing at nothing there on the prairie. That was a fake captive they were stabbing to death. See them all scooting away now? They'll rally behind that next ridge, and we'll do a little fooling of our own. And so, with occasional peep at feathered warriors on the far left flank, and frequent hoverings of small parties on the distant front, Ray's nervy half-hundred poised steadily on. Two experiments had satisfied the Sioux that the captain himself was in command, and they had long since recognized the Sorals. They knew of old Ray was not to be caught by time-worn tricks. They had failed to pick off the advance or the officers as the troop approached the second ridge. Lame Wolf's big band was coming fast, but only a dozen of his warriors, sent lashing forward, had as yet reached stabber. The latter was too weak in numbers to think of fighting on even terms. And as Ray seemed determined to come ahead, why not let him? Word was sent to Wolf, not to risk showing south of the Elk Tooth Spur. There, in the breaks and ravines, would be a famous place to lie in ambush, leaving to stabber the duty of drawing the soldiers into the net. So, there in the breaks they waited, while Ray's long skirmish line easily maneuvered the red sharpshooters out of their layer on the middle divide. Then, reforming column, the little command bore straight away for the Elk. But all these diversions took time. Twenty miles to the north of Frane stretched the bold divide between the Elk Fork, dry as a dead tooth much of the year, and the sandy bottom of the box elder. Here and there along the ridge were sudden mound-like up-evils that gave it a picturesque, cast-related effect, for, unlike the general run of the country, the Elk Tooth seemed to have a backbone of rock that shot forth southeastward from the southern limit of the beautiful Bighorn Range, and, in two or three places during some prehistoric convulsion of nature, it had crushed itself out of shape and forced upward a mass of gleaming rock that even in the course of centuries had not been overgrown with grass. Elk teeth, the Indian had called these odd projections, and one of them, the middle one, of the three most prominent, was a landmark seen for many a mile except to the south and west. Eagle Butte was the only point south of the Bighorn and in the valley of the plant, from which it could be seen, and famous were these two points in the old days of the frontier for the beacon fires that burned or the mirror signals that flashed on their summits when the war parties of the Sioux were afield. It was the sight of puffs of smoke sailing skyward from the crest of the middle tooth that caught Ray's attention the moment he reached the second ridge. A moment before had been devoted to recalling some of his eager men who, from the extreme right of the swinging skirmish line, had broken away in pursuit of certain intentional laggards. Then a dozen of the Indians, finding themselves no longer followed, gathered at comparatively safe distance across the prairie, and while in eager consultation, found time for taunting, challenging, and occasionally firing at the distant and angering troopers whom Sergeant Scott had sharply ordered back and ray, after calm survey of these fellows through his glasses, had then leveled it at the trio of Buttes along the distant ridge, and turned to field, sitting silent and disappointed by his side. There, Field, said the Captain, take this glass and look at those signal smokes. Stabber has more men now at his call than he had when he started, and more yet are coming. They were just praying you would charge with a handful of men.  Do you see, boy? Field touched his hat-brim. You know them best, sir, was the brief answer. What I wanted was a chance at those fellows hanging about our front and calling us names. You'll get it, I'm thinking before we're an hour older. They know whether we're bound and mean to delay us all they can. Ah, Clayton, he added as the junior lieutenant rode up to join them. While his platoon dismounted to reset saddles behind the screen of the skirmish line, men looked full of fight, don't they? There, if anywheres, where we'll get it. I've just been showing Field those signal smokes. Mountain follow when you're halfway down to that clump of cottonwood yonder. We must reach those people at the stage station to-night. And I may have to give these beggars a lesson first. Watch for my signal, and come ahead lively if I turn toward you, and swing my hat. Already? Field, shove ahead. And this was the last conference between the three officers that eventful morning. As, once again, the advanced guard pushed cautiously forward towards the bank of the royal in the bottom. Ray turned to Field. Skirmish works suit you better than Office Duty Field. You look far livelier than you did yesterday. Don't you begin to see that the Major was right in sending you out with us? And the dark eyes of the trained and experienced soldiers shone kindly into the face of the younger man. I'm glad to be with you, Captain Ray. Was the prompt answer? It isn't my being sent, but the way I was sent, or the cause for which I was sent that stings me. I thought then, and I think now, that if you had been post-commander, it wouldn't have been done. I don't know yet what charge has been laid at my door. There was no time to talk of reasons, Field, intersposed Ray. Though his keen eyes were fixed on the distant ridge ahead, beyond which the last of the Indians had now disappeared. The outermost troopers with Sergeant Scott were within a few hundred yards of the little clump of cotton woods that marked the site of a waterhole. To the right and left of it curved and twisted the dry water course between its low jagged, preceptuous banks. Behind the advance, full four hundred yards rode the skirmish line from the first platoon a dozen strong. Far out to the east and west the flankers moved steadily northward, keenly watching the slopes beyond them and scanning the crooked line of the orio ahead. Not a sign at the moment could be seen of the painted foe, yet every man in the troop well knew they swarmed by dozens behind the buttes and bridges ahead. Ray and Field riding easily along in rear of the line, with only the trumpeter within earshot, relaxed in no measure the filigents commanded by the situation, yet each was deeply concerned in the subject of the talk. There was no time. We had to start at once, continued Ray. Wait until you are back at the old desk field and you'll find the Major is and was your staunch friend in this matter. I'll never go back to it, Captain. Broke in Field, impetuously. If ordered to resume duty as adjutant, come what may. I shall refuse. But before Ray could interpose again there came sudden and stirring interruption from a point far down the swale. From behind the low bank of the stream-bed three rifle-shots rang out on the crisp morning air. The horse of the leading flanker, away out to the right, reared and plunged violently, the riders seeming vainly to strive to check him. Almost instantly three mounted warriors were seen tearing madly away, north eastward, out of the gully. Their feathers streaming in the wind. Field spurred away to join his men. Ray whirled about and saddled, and swung his broad brim scouting hat high above his head, and signalled to Clayton, then shouted to Field, forward to the Cottonwoods. Gallop! He cried, we need them first of all. CHAPTER X The noonday sun was staring hotly down an hour later on a staring picture of frontier warfare with that clump of Cottonwoods as the central feature. Well, for Ray's half-hundred, that brilliant autumn morning, that their leader had had so many a year of Indian campaigning, he now seemed to know by instinct every scheme of his savage foe, and to act accordingly. Ever since the command had come in sight of the elk-tooth, the conviction had been growing on Ray that Stabber must have received many assassions, and was counting on the speedy coming of others. The signal smokes across the wide valley, the frequent essays to tempt his advance guard to charge and chase, the boldness with which the Indians showed on front and flank, the daring pertinacity with which they clung to the stream-bed for the sake of a few shots at the foremost troopers, relying evidently on the array of their comrades beyond the ridge to overwhelm any force that gave close pursuit. The fact that other Indians opened on the advance guard and the left flankers, and that a dozen at least tore away out of the sandy arroyo the moment they saw the line start at the Gallop, all these had tended to convince the captain that, now at last, when he was miles from home and succor, the Sioux stood ready in abundant force to give him desperate battle. To dart on in chase of the three warriors would simply result in the scattering of his own people, and there being individually cut off and stricken down by circling swarms of their red foes. To gather his men and attempt to force the passage of the elk-tooth ridge meant certain destruction of the whole command. The Sioux would be only too glad to scurry away from their front and let them through, and then in big circle whirl all about him, pouring in a concentric fire that would be sure to hit some, at least exposed as they would be on the open prairie, while their return-shots radiating wildly at the swift darting warriors would be almost as sure to miss. He would soon be weighted down with wounded, refusing to leave them to be butchered, unable, therefore, to move in any direction, and so compelled to keep up a shelterless, hopeless fight until, one by one, he and his gallant fellows fell, pierced by Indian-led, and sacrificed to the scalping-knife, as were Custer's, three hundred a decade before. No, Ray knew too much of Frontier's strategy to be so caught, there stood the little grove of dingy-green, a prairie fortress, if one knew how to use it. There, in the sand of the stream-bed, by digging, were they sure to find water for the wounded, if wounded there had to be. There, by the aid of a few hastily-thrown entrenchments, he could have a little plain sport, and be ready to repel even an attack in force. Horses could be herded in the depths of the sandy shallows, men could be distributed in big circles through the trees and along the bank, and with abundant rations in their haversacks, and water to be had for the digging, they could hold out like heroes until relief should come from the south. Obviously, therefore, the Cottonwood Grave was the place, and thither at thundering charge field led the foremost line, while Ray waved on the second, all hands chewing with glee at sight of the Sue darting wildly away of the Northwood Slope. Ten men in line, fire-extended, were sent right forward, halfway across the flats, ordered to drive the Indians from the bottom and cripple as many as possible. But if menaced by superior numbers, to fall back at the gallop, keeping well away from the front of the grave, so that the fire of its garrison might not be masked. The ten had darted after the scurrying warriors, full halfway to the beginning of the Slope, and then just as Ray had predicted, down came a cloud of brilliant foam and seeking to swallow the little ten alive. Instantly their sergeant leader whirled them about, and pointing the way led them in wide circle, horses well in hand, back to the dry-wash, then down into its sandy depths. Here every trooper sprang from saddle, and with the rain looped on the left arm and from the shelter of the straight, stiff banks, opened sharp fire on their pursuers, just as Clayton's platoon, dismounting at the grave, sprang to the nearest cover, and joined in the fierce clamour of carbines. Racing down the Slope at top speed, as were the Sioux, they could not all at once check the way of their nimble mounts, and the ardour of the chase had carried them far down to the flats before the fierce crackle began. Then it was thrilling to watch them veering, circling, sweeping to right or left, ever at furious gallop, throwing their lithe-painted bodies behind their charges' necks, clinging with one leg and arm, barely showing so much as an eyelid, yet yelping and screeching like so many coyotes, not one of their number coming within four hundred yards of the slender fighting-line in the stream-bed. Some of them indeed disdaining to stoop, riding defiantly along the front, firing wildly as they rode, yet surely and gradually guiding their ponies back to the higher ground, back out of harm's way. And in five minutes from the time they had flashed interview, coming charging over the mile away ridge, not a red warrior was left on the low ground, only three or four luckless ponies kicking in their last struggles, or stiffening on the turf, while their riders, wounded or unhurt, had been picked up and spirited away with the marvellous skill only known to these warriors of the plains. Then Ray and his men had time to breathe and shout laughing comment and congratulation. Not one as yet was hit or hurt. They were secure for the time in a strong position, and had signally whipped off the first assault of the Sioux. Loudly, excitedly, angrily, these latter were now conferring again far up the slope to the north. At least a hundred in one concourse, they were having a hot discussion over the untoward result of the dash. Others, obedient to orders from the chief, were circling far out to east and west, and crossing the valley above and below the position of the defense. Others still were galloping back to the ridge, where against the skyline, strong bodies of warriors could be plainly seen, moving excitedly to and fro.  Some, at least, of the charging force had been made to feel the bite of the cavalry weapon, and were being born to the area. But no time was to be wasted. Already from far up the stream-bed two or three Indians were hazarding long-range shots at the grave, and Ray ordered all horses into a bend of the wash, where the sidelines were whipped from the blanket-straps and the excited sorrels securely hoppled. Then here, there, and in a score of places along the bank, and again at the edge of the cottonwoods, men had been assigned their stations and bidden to find cover for themselves without delay. Many burrowed in the soft and yielding soil, throwing the earth forward in front of them. Others utilized fallen trees or branches. Some two or three piled saddles and blanket-rolls into a low barricade, and all, while crouching about their work, watched the feathered warriors as they steadily completed their big circle far out on the prairie. Bullets came whistling now fast and frequently, nipping off leaves and twigs, and causing many a fellow to duck instinctively and to look about him, ashamed of his dodge, yet sure of the fact that time had been in the days of the most hardened veteran of the troop when he, too, knew what it was to shrink from the whistle of hostile led. It would be but a moment or two, they all understood, before the foe would decide on the next move, then every man would be needed. Meantime, having stationed field on the north front, with orders to note every movement of the shoe, and having assigned Clayton to the minor duty of watching the south front and the flanks, Ray was moving cheerily among his men, speeding from cover to cover, suggesting here, helping their, alert, even joyous in manner. We couldn't have a better roost, lads, he said. We can stand off double their number easy, we can hold out a week if need be, but you bet the major will be reaching out after us before we're two days older, don't waste your shots, coax them close in, don't fire at a galloping Indian beyond three hundred yards, its waste of powder and lead. Cheerily, joyously, they answered him, these his comrades, his soldier children, men who had fought with him, many of their number, in a dozen fields, and men who would stand by him, their dark-eyed little captain, to the last. Even the youngest trooper of the fifty seemed inspired by the easy laugh and confidence of the lighter hearts among their number, or the grim matter-of-fact cognacity of the older campaigners. It was significant, too, that the Indians seemed so divided in mind as to the next move. There was loud wrangling and much disputation going on in that savage council to the north. Stabber's braves and Lane Wolf's followers seemed bitterly at odds, for old hands in the fast-growing rifle pits pointed out on one side as many as half a dozen of the former's warriors whom they recognized and knew by sight, while Ray, studying the shifting concourse through his glasses, could easily see Stabber himself raging among them in violent altercation, with a tall, superbly built, and bee-designed young brave, a sub-chief, apparently, who for his part seemed giving Stabber as good as he got. Lane Wolf was not in sight at all. He might still be far from the scene, and this tall warrior be acting as his representative, but whoever or whatever he was he had hearty following. More than three-fourths of the wrangling warriors in the group seemed backing him. Ray, after a few words to Sergeant Windsor, crawled over beside his silent and absorbed young second-in-command, and bringing his glasses to bear, gazed across a low parapet of sand long and fixedly at the turbulent throng a thousand yards away. It's easy to make out Stabber, he presently spoke. One can almost hear that Foghorn voice of his, but who the mischief is that red villain opposing him? I've seen every one of their chiefs in the last five years all are men of forty or more. This fellow can't be a big chief. He looks long years longer than most of them, old Lane Wolf, for instance, yet he's cheeking Stabber as if he owned the whole outfit. Another long stare, then again, who the mischief can he be? No answer at his side, and Ray, with the lenses still at his eyes, took no note for the moment that Field remained so silent. Out at the front the excitement increased. Out through the veil of surging warriors the loud-voiced impetuous brave twice burst his way, and seemed at one and the same time in his superb poise and gestrings to be urging the entire body to join him in instant assault on the troops, and hurling taunt and anatema on the besieged. Whoever he was he was in a veritable fury, as many as half of the Indians seemed utterly carried away by his fiery words, and with much shouting and gesticulation, and brandishing of gun and lance, were yelling approbation of his views and urging Stabber's people to join them. More furious language followed, and much dashing about of excited ponies. Have you ever seen that fellow before, demanded Ray, of brown-eyed Sergeant Windsor, who had spent a lifetime on the planes, but Windsor was plainly puzzled? I can't say for the life of me, sir, was the answer. I don't know him at all, and yet.  Now, if he only leads the dash as he does the debate, we can pick him off. Who are our best shots on this front? And eagerly he scanned a few faces near him. Weber's tip-top and good for anything under five hundred yards when he isn't excited, and Staltz, he's a keen, cool one.  I've never seen the time you could hit what you aimed at, slip out of that hole and find Weber and tell him to come here, and you take his burrow. Whereupon Hogan, grinning rueful acquiescence in his commander's criticism, slid backwards into the stream-bed, and followed by the chaff of the three or four comrades near enough to catch the words, went crouching from post to post in search of the desired marksmen. You used to be pretty sure with the carbine in the Tonte Basin when we were after Apache's sergeant—continued Ray, again peering through the glasses. I'm mistaken in this fellow if he doesn't ride well within range, and we must make an example of him. I want four first-class shots to single him out. The lieutenant can beat the best I ever did, sir, said Windsor, with a lift of the hand toward the hatbrim, as they were in apology, for fields silent throughout the brief conference had half risen on his hands and knees and was edging over to the left, apparently seeking to reach the shelter of a little hummock close to the bank. Why surely field was the quick reply, as Ray turned towards his junior, that will make it complete? But a frantic burst of yells and war-woops out at the front put sudden stop to the words. The throng of warriors that had pressed so close about stabber and the opposing orator seemed all in an instant to split asunder, and with trailing warb on it and followed by only two or three of his braves, the former lashed his way westward and swept angrily out of the ruck and went circling away toward the crest, while with loud acclimation brandishing shield and lance and rifle in superb barbaric tableau, the warriors lined up in front of the victorious young leader who, sitting high in his stirrups, with one magnificent red-arm uplifted, began shouting in the sonorous tongue of the Sue some urgent instructions. Down from the distant crest came other braves, as though to meet an asked stabber explanation of his strange quitting the field, down came a dozen others, young braves, mad for battle, eager to join the ranks of this new leader, and Ray, who had turned on field once more, fixed his glasses on that stalwart, nearly stark naked, brilliantly painted form, foremost of the Indian array and now at last in full and unimpeded view. By the gods of war, he cried, I never saw that scoundrel before, but if it isn't that renegade red fox, why here, field, take my glass and look, you are with the commissioners escort last year at the Black Hills Council, you must have seen him and heard him speak. Isn't this red fox himself? And to Ray's surprise the young officer's eyes were averted, his face pale and troubled, and the answer was a mere mumble. I didn't meet fox there, captain. He never seemed to see the glass held out to him until Ray almost thrust it into his hand, and then persisted with his inquiry. Look at him anyhow, you may have seen him somewhere. Isn't that red fox? And now Ray was gazing straight at field's half-hidden face. Field, the soul of frankness, hitherto, the lad who was never known to flinch from the eyes of any man, but to answer such challenge with his own, brave, fearless, sometimes even defiant. Now he kept the big binocular fixed on the distant hostile array, but his face was white, his hand unsteady, and his answer when it came was in a voice that Ray heard in mingled pain and wonderment. Could it be that the lad was unnerved by the sight? In any event, he seemed utterly unlike himself. I cannot say so. It was dark or night at all events, the only time I ever heard him. Please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Mike Vendetti, MikeVendetti.com. A Daughter of the Sue by General Charles King Chapter 12 The Ordeal by Fire That action had been resolved upon, and prompt action was now apparent. Stabber, fighting chief though he had been in the past, had had his reason for opposing the plans of his new and vehement leader, but public sentiments stirred by vehement oratory had overruled him, and he had bolted the field convention in a fury. Lame Wolf, a younger chief than Stabber, had yet more power among the Okolais, being Red Cloud's favorite nephew and among the Indians at least, his acknowledged representative. Whenever called to account, however, for that nephew's deeds, the wary old statesman promptly disavowed them. It was in search of Lame Wolf, reasoned Ray that Stabber had sped away, possibly hoping to induce him to call off his followers. It was probably the deeper strategy of Stabber to oppose no obstacle to Ray's advance until the little troop was beyond the Elk Tooth Ridge, where, on utterly shelterless ground, the Indian would have every advantage. He knew Ray of old, knew well that, left to himself, the captain would push on in the effort to rescue the stage-people, and he and his command might practically be at the mercy of the Sioux, if only the Sioux would listen and be patient. Stabber knew that to attack the troopers now, entrenching at the Cottonwoods, met a desperate fight in which the Indians, even if ultimately triumphant, must lose many a valued brave. And that is not the thoroughbred Indian's view of good generalship. Stabber was old, wily and wise. The new chief, whoever he might be, seemed possessed of a mad lust for instant battle. Coupled with a possible fear that unless the golden moment were seized, Ray might be reinforced and could then defy them all. Indeed, there were veteran campaigners among the troopers who noted how often the tall red chief pointed in sweeping gesture back to Moccasin Ridge, troopers who even at the distance caught and interpreted a few of his words. That's it, sir, said Windsor, confidently to Ray. He says more soldiers coming. And I believe he knows. At all events he had so convinced his fellows, and even before Stabber reached the middle tooth, where sat a little knot of mounted Indians, signaling apparently to others still some distance to the north, with a chorus of excellent yells. The long, gaudy, glittering line of braves suddenly scattered and lashing away to the right and left. Dozens of them darted at top speed to join those already disposed about that big circle. While other still, the main body, probably seventy strong after some barbaric show of circus evolutions about their leader, once more reigned up for some final injunctions from his lips. Then, with a magnificent gesture of the hand, he waved them on, and accompanied by only two young riders, rode swiftly away to a little swell of the prairie, just out of range of the carbenes. And there took his station to supervise the attack. Damn him, growled old Windsor. He's no charger like Crazy Horse. He's a sitting-bold breed of general. Like some we had in Virginia, he added, between his set teeth. But Ray heard and grinned in silent appreciation. Set your sights and give them their first folly as they reached that scorched line, he called to the man along the northward front, and pointed to a stretch of prairie, where the dry grass had lately been burned away. Five hundred yards will do it, then aim low when they rush closer in. Look at the middle-tooth, Captain. Came the sudden hail from his left. Mirror flashes, see? It was field who spoke, and life and Bim had returned to his voice and color to his face. He was pointing eagerly towards the highest of the knobs, where all of a sudden, dazzling little beams of light shot forth towards the Indians on the lowlands, tipping the war bonnet and lance of many a brave with dancing fire. Whatever their purport, the signal seemed ignored by the Sioux. For presently, two riders came sweeping down the long slope, straight for the point where sat Red Fox. As for want of another name, we must, for a present, call him. Who, for his part, shading his eyes with his hand, sat gazing toward the westward side of his warrior circle, evidently awaiting some demonstration there before giving signal for action elsewhere. Obedient to his first instructions, the main body had spread out in long, irregular, skirmish rank. There meddled some ponies, cappering and dancing their eagerness. Chanting in chorus some shrill, weird song. The line was now slowly, steadily advancing, still too far away to warrant the wasting of a shot, yet unmistakably seeking to close as much as possible before bursting with the final charge. And still the Red Leader sat at gaze, oblivious for the moment of everything around him, ignoring the coming of orders possibly from Lame Wolf himself. Suddenly the silver armorlets, once more gleamed on high, then clapping the palm of his right hand to his mouth, Red Fox gave voice to a ringing war hoop, fierce, savage and excellent, and almost at the instant, like the boom and rumble that follows some vivid lightning flash, the prairie woke and trembled to the thunder of near a thousand hoofs, from every point of the compass, from every side yelling like fiends of some orthodox hell. Down they came, the wild warriors of the frontier, in furious rush upon the silent and almost peaceful covert of this little band of brothers, in the dusty garb of blue. One, two, three hundred yards they came, centering on the leafy clump of cottonwoods, riding at tearing gallop erect, defiant, daring at the start and giving full voice to their wild war cry, then bending forward, then crouching low, then flattening out like hunted squirrel, for as the foremost in a dash came thundering on within good carving range, all of a sudden the watch dogs of the little prairie fort began to bark, tiny jets of flame and smoke shot from the level of the prairie, from over dingy mounds of sand, from behind the trunks of stilted trees, from low parapet of log and leather. Then the entire grove seemed bailing itself in a drifting form of blue, the whole charging circle to crown itself within a done cloud of dust that swept eastward over the prairie, driven by the stiff unhappard breeze. The welcome rang with savage yell, with answering cheer, with the sputter and crackle of the rifle and revolver, the loud bellow of Springfield, and then, still yelping, the feathered riders veered and circled, ever at magnificent speed, each man for himself, apparently yet all guided and controlled by some unseen yet acknowledged power, and in five minutes, save where some hapless pony lay quivering and kicking on the turf, the low ground close at hand with sweat clean of horse and man. The wild attack had been made in vain. The Sioux were scampering back, convinced but not discomforted. Some, few of their number, borne away stunned and bleeding by comrade hands from underneath their stricken chargers, some three or four, perhaps, who had dared too much, were now closing their eyes on the last fight of their savage lines. To Ray and to many of his men, it was all an old story. Stabber would never have counseled or permitted attack on seasoned troopers, fighting behind even impoverished shelter. Something, perhaps, had occurred to blind a younger rival to the peril of such assault, and now, as three or four little parties were seen slowly drifting away toward the ridge, burdened by some helpless form, other carriers were thundering down at Red Fox, and wild excitement prevailed among the elk-teeth. More signals were flashing, more Indians came popping into view, their feathered bonnets streaming in the rising wind and about the prairie wave, where the savage general had established field headquarters. A furious conference was going on. Stabber had again interposed, and with grim but hopeful eyes. Ray and his fellows watched and noted. Every lull in the fight was so much gain for them. 1252 said the dark-eyed commander, swinging his watch into the pocket of his hunting-shirt, and sliding backward into the stream bed, all serene so far. Watched things on this front field, while I make the rounds and see how we come out. All serene so far it was. Not a man hurt. Two of the sorrels had been hit by flying bullets and much amazed and stung their at, but neither was crippled. Bidding their guards to dig for water that might soon be needed, Ray once more made his way to the northward side and rejoined Field and Windsor. In the almost cloudless sky of steely blue the sun had just passed the meridian, and was streaming hotly down on the stirring picture. Northward the ridge line and the long gradual slope seemed alive with swarms of Indian warriors, many of them darting about in wild commotion. About the little eminence where Stabler and the Fox had again locked horns, in violent altercation as many as a hundred braves had gathered about the middle knob, from whose summit mere flash is shot from time to time, was still another concourse, listening apparently to the admonitions of a leader but recently arrived. A chieftain mounted on an American horse, almost black, and Ray studied the pair long and curiously through his glasses. Lame Wolf probably said he, but the distance was too great to enable him to be certain. What puzzled him more than anything was the apparent division of authority, the unusual display of discord among the Sioux. These were all doubtless of the Ogallala tribe, Red Cloud's own people, yet were they wrangling like warred healers and wasting precious time? Whatever his antecedents, this newcomer had been a powerful sower of strife and sedition. For instead of following implicitly the councils of one leader the Indians were divided now, between three. True to its practice the prairie wind was sweeping stronger and stronger with every moment, as the sun warm strata over the wide billowing surface sought higher levels and the denser cooler current from the west came rushing down, and now all sounds of the debate were whisk away towards the breaks of the South Cheyenne, and it was no longer possible for old Sioux campaigners to catch a word of the discussion. The leaves of the Cottonwoods whistled in the rising gale, and every time a pony crossed the stream-bed and clambered to steep banks out to the west. Little clouds of done-coloured dust came sailing toward the Grove, scattered and spent, however, far from the lair of the defence. But while the discussions seemed endless among the Indians on the northward side, never for a moment was the vigilance of the circle relaxed. South, east, and west the slopes and lowlands were dotted with restless horsemen. And from young Clayton came the word that through his glass he could make out three or four warriors far away towards the Moccasin Ridge. That's good, said Ray. It means they, too, are looking for a column coming out from Frane. But where on earth did all those rascals come from? There must be four hundred now in sight. Well might he ask in marble? Stabber's little village had never more than fifty warriors. Lame Wolf's band was counted at less than two hundred and forty fighting men. And these, so said, the agents of the Amunicent Bureau, were all of the Ogallalas, away from the shelter of the reservation, when the trouble started. No more should be allowed to go, was the confident promise, yet a fortnight nearly had elapsed since the frontier fun began. News of battle sweeps with marvellous speed, through Indian haunted lands, and here were warriors, by the score, come to strengthen the hands of kindred in the field, and more were coming. The mirror's signals plainly told them that. Yet it was now well nigh one o'clock, and not another hostile move was made. Fox, then, was being held by stronger hands. It meant that Lone Wolf had listened to reason and stabber, and would permit no fresh attack until his numbers should be so increased, that resistance would practically be vain. It meant even more that the Indian leader in chief command felt sure no force was yet within helping distance of the corraled troopers. He could therefore take his time. But this was a theory Ray would not whisper to his men. He knew Webb. He knew Webb would soon read the signs from the north and be coming to his relief, and Ray was right. Even as he reasoned, there came a message from across the grove. Lieutenant Clayton said the Indians he had seen away to the south were racing back. Thank God was the murmured answer no man heard. Now lads, be ready! Was the ringing word that roused the little troop, like bugle-call to arms, and even as eager faces lifted over the low parapets, to scan the distant foe, fresh signals came flashing down from the northward ridge, fresh bands of warriors came darting to join the marshal throng about the still wrangling sheftens, and then, all of a sudden, within mighty yelling and shrill commotion, that savage council burst asunder, and, riding at speed, a dozen braves went lashing away to the westward side, while with fierce brandishing of arms and shields, and much careting, and prancing of excited ponies, the wild battle lines were formed again, the Sioux were coming for the second trial. Meet them as before, make every shot tell, where the orders passed from man to man and heard and noted amidst the whistling of the wind, and the sounds of scurry and commotion at the front. Then, silent and crouching low, the soldiers shoved the brown barrels of their carbines forth again, and waited. And then the grim silence of the little fortress was broken, as with startling sudden force there went up a shout from the westward side, my God, boys, they're setting fire to the prairie! Ray sprang to his feet engaged, away out to the west and southwest, whence came the strong breeze, blowing from the sweet-water hills half a dozen dark, agile forms, bending low, where scuttling afoot, over the sword, and everywhere they moved, there sprang up in their tracks little sheets of labyrinth flame, little clouds of bluish, blinding smoke, and almost in less time than it takes to tell it, a low wall of fire started in a dozen places, reaching far across the low ground, fencing the valley from stream-bed to the southward slopes, crowning by its swift sailing crest of hot, stifling fume, came lapping and seething and sweeping across the level, licking up the dry buffalo grass like so much toe, mounting higher and fiercer with every second, and bearing down upon the little grove and its almost helpless defenders in fearful force. In resistless fury, a charge no bullet could stop, an enemy no human valor could hope to daunt or down. Quick man, yelled Ray, out with you, you on the west front, stay you here, you others, watch the Sioux, they'll be honest in an instant, and away he sped from the shelter of the bank, out from the thick of the Cottonwoods, out to the open prairie straight towards the coming torrent of flames still, thank God, full seven hundred yards away but leaping toward them with awful strides, out with him rushed field, and out from Clayton's front sped half a dozen old hands, every man fumbling for his matchbox, out until they reached a line with their captain, already sprawled upon the turf, and there, full, a hundred yards from the grove, they spread in rude skirmish line, and reckless of the mad chorus of yells that came sweeping down the wind, reckless of the clamor of the coming charge, reckless of the whistling lead that almost instantly began nipping and piting the turf about them, here, there, and everywhere, they too had started little fires, they too had run their line of flame across the windward front, they too had launched a wall of flame sailing toward the grove, and then back, through blinding smoke they ran for their saddle blankets, just at the sharp sputter of shots burst forth on the northward side in the Sioux, with magnificent dash, came thundering within range. Then followed a thrilling battle for life, two red enemies now enrolled against the blue.  Ray had promptly meant the oncoming sweep of the torrent by starting a smaller blaze that should at least clear the surface close at hand, and by eating off the fuel stop possibly, the progress of the greater flame. But the minor blaze had also to be stopped, least it come snapping and devouring within the grove. But it is no easy matter to check a prairie fire against a prairie gale when every human aid is summoned. It is desperate work to try to check when to the fires of nature are added the furious blaze of hostile arms every rifle sighted by savage, vengeful foe. Check it lads, ten yards out, shouted Ray to his gallant fellows now lost in the smoke while he again rushed across the front to meet the charging Sioux. With his brave young face all grime, field, was already at work, guiding, urging, aiding his little band. Both hands, both hands he cried as wielding his folded blanket. He smote the fringe of flame. Stop it out, great God wing! Are you hit? For answer the sergeant by his side when plunging down, face foremost and the trooper Denny rushing to aid his young officer in the effort to raise the stricken man as suddenly loosed his hold and then, together again, these two sworn comrades of many a campaign lay side by side, as they had lain in camp in Bivvac, all over the wide frontier. And poor Denny could only grasp a loyal word of warning to his officer. Get back, sir, for God's sake, get back!  Bending low, field, grabbed the faithful fellow in his strong arms and calling to the nearmost men to look to wing, bore his helpless burden back through stifling smoke-clouds, laid him on a turf at the foot of the Cottonwood. Then ran again to the perilous work of fighting the flames, stumbling midway over another prostrate form. Both hands, both hands he yelled as again his blanket whirled in the air and so, by dent of desperate work, the inner line of flame at last was stayed. But every man of the gallant little squad of firefighters had paid the penalty of his devotion and felt the sting of hissing lead. Field the last of all. Westward now well nigh a hundred yards in width, a broad black smoking patch stretched across the pathway of the swift coming wall of smoke and flame, a safeguard to the Debleegard Command worth all the soldier's sacrifice at cost, and grand and furious sweep, the scourge of the prairies sent its destroying line across the wide level to the south of the sheltering grove. But in the blood and sweat of heroic men, the threatening flames of the windward side had sputtered out. The little garrison was safe from one, at least, of its dread and merciless foes. Though five of its best and bravest laid dead or dying and others still soar stricken in the midst of the smoking grove. Field, old boy, said Ray with brimming eyes as he knelt and clasped the hand of the bleeding lad, while the Sioux fell back in wrath and dismayed from the low-aimed, vengeful fire of the fighting line. This means the Medal of Honor for you, if word of mine can fetch it. End of Chapter 12