/>
her.



A bonny little mite she was, with a wealth of brown hair tumbling down

her shoulders and overhanging her heavy eyebrows. She was prettily

dressed, and her tiny feet, cased in stout little buttoned boots, stuck

straight out before her most of the time, as she sat well back on the

broad bench.



She was a silent little body, and for over two hours had hardly opened

her lips to any one,--even to the doll that now lay neglected on the

seat beside her. Earlier in the afternoon she had been much engrossed

with that blue-eyed, flaxen-haired, and overdressed beauty; but, little

by little, her interest flagged, and when a six-year-old girlie loses

interest in a brand-new doll something serious must be the matter.



Something decidedly serious was the matter now. The train that came up

from Denver had brought this little maiden and her father,--a handsome,

sturdy-looking ranchman of about thirty years of age,--and they had been

welcomed with jubilant cordiality by two or three stalwart men in

broad-brimmed slouch hats and frontier garb. They had picked her up in

their brawny arms and carried her to the waiting-room, and seated her

there in state and fed her with fruit and dainties, and made much of

her. Then her father had come in and placed in her arms this wonderful

new doll, and while she was still hugging it in her delight, he laid a

heavy satchel on the seat beside her and said,--



"And now, baby, papa has to go up-town a ways. He has lots of things to

get to take home with us, and some new horses to try. He may be gone a

whole hour, but will you stay right here--you and dolly--and take good

care of the satchel?"



She looked up a little wistfully. She did not quite like to be left

behind, but she felt sure papa could not well take her,--he was always

so loving and kind,--and then, there was dolly; and there were other

children with their mothers in the room. So she nodded, and put up her

little face for his kiss. He took her in his arms a minute and hugged

her tight.



"That's my own little Jessie!" he said. "She's as brave as her mother

was, fellows, and it's saying a heap."



With that he set her down upon the bench, and they put dolly in her

arms again and a package of apples within her reach; and then the jolly

party started off.



They waved their hands to her through the window and she smiled shyly at

them, and one of them called to a baggage-man and told him to have an

eye on little Jessie in there. "She is Farron's kid."



For a while matters did not go so very badly. Other children, who came

to look at that marvellous doll and to make timid advances, kept her

interested. But presently the east-bound train was signalled and they

were all whisked away.



Then came a space of over an hour, during which little Jessie sat there

all alone in the big, bare room, playing contentedly with her new toy

and chattering in low-toned, murmurous "baby talk" to her, and pointing

out the wonderful sunbeams that came slanting in through the dust of the

western windows. She had had plenty to eat and a big glass of milk

before papa went away, and was neither hungry nor thirsty; but all the

same, it seemed as if that hour were getting very, very long; and every

time the tramp of footsteps was heard on the platform outside she looked

up eagerly.



Then other people began to come in to wait for a train, and whenever the

door opened, the big, dark eyes glanced quickly up with such a hopeful,

wistful gaze, and as each new-comer proved to be a total stranger the

little maiden's disappointment was so evident that some kind-hearted

women came over to speak to her and see if all was right.



But she was as shy as she was lonely, poor little mite, and hung her

head and hugged her doll, and shrank away when they tried to take her in

their arms. All they could get her to say was that she was waiting for

papa and that her name was Jessie Farron.



At last their train came and they had to go, and a new set appeared; and

there were people to meet and welcome them with joyous greetings and

much homely, homelike chatter, and everybody but one little girl seemed

to have friends. It all made Jessie feel more and more lonely, and to

wonder what could have happened to keep papa so very long.



Still she was so loyal, so sturdy a little sentinel at her post. The

kind-hearted baggage-man came in and strove to get her to go with him to

his cottage "a ways up the road," where his wife and little ones were

waiting tea for him; but she shook her head and shrank back even from

him.



Papa had told her to stay there and she would not budge. Papa had placed

his satchel in her charge, and so she kept guard over it and watched

every one who approached.



The sun was getting low and shining broadly in through those western

windows and making a glare that hurt her eyes, and she longed to change

her seat. Between the sun glare and the loneliness her eyes began to

fill with big tears, and when once they came it was so hard to force

them back; so it happened that poor little Jessie found herself crying

despite all her determination to be "papa's own brave daughter."



The windows behind her opened out to the north, and by turning around

she could see a wide, level space between the platform and the hotel,

where wagons and an omnibus or two, and a four-mule ambulance had been

coming and going.



Again and again her eyes had wandered towards this space in hopeful

search for father's coming, only to meet with disappointment. At last,

just as she had turned and was kneeling on the seat and gazing through

the tears that trickled down her pretty face, she saw a sight that made

her sore little heart bound high with hope.



First there trotted into the enclosure a span of handsome bay horses

with a low phaeton in which were seated two ladies; and directly after

them, at full gallop, came two riders on spirited, mettlesome sorrels.



Little Jessie knew the horsemen at a glance. One was a tall, bronzed,

dark-moustached trooper in the fatigue uniform of a cavalry sergeant;

the other was a blue-eyed, faired-haired young fellow of sixteen years,

who raised his cap and bowed to the ladies in the carriage, as he reined

his horse up close to the station platform.



He was just about to speak to them when he heard a childish voice

calling, "Ralph! Ralph!" and, turning quickly around, he caught sight of

a little girl stretching out her arms to him through the window, and

crying as if her baby heart would break.



In less time than it takes me to write five words he sprang from his

horse, bounded up the platform into the waiting-room, and gathered the

child to his heart, anxiously bidding her tell him what was the trouble.



For a few minutes she could only sob in her relief and joy at seeing

him, and snuggle close to his face. The ladies wondered to see Ralph

McCrea coming towards them with a strange child in his arms, but they

were all sympathy and loving-kindness in a moment, so attractive was her

sweet face.



"Mrs. Henry, this is Jessie Farron. You know her father; he owns a ranch

up on the Chugwater, right near the Laramie road. The station-master

says she has been here all alone since he went off at one o'clock with

some friends to buy things for the ranch and try some horses. It must

have been his party Sergeant Wells and I saw way out by the fort."



He paused a moment to address a cheering word to the little girl in his

arms, and then went on: "Their team had run away over the prairie--a man

told us--and they were leading them in to the quartermaster's corral as

we rode from the stables. I did not recognize Farron at the distance,

but Sergeant Wells will gallop out and tell him Jessie is all right.

Would you mind taking care of her a few minutes? Poor little girl!" he

added, in lower and almost beseeching tones, "she hasn't any mother."



"Would I mind!" exclaimed Mrs. Henry, warmly. "Give her to me, Ralph.

Come right here, little daughter, and tell me all about it," and the

loving woman stood up in the carriage and held forth her arms, to which

little Jessie was glad enough to be taken, and there she sobbed, and was

soothed and petted and kissed as she had not been since her mother died.



Ralph and the station-master brought to the carriage the wonderful

doll--at sight of whose toilet Mrs. Henry could not repress a

significant glance at her lady friend, and a suggestive exclamation of

"Horrors!"--and the heavy satchel. These were placed where Jessie could

see them and feel that they were safe, and then she was able to answer a

few questions and to look up trustfully into the gentle face that was

nestled every little while to hers, and to sip the cup of milk that

Ralph fetched from the hotel. She had certainly fallen into the hands of

persons who had very loving hearts.



"Poor little thing! What a shame to leave her all alone! How long has

her mother been dead, Ralph?" asked the other lady, rather indignantly.



"About two years, Mrs. Wayne. Father and his officers knew them very

well. Our troop was camped up there two whole summers near them,--last

summer and the one before,--but Farron took her to Denver to visit her

mother's people last April, and has just gone for her. Sergeant Wells

said he stopped at the ranch on the way down from Laramie, and Farron

told him, then, he couldn't live another month without his little girl,

and was going to Denver for her at once."



"I remember them well, now," said Mrs. Henry, "and we saw him sometimes

when our troop was at Laramie. What was the last news from your father,

Ralph, and when do you go?"



"No news since the letter that met me here. You know he has been

scouting ever since General Crook went on up to the Powder River

country. Our troop and the Grays are all that are left to guard that

whole neighborhood, and the Indians seem to know it. They are 'jumping'

from the reservation all the time."



"But the Fifth Cavalry are here now, and they will soon be up there to

help you, and put a stop to all that,--won't they?"



"I don't know. The Fifth say that they expect orders to go to the Black

Hills, so as to get between the reservations and Sitting Bull's people.

Only six troops--half the regiment--have come. Papa's letter said I was

to start for Laramie with them, but they have been kept waiting four

days already."



"They will start now, though," said the lady. "General Merritt has just

got back from Red Cloud, where he went to look into the situation, and

he has been in the telegraph office much of the afternoon wiring to

Chicago, where General Sheridan is. Colonel Mason told us, as we drove

past camp, that they would probably march at daybreak."



"That means that Sergeant Wells and I go at the same time, then," said

Ralph, with glistening eyes. "Doesn't it seem odd, after I've been

galloping all over this country from here to the Chug for the last three

years, that now father won't let me go it alone. I never yet set eyes on

a war party of Indians, or heard of one south of the Platte."



"All the same they came, Ralph, and it was simply to protect those

settlers that your father's company was there so much. This year they

are worse than ever, and there has been no cavalry to spare. If you were

my boy, I should be worried half to death at the idea of your riding

alone from here to Laramie. What does your mother think of it?"



"It was mother, probably, who made father issue the order. She writes

that, eager as she is to see me, she wouldn't think of letting me come

alone with Sergeant Wells. Pshaw! He and I would be safer than the old

stage-coach any day. That is never 'jumped' south of Laramie, though it

is chased now and then above there. Of course the country's full of

Indians between the Platte and the Black Hills, but we shouldn't be

likely to come across any."



There was a moment's silence. Nestled in Mrs. Henry's arms the weary

little girl was dropping off into placid slumber, and forgetting all her

troubles. Both the ladies were wives of officers of the army, and were

living at Fort Russell, three miles out from Cheyenne, while their

husbands were far to the north with their companies on the Indian

campaign, which was just then opening.



It was an anxious time. Since February all of the cavalry and much of

the infantry stationed in Nebraska and Wyoming had been out in the wild

country above the North Platte River, between the Big Horn Mountains and

the Black Hills. For two years previous great numbers of the young

warriors had been slipping away from the Sioux reservations and joining

the forces of such vicious and intractable chiefs as Sitting Bull, Gall,

and Rain-in-the-face, it could scarcely be doubted, with hostile intent.



Several thousands of the Indians were known to be at large, and

committing depredations and murders in every direction among the

settlers. Now, all pacific means having failed, the matter had been

turned over to General Crook, who had recently brought the savage

Apaches of Arizona under subjection, to employ such means as he found

necessary to defeat their designs.



General Crook found the Sioux and their allies armed with the best

modern breech-loaders, well supplied with ammunition and countless herds

of war ponies, and far too numerous and powerful to be handled by the

small force at his command.



One or two sharp and savage fights occurred in March, while the mercury

was still thirty degrees below zero, and then the government decided on

a great summer campaign. Generals Terry and Gibbon were to hem the

Indians from the north along the Yellowstone, while at the same time

General Crook was to march up and attack them from the south.



When June came, four regiments of cavalry and half a dozen infantry

regiments were represented among the forces that scouted to and fro in

the wild and beautiful uplands of Wyoming, Dakota, and Eastern Montana,

searching for the Sioux.



The families of the officers and soldiers remained at the barracks from

which the men were sent, and even at the exposed stations of Forts

Laramie, Robinson, and Fetterman, many ladies and children remained

under the protection of small garrisons of infantry. Among the ladies at

Laramie was Mrs. McCrea, Ralph's mother, who waited for the return of

her boy from a long absence at school.



A manly, sturdy fellow was Ralph, full of health and vigor, due in great

part to the open-air life he had led in his early boyhood. He had

"backed" an Indian pony before he was seven, and could sit one like a

Comanche by the time he was ten. He had accompanied his father on many a

long march and scout, and had ridden every mile of the way from the Gila

River in Arizona, across New Mexico, and so on up into Nebraska.



He had caught brook trout in the Cache la Poudre, and shot antelope

along the Loup Fork of the Platte. With his father and his father's men

to watch and keep him from harm, he had even charged his first buffalo

herd and had been fortunate enough to shoot a bull. The skin had been

made into a robe, which he carefully kept.



Now, all eager to spend his vacation among his favorite haunts,--in the

saddle and among the mountain streams,--Ralph McCrea was going back to

his army home, when, as ill-luck would have it, the great Sioux war

broke out in the early summer of our Centennial Year, and promised to

greatly interfere with, if it did not wholly spoil, many of his

cherished plans.



Fort Laramie lay about one hundred miles north of Cheyenne, and Sergeant

Wells had come down with the paymaster's escort a few days before,

bringing Ralph's pet, his beautiful little Kentucky sorrel "Buford," and

now the boy and his faithful friend, the sergeant, were visiting at Fort

Russell, and waiting for a safe opportunity to start for home.



Presently, as they chatted in low tones so as not to disturb the little

sleeper, there came the sound of rapid hoof-beats, and Sergeant Wells

cantered into the enclosure and, riding up to the carriage, said to

Ralph,--



"I found him, sir, all safe; but their wagon was being patched up, and

he could not leave. He is so thankful to Mrs. Henry for her kindness,

and begs to know if she would mind bringing Jessie out to the fort. The

men are trying very hard to persuade him not to start for the Chug in

the morning."



"Why not, sergeant?"



"Because the telegraph despatches from Laramie say there must be a

thousand Indians gone out from the reservation in the last two days.

They've cut the wires up to Red Cloud, and no more news can reach us."



Ralph's face grew very pale.



"Father is right in the midst of them, with only fifty men!"









CHAPTER II.



CAVALRY ON THE MARCH.





It was a lovely June morning when the Fifth Cavalry started on its

march. Camp was struck at daybreak, and soon after five o'clock, while

the sun was still low in the east and the dew-drops were sparkling on

the buffalo grass, the long column was winding up the bare, rolling

"divide" which lay between the valleys of Crow and Lodge Pole Creeks. In

plain view, only thirty miles away to the west, were the summits of the

Rocky Mountains, but such is the altitude of this upland prairie,

sloping away eastward between the two forks of the Platte River, that

these summits appear to be nothing more than a low range of hills

shutting off the western horizon.



Looking southward from the Laramie road, all the year round one can see

the great peaks of the range--Long's and Hahn's and Pike's--glistening

in their mantles of snow, and down there near them, in Colorado, the

mountains slope abruptly into the Valley of the South Platte.



Up here in Wyoming the Rockies go rolling and billowing far out to the

east, and the entire stretch of country, from what are called the "Black

Hills of Wyoming," in contradistinction to the Black Hills of Dakota,

far east as the junction of the forks of the Platte, is one vast

inclined plane.



The Union Pacific Railway winds over these Black Hills at Sherman,--the

lowest point the engineers could find,--and Sherman is over eight

thousand feet above the sea.



From Sherman, eastward, in less than an hour's run the cars go sliding

down with smoking brakes to Cheyenne, a fall of two thousand feet. But

the wagon-road from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie twists and winds among the

ravines and over the divides of this lofty prairie; so that Ralph and

his soldier friends, while riding jauntily over the hard-beaten track

this clear, crisp, sunshiny, breezy morning, were twice as high above

the sea as they would have been at the tiptop of the Catskills and

higher even than had they been at the very summit of Mount Washington.



The air at this height, though rare, is keen and exhilarating, and one

needs no second look at the troopers to see how bright are their eyes

and how nimble and elastic is the pace of their steeds.



The commanding officer, with his adjutant and orderlies and a little

group of staff sergeants, had halted at the crest of one of these ridges

and was looking back at the advancing column. Beside the winding road

was strung a line of wires,--the military telegraph to the border

forts,--and with the exception of those bare poles not a stick of timber

was anywhere in sight.



The whole surface is destitute of bush or tree, but the thick little

bunches of gray-green grass that cover it everywhere are rich with juice

and nutriment. This is the buffalo grass of the Western prairies, and

the moment the horses' heads are released down go their nozzles, and

they are cropping eagerly and gratefully.



Far as the eye can see to the north and east it roams over a rolling,

tumbling surface that seems to have become suddenly petrified. Far to

the south are the snow-shimmering peaks; near at hand, to the west, are

the gloomy gorges and ravines and wide wastes of upland of the Black

Hills of Wyoming; and so clear is the air that they seem but a short

hour's gallop away.



There is something strangely deceptive about the distances in an

atmosphere so rare and clear as this.



A young surgeon was taking his first ride with a cavalry column in the

wide West, and, as he looked back into the valley through which they had

been marching for over half an hour, his face was clouded with an

expression of odd perplexity.



"What's the matter, doctor?" asked the adjutant, with a grin on his

face. "Are you wondering whether those fellows really are United States

regulars?" and the young officer nodded towards the long column of

horsemen in broad-brimmed slouch hats and flannel shirts or fanciful

garb of Indian tanned buckskin. Even among the officers there was hardly

a sign of the uniform or trappings which distinguish the soldiers in

garrison.



"No, it isn't that. I knew that you fellows who had served so long in

Arizona had got out of the way of wearing uniform in the field against

Indians. What I can't understand is that ridge over there. I thought we

had been down in a hollow for the last half-hour, yet look at it; we

must have come over that when I was thinking of something else."



"Not a bit of it, doctor," laughed the colonel. "That's where we

dismounted and took a short rest and gave the horses a chance to pick a

bit."



"Why, but, colonel! that must have been two miles back,--full half an

hour ago: you don't mean that ridge is two miles away? I could almost

hit that man riding down the road towards us."



"It would be a wonderful shot, doctor. That man is one of the teamsters

who went back after a dropped pistol. He is a mile and a half away."



The doctor's eyes were wide open with wonder.



"Of course you must know, colonel, but it is incomprehensible to me."



"It is easily proved, doctor. Take these two telegraph poles nearest us

and tell me how far they are apart."



The doctor looked carefully from one pole to another. Only a single wire

was strung along the line, and the poles were stout and strong. After a

moment's study he said, "Well, they are just about seventy-five yards

apart."



"More than that, doctor. They are a good hundred yards. But even at your

estimate, just count the poles back to that ridge--of course they are

equidistant, or nearly so, all along--and tell me how far you make it."



The doctor's eyes began to dilate again as he silently took account of

the number.



"I declare, there are over twenty to the rear of the wagon-train and

nearly forty across the ridge! I give it up."



"And now look here," said the colonel, pointing out to the eastward

where some lithe-limbed hounds were coursing over the prairie with Ralph

on his fleet sorrel racing in pursuit. "Look at young McCrea out there

where there are no telegraph poles to help you judge the distance. If he

were an Indian whom you wanted to bring down what would you set your

sights at, providing you had time to set them at all?" and the veteran

Indian fighter smiled grimly.



The doctor shook his head.



"It is too big a puzzle for me," he answered. "Five minutes ago I would

have said three hundred at the utmost, but I don't know now."



"How about that, Nihil?" asked the colonel, turning to a soldier riding

with the head-quarters party.



Nihil's brown hand goes up to the brim of his scouting hat in salute,

but he shook his head.



"The bullet would kick up a dust this side of him, sir," was the answer.



"People sometimes wonder why it is we manage to hit so few of these

Cheyennes or Sioux in our battles with them," said the colonel. "Now you

can get an idea of one of the difficulties. They rarely come within six

hundred yards of us when they are attacking a train or an infantry

escort, and are always riding full tilt, just as you saw Ralph just now.

It is next to impossible to hit them."



"I understand," said the doctor. "How splendidly that boy rides!"



"Ralph? Yes. He's a genuine trooper. Now, there's a boy whose whole

ambition is to go to West Point. He's a manly, truthful, dutiful young

fellow, born and raised in the army, knows the plains by heart, and just

the one to make a brilliant and valuable cavalry officer, but there

isn't a ghost of a chance for him."



"Why not?"



"Why not? Why! how is he to get an appointment? If he had a home

somewhere in the East, and his father had influence with the Congressman

of the district, it might be done; but the sons of army officers have

really very little chance. The President used to have ten appointments a

year, but Congress took them away from him. They thought there were too

many cadets at the Point; but while they were virtuously willing to

reduce somebody else's prerogatives in that line, it did not occur to

them that they might trim a little on their own. Now the President is

allowed only ten 'all told,' and can appoint no boy until some of his

ten are graduated or otherwise disposed of. It really gives him only two

or three appointments a year, and he has probably a thousand applicants

for every one. What chance has an army boy in Wyoming against the son of

some fellow with Senators and Representatives at his back in Washington?

If the army could name an occasional candidate, a boy like Ralph would

be sure to go, and we would have more soldiers and fewer scientists in

the cavalry."



By this time the head of the compact column was well up, and the captain

of the leading troop, riding with his first lieutenant in front of his

sets of fours, looked inquiringly at the colonel, as though half

expectant of a signal to halt or change the gait. Receiving none, and

seeing that the colonel had probably stopped to look over his command,

the senior troop leader pushed steadily on.



Behind him, four abreast, came the dragoons,--a stalwart, sunburned,

soldierly-looking lot. Not a particle of show or glitter in their attire

or equipment. Utterly unlike the dazzling hussars of England or the

European continent, when the troopers of the United States are out on

the broad prairies of the West "for business," as they put it, hardly a

brass button, even, is to be seen.



The colonel notes with satisfaction the nimble, active pace of the

horses as they go by at rapid walk, and the easy seat of the men in

their saddles.



First the bays of "K" Troop trip quickly past; then the beautiful, sleek

grays of "B," Captain Montgomery's company; then more bays in "I" and

"A" and "D," and then some sixty-five blacks, "C" Troop's color.



There are two sorrel troops in the regiment and more bays, and later in

the year, when new horses were obtained, the Fifth had a roan and a

dark-brown troop; but in June, when they were marching up to take their

part in the great campaign that followed, only two of their companies

were not mounted on bright bay horses, and one and all they were in the

pink of condition and eager for a burst "'cross country."



It was, however, their colonel's desire to take them to their

destination in good trim, and he permitted no "larking."



They had several hundred miles of weary marching before them. Much of

the country beyond the Platte was "Bad Lands," where the grass is scant

and poor, the soil ashen and spongy, and the water densely alkaline. All

this would tell very sensibly upon the condition of horses that all

winter long had been comfortably stabled, regularly groomed and

grain-fed, and watered only in pure running streams flushed by springs

or melting snow.



It was all very well for young Ralph to be coursing about on his fleet,

elastic sorrel, radiant with delight as the boy was at being again "out

on the plains" and in the saddle; but the cavalry commander's first care

must be to bring his horses to the scene of action in the most effective

state of health and soundness. The first few days' marching, therefore,

had to be watched with the utmost care.



As the noon hour approached, the doctor noted how the hills off to the

west seemed to be growing higher, and that there were broader vistas of

wide ranges of barren slopes to the east and north.



The colonel was riding some distance ahead of the battalion, his little

escort close beside, and Ralph was giving Buford a resting spell, and

placidly ambling alongside the doctor.



Sergeant Wells was riding somewhere in the column with some chum of old

days. He belonged to another regiment, but knew the Fifth of old. The

hounds had tired of chasing over a waterless country, and with lolling

tongues were trotting behind their masters' horses.



The doctor was vastly interested in what he had heard of Ralph, and

engaged him in talk. Just as they came in sight of the broad, open

valley in which runs the sparkling Lodge Pole, a two-horse wagon rumbled

up alongside, and there on the front seat was Farron, the ranchman, with

bright-eyed, bonny-faced little Jessie smiling beside him.



"We've caught you, Ralph," he laughed, "though we left Russell an hour

or more behind you. I s'pose you'll all camp at Lodge Pole for the

night. We're going on to the Chug."



"Hadn't you better see the colonel about that?" asked Ralph, anxiously.



"Oh, it's all right! I got telegrams from Laramie and the Chug, both,

just before we left Russell. Not an Indian's been heard of this side of

the Platte, and your father's troop has just got in to Laramie."



"Has he?" exclaimed Ralph, with delight. "Then he knows I've started,

and perhaps he'll come on to the Chug or Eagle's Nest and meet me."



"More'n likely," answered Farron. "You and the sergeant had better come

ahead and spend the night with me at the ranch."



"I've no doubt the colonel will let us go ahead with you," answered

Ralph, "but the ranch is too far off the road. We would have to stay at

Phillips's for the night. What say you, sergeant?" he asked, as Wells

came loping up alongside.



"The very plan, I think. Somebody will surely come ahead to meet us, and

we can make Laramie two days before the Fifth."



"Then, good-by, doctor; I must ask the colonel first, but we'll see you

at Laramie."



"Good-by, Ralph, and good luck to you in getting that cadetship."



"Oh, well! I must trust to luck for that. Father says it all depends

on my getting General Sheridan to back me. If he would only ask for

me, or if I could only do something to make him glad to ask; but what

chance is there?"



What chance, indeed? Ralph McCrea little dreamed that at that very

moment General Sheridan--far away in Chicago--was reading despatches

that determined him to go at once, himself, to Red Cloud Agency; that in

four days more the general would be there, at Laramie, and that in two

wonderful days, meantime--but who was there who dreamed what would

happen meantime?









CHAPTER III.



DANGER IN THE AIR.





When the head of the cavalry column reached the bridge over Lodge Pole

Creek a march of about twenty-five miles had been made, which is an

average day's journey for cavalry troops when nothing urgent hastens

their movements.



Filing to the right, the horsemen moved down the north bank of the

rapidly-running stream, and as soon as the rearmost troop was clear of

the road and beyond reach of its dust, the trumpets sounded "halt" and

"dismount," and in five minutes the horses, unsaddled, were rolling on

the springy turf, and then were driven out in herds, each company's by

itself, to graze during the afternoon along the slopes. Each herd was

watched and guarded by half a dozen armed troopers, and such horses as

were notorious "stampeders" were securely "side-lined" or hobbled.



Along the stream little white tents were pitched as the wagons rolled in

and were unloaded; and then the braying mules, rolling and kicking in

their enjoyment of freedom from harness, were driven out and disposed

upon the slopes at a safe distance from the horses. The smokes of little

fires began to float into the air, and the jingle of spoon and

coffee-pot and "spider" and skillet told that the cooks were busy

getting dinner for the hungry campaigners.



Such appetites as those long-day marches give! Such delight in life and

motion one feels as he drinks in that rare, keen mountain air! Some of

the soldiers--old plainsmen--are already prone upon the turf, their

heads pillowed on their saddles, their slouch hats pulled down over

their eyes, snatching half an hour's dreamless sleep before the cooks

shall summon them to dinner.



One officer from each company is still in saddle, riding around the

horses of his own troop to see that the grass is well chosen and that

his guards are properly posted and on the alert. Over at the road there

stands a sort of frontier tavern and stage station, at which is a

telegraph office, and the colonel has been sending despatches to

Department Head-Quarters to announce the safe arrival of his command at

Lodge Pole en route for Fort Laramie. Now he is talking with Ralph.



"It isn't that, my boy. I do not suppose there is an Indian anywhere

near the Chugwater; but if your father thought it best that you should

wait and start with us, I think it was his desire that you should keep

in the protection of the column all the way. Don't you?"



"Yes, sir, I do. The only question now is, will he not come or send

forward to the Chug to meet me, and could I not be with mother two days

earlier that way? Besides, Farron is determined to go ahead as soon as

he has had dinner, and--I don't like to think of little Jessie being up

there at the Chug just now. Would you mind my telegraphing to father at

Laramie and asking him?"



"No, indeed, Ralph. Do so."



And so a despatch was sent to Laramie, and in the course of an hour,

just as they had enjoyed a comfortable dinner, there came the reply,--



"All right. Come ahead to Phillips's Ranch. Party will meet you there at

eight in the morning. They stop at Eagle's Nest to-night."



Ralph's eyes danced as he showed this to the colonel who read it gravely

and replied,--



"It is all safe, I fancy, or your father would not say so. They have

patrols all along the bank of the Platte to the southeast, and no

Indians can cross without its being discovered in a few hours. I suppose

they never come across between Laramie and Fetterman, do they, Ralph?"



"Certainly not of late years, colonel. It is so far off their line to

the reservations where they have to run for safety after their

depredations."



"I know that; but now that all but two troops of cavalry have gone up

with General Crook they might be emboldened to try a wider sweep. That's

all I'm afraid of."



"Even if the Indians came, colonel, they've got those ranch buildings so

loop-holed and fortified at Phillips's that we could stand them off a

week if need be, and you would reach there by noon at latest."



"Yes. We make an early start to-morrow morning, and 'twill be just

another twenty-five miles to our camp on the Chug. If all is well you

will be nearly to Eagle's Nest by the time we get to Phillips's, and you

will be at Laramie before the sunset-gun to-morrow. Well, give my

regards to your father, Ralph, and keep your eye open for the main

chance. We cavalry people want you for our representative at West Point,

you know."



"Thank you for that, colonel," answered Ralph, with sparkling eyes. "I

sha'n't forget it in many a day."



So it happened that late that afternoon, with Farron driving his load of

household goods; with brown-haired little Jessie lying sound asleep with

her head on his lap; with Sergeant Wells cantering easily alongside and

Ralph and Buford scouting a little distance ahead, the two-horse wagon

rolled over the crest of the last divide and came just at sunset in

sight of the beautiful valley with the odd name of Chugwater.



Farther up the stream towards its sources among the pine-crested Black

Hills, there were many places where the busy beavers had dammed its

flow. The Indians, bent on trapping these wary creatures, had listened

in the stillness of the solitudes to the battering of those wonderful

tails upon the mud walls of their dams and forts, and had named the

little river after its most marked characteristic, the constant "chug,

chug" of those cricket-bat caudals.



On the west of the winding stream, in the smiling valley with tiny

patches of verdure, lay the ranch with its out-buildings, corrals, and

the peacefully browsing stock around it, and little Jessie woke at her

father's joyous shout and pointed out her home to Ralph.



There where the trail wound away from the main road the wagon and

horsemen must separate, and Ralph reined close alongside and took Jessie

in his arms and was hugged tight as he kissed her bonny face. Then he

and the sergeant shook hands heartily with Farron, set spurs to their

horses, and went loping down northeastward to the broader reaches of the

valley.



On their right, across the lowlands, ran the long ridge ending in an

abrupt precipice, that was the scene of the great buffalo-killing by the

Indians many a long year ago. Straight ahead were the stage station, the

forage sheds, and the half dozen buildings of Phillips's. All was as

placid and peaceful in the soft evening light as if no hostile Indian

had ever existed.



Yet there were to be seen signs of preparation for Indian attack. The

herder whom the travellers met two miles south of the station was

heavily armed and his mate was only short rifle-shot away. The men waved

their hats to Ralph and his soldier comrade, and one of them called out,

"Whar'd ye leave the cavalry?" and seemed disappointed to hear they were

as far back as Lodge Pole.



At the station, they found the ranchmen prepared for their coming and

glad to see them. Captain McCrea had telegraphed twice during the

afternoon and seemed anxious to know of their arrival.



"He's in the office at Laramie now," said the telegraph agent, with a

smile, "and I wired him the moment we sighted you coming down the hill.

Come in and send him a few words. It will please him more than anything

I can say."



So Ralph stepped into the little room with its solitary instrument and

lonely operator. In those days there was little use for the line except

for the conducting of purely military business, and the agents or

operators were all soldiers detailed for the purpose. Here at "The Chug"

the instrument rested on a little table by the loop-hole of a window in

the side of the log hut. Opposite it was the soldier's narrow camp-bed

with its brown army blankets and with his heavy overcoat thrown over the

foot. Close at hand stood his Springfield rifle, with the belt of

cartridges, and over the table hung two Colt's revolvers.



All through the rooms of the station the same war-like preparations were

visible, for several times during the spring and early summer war

parties of Indians had come prowling up the valley, driving the herders

before them; but, having secured all the beef cattle they could handle,

they had hurried back to the fords of the Platte and, except on one or

two occasions, had committed no murders.



Well knowing the pluck of the little community at Phillips's, the

Indians had not come within long rifle range of the ranch, but on the

last two visits the warriors seemed to have grown bolder. While most of

the Indians were rounding up cattle and scurrying about in the valley,

two miles below the ranch, it was noted that two warriors, on their

nimble ponies, had climbed the high ridge on the east that overlooked

the ranches in the valley beyond and above Phillips's, and were

evidently taking deliberate note of the entire situation.



One of the Indians was seen to point a long, bare arm, on which silver

wristlets and bands flashed in the sun, at Farron's lonely ranch four

miles up-stream.



That was more than the soldier telegrapher could bear patiently. He took

his Springfield rifle out into the fields, and opened a long range fire

on these adventurous redskins.



The Indians were a good mile away, but that honest "Long Tom" sent its

leaden missiles whistling about their ears, and kicking up the dust

around their ponies' heels, until, after a few defiant shouts and such

insulting and contemptuous gestures as they could think of, the two had

ducked suddenly out of sight behind the bluffs.



All this the ranch people told Ralph and the sergeant, as they were

enjoying a hot supper after the fifty-mile ride of the day. Afterwards

the two travellers went out into the corral to see that their horses

were secure for the night.



Buford looked up with eager whinny at Ralph's footstep, pricked his

pretty ears, and looked as full of life and spirit as if he had never

had a hard day's gallop in his life. Sergeant Wells had given him a

careful rubbing down while Ralph was at the telegraph office, and

later, when the horses were thoroughly cool, they were watered at the

running stream and given a hearty feed of oats.



Phillips came out to lock up his stable while they were petting Buford,

and stood there a moment admiring the pretty fellow.



"With your weight I think he could make a race against any horse in the

cavalry, couldn't he, Mr. Ralph?" he asked.



"I'm not quite sure, Phillips; the colonel of the Fifth Cavalry has a

horse that I might not care to race. He was being led along behind the

head-quarters escort to-day. Barring that horse Van, I would ride Buford

against any horse I've ever seen in the service for any distance from a

quarter of a mile to a day's march."



"But those Indian ponies, Mr. Ralph, couldn't they beat him?"



"Over rough ground--up hill and down dale--I suppose some of them could.

I saw their races up at Red Cloud last year, and old Spotted Tail

brought over a couple of ponies from Camp Sheridan that ran like a

streak, and there was a Minneconjou chief there who had a very fast

pony. Some of the young Ogallallas had quick, active beasts, but, take

them on a straight-away run, I wouldn't be afraid to try my luck with

Buford against the best of them."



"Well, I hope you'll never have to ride for your life on him. He's

pretty and sound and fast, but those Indians have such wind and bottom;

they never seem to give out."



A little later--at about half after eight o'clock--Sergeant Wells, the

telegraph operator, and one or two of the ranchmen sat tilted back in

their rough chairs on the front porch of the station enjoying their

pipes. Ralph had begun to feel a little sleepy, and was ready to turn in

when he was attracted by the conversation between the two soldiers; the

operator was speaking, and the seriousness of his tone caused the boy to

listen.



"It isn't that we have any particular cause to worry just here. With our

six or seven men we could easily stand off the Indians until help came,

but it's Farron and little Jessie I'm thinking of. He and his two men

would have no show whatever in case of a sudden and determined attack.

They have not been harmed so far, because the Indians always crossed

below Laramie and came up to the Chug, and so there was timely warning.

Now, they have seen Farron's place up there all by itself. They can

easily find out, by hanging around the traders at Red Cloud, who lives

there, how many men he has, and about Jessie. Next to surprising and

killing a white man in cold blood, those fellows like nothing better

than carrying off a white child and concealing it among them. The

gypsies have the same trait. Now, they know that so long as they cross

below Laramie the scouts are almost sure to discover it in an hour or

two, and as soon as they strike the Chug Valley some herders come

tumbling in here and give the alarm. They have come over regularly every

moon, since General Crook went up in February, until now."



The operator went on impressively:



"The moon's almost on the wane, and they haven't shown up yet. Now, what

worries me is just this. Suppose they should push out westward from

the reservation, cross the Platte somewhere about Bull Bend or even

nearer Laramie, and come down the Chug from the north. Who is to give

Farron warning?"



"They're bound to hear it at Laramie and telegraph you at once,"

suggested one of the ranchmen.



"Not necessarily. The river isn't picketed between Fetterman and

Laramie, simply because the Indians have always tried the lower

crossings. The stages go through three times a week, and there are

frequent couriers and trains, but they don't keep a lookout for pony

tracks. The chances are that their crossing would not be discovered for

twenty-four hours or so, and as to the news being wired to us here,

those reds would never give us a chance. The first news we got of their

deviltry would be that they had cut the line ten or twelve miles this

side of Laramie as they came sweeping down.



"I tell you, boys," continued the operator, half rising from his chair

in his earnestness, "I hate to think of little Jessie up there to-night.

I go in every few minutes and call up Laramie or Fetterman just to feel

that all is safe, and stir up Lodge Pole, behind us, to realize that

we've got the Fifth Cavalry only twenty-five miles away; but the Indians

haven't missed a moon yet, and there's only one more night of this."



Even as his hearers sat in silence, thinking over the soldier's words,

there came from the little cabin the sharp and sudden clicking of the

telegraph. "It's my call," exclaimed the operator, as he sprang to his

feet and ran to his desk.



Ralph and Sergeant Wells were close at his heels; he had clicked his

answering signal, seized a pencil, and was rapidly taking down a

message. They saw his eyes dilate and his lips quiver with suppressed

excitement. Once, indeed, he made an impulsive reach with his hand, as

if to touch the key and shut off the message and interpose some idea of

his own, but discipline prevailed.



"It's for you," he said, briefly, nodding up to Ralph, while he went on

to copy the message.



It was a time of anxious suspense in the little office. The sergeant

paced silently to and fro with unusual erectness of bearing and a

firmly-compressed lip. His appearance and attitude were that of the

soldier who has divined approaching danger and who awaits the order for

action. Ralph, who could hardly control his impatience, stood watching

the rapid fingers of the operator as they traced out a message which was

evidently of deep moment.



At last the transcript was finished, and the operator handed it to the

boy. Ralph's hand was trembling with excitement as he took the paper and

carried it close to the light. It read as follows:



"RALPH MCCREA, Chugwater Station:



"Black Hills stage reports having crossed trail of large war party

going west, this side of Rawhide Butte. My troop ordered at once in

pursuit. Wait for Fifth Cavalry.



"GORDON MCCREA."



"Going west, this side of Rawhide Butte," said Ralph, as calmly as he

could. "That means that they are twenty miles north of Laramie, and on

the other side of the Platte."



"It means that they knew what they were doing when they crossed just

behind the last stage so as to give no warning, and that their trail was

nearly two days old when seen by the down stage this afternoon. It means

that they crossed the stage road, Ralph, but how long ago was that, do

you think, and where are they now? It is my belief that they crossed the

Platte above Laramie last night or early this morning, and will be down

on us to-night."



"Wire that to Laramie, then, at once," said Ralph. "It may not be too

late to turn the troop this way."



"I can only say what I think to my fellow-operator there, and can't even

do that now; the commanding officer is sending despatches to Omaha, and

asking that the Fifth Cavalry be ordered to send forward a troop or two

to guard the Chug. But there's no one at the head-quarters this time o'

night. Besides, if we volunteer any suggestions, they will say we were

stampeded down here by a band of Indians that didn't come within

seventy-five miles of us."



"Well, father won't misunderstand me," said Ralph, "and I'm not afraid

to ask him to think of what you say; wire it to him in my name."



There was a long interval, twenty minutes or so, before the operator

could "get the line." When at last he succeeded in sending his despatch,

he stopped short in the midst of it.



"It's no use, Ralph. Your father's troop was three miles away before his

message was sent. There were reports from Red Cloud that made the

commanding officer believe there were some Cheyennes going up to attack

couriers or trains between Fetterman and the Big Horn. He is away north

of the Platte."



Another few minutes of thoughtful silence, then Ralph turned to his

soldier friend,--



"Sergeant, I have to obey father's orders and stay here, but it's my

belief that Farron should be put on his guard at once. What say you?"



"If you agree, sir, I'll ride up and spend the night with him."



"Then go by all means. I know father would approve it."









CHAPTER IV.



CUT OFF.





It was after ten o'clock when the waning moon came peering over the

barrier ridge at the east. Over an hour had passed since Sergeant Wells,

on his big sorrel, had ridden away up the stream on the trail to

Farron's.



Phillips had pressed upon him a Henry repeating rifle, which he had

gratefully accepted. It could not shoot so hard or carry so far as the

sergeant's Springfield carbine, the cavalry arm; but to repel a sudden

onset of yelling savages at close quarters it was just the thing, as it

could discharge sixteen shots without reloading. His carbine and the

belt of copper cartridges the sergeant left with Ralph.



Just before riding away he took the operator and Ralph to the back of

the corral, whence, far up the valley, they could see the twinkling

light at Farron's ranch.



"We ought to have some way of signalling," he had said as they went out

of doors. "If you get news during the night that the Indians are surely

this side of the Platte, of course we want to know at once; if, on the

other hand, you hear they are nowhere within striking distance, it will

be a weight off my mind and we can all get a good night's rest up there.

Now, how shall we fix it?"



After some discussion, it was arranged that Wells should remain on the

low porch in front of Farron's ranch until midnight. The light was to be

extinguished there as soon as he arrived, as an assurance that all was

well, and it should not again appear during the night unless as a

momentary answer to signals they might make.



If information were received at Phillips's that the Indians were south

of the Platte, Ralph should fire three shots from his carbine at

intervals of five seconds; and if they heard that all was safe, he

should fire one shot to call attention and then start a small blaze out

on the bank of the stream, where it could be plainly seen from Farron's.



Wells was to show his light half a minute when he recognized the signal.

Having arrived at this understanding, the sergeant shook the hand of

Ralph and the operator and rode towards Farron's.



"What I wish," said the operator, "is that Wells could induce Farron to

let him bring Jessie here for the night; but Farron is a bull-headed

fellow and thinks no number of Indians could ever get the better of him

and his two men. He knows very little of them and is hardly alive to the

danger of his position. I think he will be safe with Wells, but, all

the same, I wish that a troop of the Fifth Cavalry had been sent forward

to-night."



After they had gone back to the office the operator "called up" Laramie.

"All quiet," was the reply, and nobody there seemed to think the Indians

had come towards the Platte.



Then the operator signalled to his associate at Lodge Pole, who wired

back that nobody there had heard anything from Laramie or elsewhere

about the Indians; that the colonel and one or two of his officers had

been in the station a while during the evening and had sent messages to

Cheyenne and Omaha and received one or two, but that they had all gone

out to camp. Everything was quiet; "taps" had just sounded and they were

all going to bed.



"Lodge Pole" announced for himself that some old friends of his were on

the guard that night, and he was going over to smoke a pipe and have a

chat with them.



To this "Chug" responded that he wished he wouldn't leave the office.

There was no telling what might turn up or how soon he'd be wanted.



But "Lodge Pole" said the operators were not required to stay at the

board after nine at night; he would have the keeper of the station

listen for his call, and would run over to camp for an hour; would be

back at half-past ten and sleep by his instrument. Meantime, if needed,

he could be called in a minute,--the guard tents were only three hundred

yards away,--and so he went.



Ralph almost wished that he had sent a message to the colonel to tell

him of their suspicions and anxiety. He knew well that every officer

and every private in that sleeping battalion would turn out eagerly and

welcome the twenty-five-mile trot forward to the Chug on the report that

the Sioux were out "on the war-path" and might be coming that way.



Yet, army boy that he was, he hated to give what might be called a false

alarm. He knew the Fifth only by reputation, and while he would not have

hesitated to send such a message to his father had he been camped at

Lodge Pole, or to his father's comrades in their own regiment, he did

not relish the idea of sending a despatch that would rout the colonel

out of his warm blankets, and which might be totally unnecessary.



So the telegraph operator at Lodge Pole was permitted to go about his

own devices, and once again Ralph and his new friend went out into the

night to look over their surroundings and the situation.



The light still burned at Farron's, and Phillips, coming out with a

bundle of kindling-wood for the little beacon fire, chuckled when he saw

it,--



"Wells must be there by this time, but I'll just bet Farron is giving

the boys a little supper, or something, to welcome Jessie home, and now

he's got obstinate and won't let them douse the glim."



"It's a case that Wells will be apt to decide for himself," answered

Ralph. "He won't stand fooling, and will declare martial law.--There!

What did I tell you?"



The light went suddenly out in the midst of his words. They carried the

kindling and made a little heap of dry sticks out near the bank of the

stream; then stood a while and listened. In the valley, faintly lighted

by the moon, all was silence and peace; not even the distant yelp of

coyote disturbed the stillness of the night. Not a breath of air was

stirring. A light film of cloud hung about the horizon and settled in a

cumulus about the turrets of old Laramie Peak, but overhead the

brilliant stars sparkled and the planets shone like little globes of

molten gold.



Hearing voices, Buford, lonely now without his friend, the sergeant's

horse, set up a low whinny, and Ralph went in and spoke to him, patting

his glossy neck and shoulder. When he came out he found that a third man

had joined the party and was talking eagerly with Phillips.



Ralph recognized the man as an old trapper who spent most of his time in

the hills or farther up in the neighborhood of Laramie Peak. He had

often been at the fort to sell peltries or buy provisions, and was a

mountaineer and plainsman who knew every nook and cranny in Wyoming.



Cropping the scant herbage on the flat behind the trapper was a lank,

long-limbed horse from which he had just dismounted, and which looked

travel-stained and weary like his master. The news the man brought was

worthy of consideration, and Ralph listened with rapt attention and with

a heart that beat hard and quick, though he said no word and gave no

sign.



"Then you haven't seen or heard a thing?" asked the new-comer. "It's

mighty strange. I've scoured these hills--man and boy--nigh onto thirty

years and ought to know Indian smokes when I see 'em. I don't think I

can be mistaken about this. I was way up the range about four o'clock

this afternoon and could see clear across towards Rawhide Butte, and

three smokes went up over there, sure. What startled me," the trapper

continued, "was the answer. Not ten miles above where I was there went

up a signal smoke from the foot-hills of the range,--just in here to the

northwest of us, perhaps twenty miles west of Eagle's Nest. It's the

first time I've seen Indian smokes in there since the month they killed

Lieutenant Robinson up by the peak. You bet I came down. Sure they

haven't seen anything at Laramie?"



"Nothing. They sent Captain McCrea with his troop up towards Rawhide

just after dark, but they declare nothing has been seen or heard of

Indians this side of the Platte. I've been talking with Laramie most of

the evening. The Black Hills stage coming down reported trail of a big

war party out, going west just this side of the Butte, and some of them

may have sent up the smokes you saw in that direction. I was saying to

Ralph, here, that if that trail was forty-eight hours old, they would

have had time to cross the Platte at Bull Bend, and be down here

to-night."



"They wouldn't come here first. They know this ranch too well. They'd go

in to Eagle's Nest to try and get the stage horses and a scalp or two

there. You're too strong for 'em here."



"Ay; but there's Farron and his little kid up there four miles above

us."



"You don't tell me! Thought he'd taken her down to Denver."



"So he did, and fetched her back to-day. Sergeant Wells has gone up

there to keep watch with them, and we are to signal if we get important

news. All you tell me only adds to what we suspected. How I wish we had

known it an hour ago! Now, will you stay here with us or go up to

Farron's and tell Wells what you've seen?"



"I'll stay here. My horse can't make another mile, and you may believe I

don't want any prowling round outside of a stockade this night. No, if

you can signal to him go ahead and do it."



"What say you, Ralph?"



Ralph thought a moment in silence. If he fired his three shots, it meant

that the danger was imminent, and that they had certain information that

the Indians were near at hand. He remembered to have heard his father

and other officers tell of sensational stories this same old trapper had

inflicted on the garrison. Sergeant Wells himself used to laugh at

"Baker's yarns." More than once the cavalry had been sent out to where

Baker asserted he had certainly seen a hundred Indians the day before,

only to find that not even the vestige of a pony track remained on the

yielding sod. If he fired the signal shots it meant a night of vigil for

everybody at Farron's and then how Wells would laugh at him in the

morning, and how disgusted he would be when he found that it was

entirely on Baker's assurances that he had acted!



It was a responsible position for the boy. He would much have preferred

to mount Buford and ride off over the four miles of moonlit prairie to

tell the sergeant of Baker's report and let him be the judge of its

authenticity. It was lucky he had that level-headed soldier operator to

advise him. Already he had begun to fancy him greatly, and to respect

his judgment and intelligence.



"Suppose we go in and stir up Laramie, and tell them what Mr. Baker

says," he suggested; and, leaving the trapper to stable his jaded horse

under Phillips's guidance, Ralph and his friend once more returned to

the station.



"If the Indians are south of the Platte," said the operator, "I shall no

longer hesitate about sending a despatch direct to the troops at Lodge

Pole. The colonel ought to know. He can send one or two companies right

along to-night. There is no operator at Eagle's Nest, or I'd have him up

and ask if all was well there. That's what worries me, Ralph. It was

back of Eagle's Nest old Baker says he saw their smokes, and it is

somewhere about Eagle's Nest that I should expect the rascals to slip in

and cut our wire. I'll bet they're all asleep at Laramie by this time.

What o'clock is it?"



The boy stopped at the window of the little telegraph room where the

light from the kerosene lamp would fall upon his watch-dial. The soldier

passed on around to the door. Glancing at his watch, Ralph followed on

his track and got to the door-way just as his friend stretched forth his

hand to touch the key.



"It's just ten-fifty now."



"Ten-fifty, did you say?" asked the soldier, glancing over his shoulder.

"Ralph!" he cried, excitedly, "the wire's cut!"



"Where?" gasped Ralph. "Can you tell?"



"No, somewhere up above us,--near the Nest, probably,--though who can

tell? It may be just round the bend of the road, for all we know. No

doubt about there being Indians now, Ralph, give 'em your signal. Hullo!

Hoofs!"



Leaping out from the little tenement, the two listened intently. An

instant before the thunder of horse's feet upon wooden planking had been

plainly audible in the distance, and now the coming clatter could be

heard on the roadway.



Phillips and Baker, who had heard the sounds, joined them at the

instant. Nearer and nearer came a panting horse; a shadowy rider loomed

into sight up the road, and in another moment a young ranchman galloped

up to the very doors.



"All safe, fellows? Thank goodness for that! I've had a ride for it, and

we're dead beat. Indians? Why, the whole country's alive with 'em

between here and Hunton's. I promised I'd go over to Farron's if they

ever came around that way, but they may beat me there yet. How many men

have you here?"



"Seven now, counting Baker and Ralph; but I'll wire right back to Lodge

Pole and let the Fifth Cavalry know. Quick, Ralph, give 'em your signal

now!"



Ralph seized his carbine and ran out on the prairie behind the corral,

the others eagerly following him to note the effect. Bang! went the gun

with a resounding roar that echoed from the cliffs at the east and came

thundering back to them just in time to "fall in" behind two other

ringing reports at short, five-second intervals.



Three times the flash lighted up the faces of the little party; set and

stern and full of pluck they were. Then all eyes were turned to the

dark, shadowy, low-lying objects far up the stream, the roofs of

Farron's threatened ranch.



Full half a minute they watched, hearts beating high, breath coming

thick and fast, hands clinching in the intensity of their anxiety.



Then, hurrah! Faint and flickering at first, then shining a few seconds

in clear, steady beam, the sergeant's answering signal streamed out upon

the night, a calm, steadfast, unwavering response, resolute as the

spirit of its soldier sender, and then suddenly disappeared.



"He's all right!" said Ralph, joyously, as the young ranchman put spurs

to his panting horse and rode off to the west. "Now, what about Lodge

Pole?"



Just as they turned away there came a sound far out on the prairie that

made them pause and look wonderingly a moment in one another's eyes. The

horseman had disappeared from view. They had watched him until he had

passed out of sight in the dim distance. The hoof-beats of his horse had

died away before they turned to go.



Yet now there came the distant thunder of an hundred hoofs bounding over

the sod.



Out from behind a jutting spur of a bluff a horde of shadows sweep forth

upon the open prairie towards the trail on which the solitary rider has

disappeared. Here and there among them swift gleams, like silver

streaks, are plainly seen, as the moonbeams glint on armlet or bracelet,

or the nickel plating on their gaudy trappings.



Then see! a ruddy flash! another! another! the muffled bang of

fire-arms, and the vengeful yell and whoops of savage foeman float down

to the breathless listeners at the station on the Chug. The Sioux are

here in full force, and a score of them have swept down on that brave,

hapless, helpless fellow riding through the darkness alone.



Phillips groaned. "Oh, why did we let him go? Quick, now! Every man to

the ranch, and you get word to Lodge Pole, will you?"



"Ay, ay, and fetch the whole Fifth Cavalry here at a gallop!"



But when Ralph ran into the telegraph station a moment later, he found

the operator with his head bowed upon his arms and his face hidden from

view.



"What's the matter,--quick?" demanded Ralph.



It was a ghastly face that was raised to the boy, as the operator

answered,--



"It--it's all my fault. I've waited too long. They've cut the line

behind us!"









CHAPTER V.



AT