Read Starlight Ranch, and Other Stories of Army Life on the Frontier Page 17

  THE WORST MAN IN THE TROOP.

  Just why that young Irishman should have been so balefully branded wasmore than the first lieutenant of the troop could understand. To besure, the lieutenant's opportunities for observation had been limited.He had spent some years on detached service in the East, and had joinedhis comrades in Arizona but a fortnight ago, and here he was alreadybecoming rapidly initiated in the science of scouting throughmountain-wilds against the wariest and most treacherous of foemen,--theApaches of our Southwestern territory.

  Coming, as he had done, direct from a station and duties wherefull-dress uniform, lavish expenditure for kid gloves, bouquets, andLubin's extracts were matters of daily fact, it must be admitted thatthe sensations he experienced on seeing his detachment equipped for thescout were those of mild consternation. That much latitude as toindividual dress and equipment was permitted he had previously beeninformed; that "full dress," and white shirts, collars, and the likewould be left at home, he had sense enough to know; but that everyofficer and man in the command would be allowed to discard any and allportions of the regulation uniform and appear rigged out in just suchmotley guise as his poetic or practical fancy might suggest, had neverbeen pointed out to him; and that he, commanding his troop while acaptain commanded the little battalion, could by any militarypossibility take his place in front of his men without his sabre, hadnever for an instant occurred to him. As a consequence, when he boltedinto the mess-room shortly after daybreak on a bright June morning withthat imposing but at most times useless item of cavalry equipmentclanking at his heels, the lieutenant gazed with some astonishment uponthe attire of his brother-officers there assembled, but found himselfthe butt of much good-natured and not over-witty "chaff," directedpartially at the extreme newness and neatness of his dark-blue flannelscouting-shirt and high-top boots, but more especially at the glitteringsabre swinging from his waist-belt.

  "Billings," said Captain Buxton, with much solemnity, "while you haveprobably learned through the columns of a horror-stricken Eastern pressthat we scalp, alive or dead, all unfortunates who fall into ourclutches, I assure you that even for that purpose the cavalry sabre has,in Arizona at least, outlived its usefulness. It is too long and clumsy,you see. What you really want for the purpose is something likethis,"--and he whipped out of its sheath a rusty but keen-bladed Mexican_cuchillo_,--"something you can wield with a deft turn of the wrist, youknow. The sabre is apt to tear and mutilate the flesh, especially whenyou use both hands." And Captain Buxton winked at the other subalternand felt that he had said a good thing.

  But Mr. Billings was a man of considerable good nature and readyadaptability to the society or circumstances by which he might besurrounded. "Chaff" was a very cheap order of wit, and the serenity ofhis disposition enabled him to shake off its effect as readily as wateris scattered from the plumage of the duck.

  "So you don't wear the sabre on a scout? So much the better. I have myrevolvers and a Sharp's carbine, but am destitute of anything in theknife line." And with that Mr. Billings betook himself to the duty ofdespatching the breakfast that was already spread before him in an arraytempting enough to a frontier appetite, but little designed to attract a_bon vivant_ of civilization. Bacon, _frijoles_, and creamless coffeespeedily become ambrosia and nectar under the influence of mountain-airand mountain-exercise; but Mr. Billings had as yet done no climbing. A"buck-board" ride had been his means of transportation to thegarrison,--a lonely four-company post in a far-away valley inNortheastern Arizona,--and in the three or four days of intense heatthat had succeeded his arrival exercise of any kind had been out of thequestion. It was with no especial regret, therefore, that he heard thesummons of the captain, "Hurry up, man; we must be off in ten minutes."And in less than ten minutes the lieutenant was on his horse andsuperintending the formation of his troop.

  If Mr. Billings was astonished at the garb of his brother-officers atbreakfast, he was simply aghast when he glanced along the line ofCompany "A" (as his command was at that time officially designated) andthe first sergeant rode out to report his men present or accounted for.The first sergeant himself was got up in an old gray-flannel shirt, openat and disclosing a broad, brown throat and neck; his head was crownedwith what had once been a white felt _sombrero_, now tanned by desertsun, wind, and dirt into a dingy mud-color; his powerful legs wereencased in worn deer-skin breeches tucked into low-topped, broad-soled,well-greased boots; his waist was girt with a rude "thimble-belt," inthe loops of which were thrust scores of copper cartridges for carbineand pistol; his carbine, and those of all the command, swung in aleather loop athwart the pommel of the saddle; revolvers in all mannerof cases hung at the hip, the regulation holster, in most instances,being conspicuous by its absence. Indeed, throughout the entire commandthe remarkable fact was to be noted that a company of regular cavalry,taking the field against hostile Indians, had discarded pretty muchevery item of dress or equipment prescribed or furnished by theauthorities of the United States, and had supplied themselves with anoutfit utterly ununiform, unpicturesque, undeniably slouchy, but notless undeniably appropriate and serviceable. Not a forage-cap was to beseen, not a "campaign-hat" of the style then prescribed by a board ofofficers that might have known something of hats, but never could havehad an idea on the subject of campaigns. Fancy that black enormity ofweighty felt, with flapping brim well-nigh a foot in width, absorbingthe fiery heat of an Arizona sun, and concentrating the burning raysupon the cranium of its unhappy wearer! No such head-gear would ourtroopers suffer in the days when General Crook led them through thecanyons and deserts of that inhospitable Territory. Regardless ofappearances or style himself, seeking only comfort in his dress, thechief speedily found means to indicate that, in Apache-campaigning atleast, it was to be a case of "_inter arma silent leges_" in deadearnest; for, freely translated, the old saw read, "No red-tape whenIndian-fighting."

  Of much of this Lieutenant Billings was only partially informed, and so,as has been said, he was aghast when he marked the utter absence ofuniform and the decidedly variegated appearance of his troop. Deerskin,buckskin, canvas, and flannels, leggings, moccasins, and the like,constituted the bill of dress, and old soft felt hats, originally white,the head-gear. If spurs were worn at all, they were of the Mexicanvariety, easy to kick off, but sure to stay on when wanted. Only two menwore carbine sling-belts, and Mr. Billings was almost ready to hunt uphis captain and inquire if by any possibility the men could beattempting to "put up a joke on him," when the captain himself appeared,looking little if any more like the ideal soldier than his men, and theperfectly satisfied expression on his face as he rode easily around,examining closely the horses of the command, paying especial attentionto their feet and the shoes thereof, convinced the lieutenant that allwas as it was expected to be, if not as it should be, and he swallowedhis surprise and held his peace. Another moment, and Captain Wayne'stroop came filing past in column of twos, looking, if anything, rougherthan his own.

  "You follow right after Wayne," said Captain Buxton; and with no furtherformality Mr. Billings, in a perfunctory sort of way, wheeled his men tothe right by fours, broke into column of twos, and closed up on theleading troop.

  Buxton was in high glee on this particular morning in June. He had donevery little Indian scouting, had been but moderately successful in whathe had undertaken, and now, as luck would have it, the necessity arosefor sending something more formidable than a mere detachment down intothe Tonto Basin, in search of a powerful band of Apaches who had brokenloose from the reservation and were taking refuge in the foot-hills ofthe Black Mesa or among the wilds of the Sierra Ancha. As senior captainof the two, Buxton became commander of the entire force,--twowell-filled troops of regular cavalry, some thirty Indian allies asscouts, and a goodly-sized train of pack-mules, with its full complementof packers, _cargadors_, and blacksmiths. He fully anticipated a livelyfight, possibly a series of them, and a triumphant return to his post,where hereafter he would be looked up to and quoted as an expert andauthority on Apach
e-fighting. He knew just where the hostiles lay, andwas going straight to the point to flatten them out forthwith; and sothe little command moved off under admirable auspices and in the best ofspirits.

  It was a four-days' hard march to the locality where Captain Buxtoncounted on finding his victims; and when on the fourth day, rather tiredand not particularly enthusiastic, the command bivouacked along thebanks of a mountain-torrent, a safe distance from the supposed locationof the Indian stronghold, he sent forward his Apache Mojave allies tomake a stealthy reconnoissance, feeling confident that soon afternightfall they would return with the intelligence that the enemy werelazily resting in their "rancheria," all unsuspicious of his approach,and that at daybreak he would pounce upon and annihilate them.

  Soon after nightfall the scouts did return, but their intelligence wasnot so gratifying: a small--a _very_ small--band of renegades had beenencamped in that vicinity some weeks before, but not a "hostile" or signof a hostile was to be found. Captain Buxton hardly slept that night,from disappointment and mortification, and when he went the followingday to investigate for himself he found that he had been on a falsescent from the start, and this made him crabbed. A week's hunt throughthe mountains resulted in no better luck, and now, having had onlyfifteen days' rations at the outset, he was most reluctantly andsavagely marching homeward to report his failure.

  But Mr. Billings had enjoyed the entire trip. Sleeping in the open airwithout other shelter than their blankets afforded, scouting by day insingle file over miles of mere game-trails, up hill and down dalethrough the wildest and most dolefully-picturesque scenery he "at least"had ever beheld, under frowning cliffs and beetling crags, through denseforests of pine and juniper, through mountain-torrents swollen with themelting snows of the crests so far above them, through canyons, deep,dark, and gloomy, searching ever for traces of the foe they were orderedto find and fight forthwith, Mr. Billings and his men, having noresponsibility upon their shoulders, were happy and healthy as possible,and consequently in small sympathy with their irate leader.

  Every afternoon when they halted beside some one of the hundreds ofmountain-brooks that came tumbling down from the gorges of the BlackMesa, the men were required to look carefully at the horses' backs andfeet, for mountain Arizona is terrible on shoes, equine or human. Thishad to be done before the herds were turned out to graze with theirguard around them; and often some of the men would get a wisp of strawor a suitable wipe of some kind, and thoroughly rub down their steeds.Strolling about among them, as he always did at this time, ourlieutenant had noticed a slim but trimly-built young Irishman whose careof and devotion to his horse it did him good to see. No matter how longthe march, how severe the fatigue, that horse was always looked after,his grazing-ground pre-empted by a deftly-thrown picket-pin and lariatwhich secured to him all the real estate that could be surveyed withinthe circle of which the pin was the centre and the lariat theradius-vector.

  Between horse and master the closest comradeship seemed to exist; thetrooper had a way of softly singing or talking to his friend as herubbed him down, and Mr. Billings was struck with the expression andtaste with which the little soldier--for he was only five feetfive--would render "Molly Bawn" and "Kitty Tyrrell." Except when thussinging or exchanging confidences with his steed, he was strangelysilent and reserved; he ate his rations among the other men, yet rarelyspoke with them, and he would ride all day through country marvellousfor wild beauty and be the only man in the command who did not allowhimself to give vent to some expression of astonishment or delight.

  "What is that man's name?" asked Mr. Billings of the first sergeant oneevening.

  "O'Grady, sir," replied the sergeant, with his soldierly salute; and alittle later, as Captain Buxton was fretfully complaining to hissubaltern of the ill fortune that seemed to overshadow his best efforts,the latter, thinking to cheer him and to divert his attention from histrouble, referred to the troop:

  "Why, captain, I don't think I ever saw a finer set of men than youhave--anywhere. Now, _there's_ a little fellow who strikes me as being aperfect light-cavalry soldier." And the lieutenant indicated his youngIrishman.

  "You don't mean O'Grady?" asked the captain in surprise.

  "Yes, sir,--the very one."

  "Why, he's the worst man in the troop."

  For a moment Mr. Billings knew not what to say. His captain had spokenwith absolute harshness and dislike in his tone of the one soldier ofall others who seemed to be the most quiet, attentive, and alert of thetroop. He had noticed, too, that the sergeants and the men generally, inspeaking to O'Grady, were wont to fall into a kindlier tone than usual,and, though they sometimes squabbled among themselves over the choice ofpatches of grass for their horses, O'Grady's claim was never questioned,much less "jumped." Respect for his superior's rank would not permit thelieutenant to argue the matter; but, desiring to know more about thecase, he spoke again:

  "I am very sorry to hear it. His care of his horse and his quiet waysimpressed me so favorably."

  "Oh, yes, d--n him!" broke in Captain Buxton. "Horses and whiskey arethe only things on earth he cares for. As to quiet ways, there isn't aworse devil at large than O'Grady with a few drinks in him. When I cameback from two years' recruiting detail he was a sergeant in the troop. Inever knew him before, but I soon found he was addicted to drink, andafter a while had to 'break' him; and one night when he was raising hellin the quarters, and I ordered him into the dark cell, he turned on melike a tiger. By Jove! if it hadn't been for some of the men he wouldhave killed me,--or I him. He was tried by court-martial, but most ofthe detail was made up of infantrymen and staff-officers from Crook'shead-quarters, and, by ----! they didn't seem to think it any sin for asoldier to threaten to cut his captain's heart out, and Crook himselfgave me a sort of a rap in his remarks on the case, and--well, they justlet O'Grady off scot-free between them, gave him some little fine, anddid more harm than good. He's just as surly and insolent now when Ispeak to him as he was that night when drunk. Here, I'll show you." Andwith that Captain Buxton started off towards the herd, Mr. Billingsobediently following, but feeling vaguely ill at ease. He had never metCaptain Buxton before, but letters from his comrades had prepared himfor experiences not altogether pleasant. A good soldier in somerespects, Captain Buxton bore the reputation of having an almostungovernable temper, of being at times brutally violent in his languageand conduct towards his men, and, worse yet, of bearing ill-concealedmalice, and "nursing his wrath to keep it warm" against such of hisenlisted men as had ever ventured to appeal for justice. The captainstopped on reaching the outskirts of the quietly-grazing herd.

  "Corporal," said he to the non-commissioned officer in charge, "isn'tthat O'Grady's horse off there to the left?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Go and tell O'Grady to come here."

  The corporal saluted and went off on his errand.

  "Now, Mr. Billings," said the captain, "I have repeatedly given ordersthat my horses must be side-lined when we are in the hostiles' country.Just come here to the left." And he walked over towards a handsome,sturdy little California horse of a bright bay color. "Here, you see, isO'Grady's horse, and not a side-line: that's his way of obeying orders.More than that, he is never content to have his horse in among theothers, but must always get away outside, just where he is most apt tobe run off by any Indian sharp and quick enough to dare it. Now, herecomes O'Grady. Watch him, if you want to see him in his true light."

  Standing beside his superior, Mr. Billings looked towards theapproaching trooper, who, with a quick, springy step, advanced to withina few yards of them, then stopped short and, erect and in silence,raised his hand in salute, and with perfectly respectful demeanor lookedstraight at his captain.

  In a voice at once harsh and distinctly audible over the entire bivouac,with frowning brow and angry eyes, Buxton demanded,--

  "O'Grady, where are your side-lines?"

  "Over with my blankets, sir."

  "Over with your blankets, are they? Why in ----, si
r, are they not hereon your horse, where they ought to be?" And the captain's voice waxedharsher and louder, and his manner more threatening.

  "I understood the captain's orders to be that they need not go on tillsunset," replied the soldier, calmly and respectfully, "and I don't liketo put them on that sore place, sir, until the last moment."

  "Don't like to? No sir, I know d--d well you don't like to obey this orany other order I ever gave, and wherever you find a loop-hole throughwhich to crawl, and you think you can sneak off unpunished, by ----,sir, I suppose you will go on disobeying orders. Shut up, sir! not ad--d word!" for tears of mortification were starting to O'Grady's eyes,and with flushing face and trembling lip the soldier stood helplesslybefore his troop-commander, and was striving to say a word in furtherexplanation.

  "Go and get your side-lines at once and bring them here; go at once,sir," shouted the captain; and with a lump in his throat the troopersaluted, faced about, and walked away.

  "He's milder-mannered than usual, d--n him!" said the captain, turningtowards his subaltern, who had stood a silent and pained witness of thescene. "He knows he is in the wrong and has no excuse; but he'll breakout yet. Come! step out, you O'Grady!" he yelled after therapidly-walking soldier. "Double time, sir. I can't wait here allnight." And Mr. Billings noted that silence had fallen on the bivouac sofull of soldier-chaff and laughter but a moment before, and that the menof both troops were intently watching the scene already so painful tohim.

  Obediently O'Grady took up the "dog-trot" required of him, got hisside-lines, and, running back, knelt beside his horse, and withtrembling hands adjusted them, during which performance Captain Buxtonstood over him, and, in a tone that grew more and more that of a bullyas he lashed himself up into a rage, continued his lecture to the man.

  The latter finally rose, and, with huge beads of perspiration startingout on his forehead, faced his captain.

  "May I say a word, sir?" he asked.

  "You may now; but be d--d careful how you say it," was the reply, with asneer that would have stung an abject slave into a longing for revenge,and that grated on Mr. Billings's nerves in a way that made him clinchhis fists and involuntarily grit his teeth. Could it be that O'Gradydetected it? One quick, wistful, half-appealing glance flashed from theIrishman's eyes towards the subaltern, and then, with evident effort atcomposure, but with a voice that trembled with the pent-up sense ofwrong and injustice, O'Grady spoke:

  "Indeed, sir, I had no thought of neglecting orders. I always care formy horse; but it wasn't sunset when the captain came out----"

  "Not sunset!" broke in Buxton, with an outburst of profanity. "Notsunset! why, it's well-nigh dark now, sir, and every man in the troophad side-lined his horse half an hour ago. D--n your insolence, sir!your excuse is worse than your conduct. Mr. Billings, see to it, sir,that this man walks and leads his horse in rear of the troop all the wayback to the post. I'll see, by ----! whether he can be taught to obeyorders." And with that the captain turned and strode away.

  The lieutenant stood for an instant stunned,--simply stunned.Involuntarily he made a step towards O'Grady; their eyes met; but therestraint of discipline was upon both. In that brief meeting of theirglances, however, the trooper read a message that was unmistakable.

  "Lieutenant----" he said, but stopped abruptly, pointed aloft over thetrees to the eastward with his right hand, dashed it across his eyes,and then, with hurried salute and a choking sort of gurgle in histhroat, he turned and went back to his comrades.

  Mr. Billings gazed after the retreating form until it disappeared amongthe trees by the brook-side; then he turned to see what was the meaningof the soldier's pointing over towards the _mesa_ to the east.

  Down in the deep valley in which the little command had halted for thenight the pall of darkness had indeed begun to settle; the bivouac-firesin the timber threw a lurid glare upon the groups gathering around themfor supper, and towards the west the rugged upheavals of the Mazatzalrange stood like a black barrier against the glorious hues of a bank ofsummer cloud. All in the valley spoke of twilight and darkness: thebirds were still, the voices of the men subdued. So far as localindications were concerned, it _was_--as Captain Buxton hadinsisted--almost dark. But square over the gilded tree-tops to the east,stretching for miles and miles to their right and left, blazed avertical wall of rock crested with scrub-oak and pine, every boulder,every tree, glittering in the radiant light of the invisibly settingsun. O'Grady had _not_ disobeyed his orders.

  Noting this, Mr. Billings proceeded to take a leisurely stroll throughthe peaceful herd, carefully inspecting each horse as he passed. As aresult of his scrutiny, he found that, while most of the horses werealready encumbered with their annoying hobble, in "A" Troop alone therewere at least a dozen still unfettered, notably the mounts of thenon-commissioned officers and the older soldiers. Like O'Grady, they didnot wish to inflict the side-line upon their steeds until the lastmoment. Unlike O'Grady, they had not been called to account for it.

  When Mr. Billings was summoned to supper, and he rejoined hisbrother-officers, it was remarked that he was more taciturn than usual.After that repast had been appreciatively disposed of, and the littlegroup with lighted pipes prepared to spend an hour in chat andcontentment, it was observed that Mr. Billings did not take part in thegeneral talk, but that he soon rose, and, out of ear-shot of theofficers' camp-fire, paced restlessly up and down, with his head bentforward, evidently plunged in thought.

  By and by the half-dozen broke up and sought their blankets. CaptainBuxton, somewhat mollified by a good supper, was about rolling into his"Navajo," when Mr. Billings stepped up:

  "Captain, may I ask for information as to the side-line order? After youleft this evening, I found that there must be some misunderstandingabout it."

  "How so?" said Buxton, shortly.

  "In this, captain;" and Mr. Billings spoke very calmly and distinctly."The first sergeant, several other non-commissioned officers andmen,--more than a dozen, I should say,--did not side-line their horsesuntil half an hour after you spoke to O'Grady, and the first sergeantassured me, when I called him to account for it, that your orders werethat it should be done at sunset."

  "Well, by ----! it was after sunset--at least it was getting mightydark--when I sent for that black-guard O'Grady," said Buxton,impetuously, "and there is no excuse for the rest of them."

  "It was beginning to grow dark down in this deep valley, I know, sir;but the tree-tops were in a broad glare of sunlight while we were at theherd, and those cliffs for half an hour longer."

  "Well, Mr. Billings, I don't propose to have any hair-splitting in themanagement of my troop," said the captain, manifestly nettled. "It waspractically sunset to us when the light began to grow dim, and my menknow it well enough." And with that he rolled over and turned his backto his subaltern.

  Disregarding the broad hint to leave, Mr. Billings again spoke:

  "Is it your wish, sir, that any punishment should be imposed on the menwho were equally in fault with O'Grady?"

  Buxton muttered something unintelligible from under his blankets.

  "I did not understand you, sir," said the lieutenant, very civilly.

  Buxton savagely propped himself up on one elbow, and blurted out,--

  "No, Mr. Billings! no! When I want a man punished I'll give the ordermyself, sir."

  "And is it still your wish, sir, that I make O'Grady walk the rest ofthe way?"

  For a moment Buxton hesitated; his better nature struggled to assertitself and induce him to undo the injustice of his order; but the "cad"in his disposition, the weakness of his character, prevailed. It wouldnever do to let his lieutenant get the upper hand of him, he argued, andso the reply came, and came angrily.

  "Yes, of course; he deserves it anyhow, by ----! and it'll do him good."

  Without another word Mr. Billings turned on his heel and left him.

  The command returned to garrison, shaved its stubbly beard of two weeks'growth, and resumed its uniform and the rou
tine duties of the post.Three days only had it been back when Mr. Billings, marching on asofficer of the day, and receiving the prisoners from his predecessor,was startled to hear the list of names wound up with "O'Grady," and whenthat name was called there was no response.

  The old officer of the day looked up inquiringly: "Where is O'Grady,sergeant?"

  "In the cell, sir, unable to come out."

  "O'Grady was confined by Captain Buxton's order late last night," saidCaptain Wayne, "and I fancy the poor fellow has been drinking heavilythis time."

  A few minutes after, the reliefs being told off, the prisoners sent outto work, and the officers of the day, new and old, having made theirreports to the commanding officer, Mr. Billings returned to theguard-house, and, directing his sergeant to accompany him, proceeded tomake a deliberate inspection of the premises. The guard-room itself wasneat, clean, and dry; the garrison prison-room was well ventilated, andtidy as such rooms ever can be made; the Indian prison-room, despite thefact that it was empty and every shutter was thrown wide open to thebreeze, had that indefinable, suffocating odor which continuedaboriginal occupancy will give to any apartment; but it was the cellsMr. Billings desired to see, and the sergeant led him to a row ofheavily-barred doors of rough unplaned timber, with a little grating ineach, and from one of these gratings there peered forth a pair offeverishly-glittering eyes, and a face, not bloated and flushed, as withrecent and heavy potations, but white, haggard, twitching, and a huskyvoice in piteous appeal addressed the sergeant:

  "Oh, for God's sake, Billy, get me something, or it'll kill me!"

  "Hush, O'Grady," said the sergeant: "here's the officer of the day."

  Mr. Billings took one look at the wan face only dimly visible in thatprison-light, for the poor little man shrank back as he recognized theform of his lieutenant:

  "Open that door, sergeant."

  With alacrity the order was obeyed, and the heavy door swung back uponits hinges.

  "O'Grady," said the officer of the day, in a tone gentle as that hewould have employed in speaking to a woman, "come out here to me. I'mafraid you are sick."

  Shaking, trembling, twitching in every limb, with wild, dilated eyes andalmost palsied step, O'Grady came out.

  "Look to him a moment, sergeant," said Mr. Billings, and, bending low,he stepped into the cell. The atmosphere was stifling, and in anotherinstant he backed out into the hall-way. "Sergeant, was it by thecommanding officer's order that O'Grady was put in there?"

  "No, sir; Captain Buxton's."

  "See that he is not returned there during my tour, unless the orderscome from Major Stannard. Bring O'Grady into the prison-room."

  Here in the purer air and brighter light he looked carefully over thepoor fellow, as the latter stood before him quivering from head to footand hiding his face in his shaking hands. Then the lieutenant took himgently by the arm and led him to a bunk:

  "O'Grady, man, lie down here. I'm going to get something that will helpyou. Tell me one thing: how long had you been drinking before you wereconfined?"

  "About forty-eight hours, sir, off and on."

  "How long since you ate anything?"

  "I don't know, sir; not for two days, I think."

  "Well, try and lie still. I'm coming back to you in a very few minutes."

  And with that Mr. Billings strode from the room, leaving O'Grady, dazed,wonder-stricken, gazing stupidly after him.

  The lieutenant went straight to his quarters, took a goodly-sized gobletfrom the painted pine sideboard, and with practised hand proceeded tomix therein a beverage in which granulated sugar, Angostura bitters, anda few drops of lime-juice entered as minor ingredients, and the coldestof spring-water and a brimming measure of whiskey as constituents ofgreater quality and quantity. Filling with this mixture a smallleather-covered flask, and stowing it away within the breast-pocket ofhis blouse, he returned to the guard-house, musing as he went, "'If thisbe treason,' said Patrick Henry, 'make the most of it.' If this beconduct prejudicial, etc., say I, do your d--dest. That man would be inthe horrors of jim-jams in half an hour more if it were not for this."And so saying to himself, he entered the prison-room, called to thesergeant to bring him some cold water, and then approached O'Grady, whorose unsteadily and strove to stand attention, but the effort was toomuch, and again he covered his face with his arms, and threw himself inutter misery at the foot of the bunk.

  Mr. Billings drew the flask from his pocket, and, touching O'Grady'sshoulder, caused him to raise his head:

  "Drink this, my lad. I would not give it to you at another time, but youneed it now."

  Eagerly it was seized, eagerly drained, and then, after he had swalloweda long draught of the water, O'Grady slowly rose to his feet, looking,with eyes rapidly softening and losing their wild glare, upon the youngofficer who stood before him. Once or twice he passed his hands acrosshis forehead, as though to sweep away the cobwebs that pressed upon hisbrain, but for a moment he did not essay a word. Little by little thecolor crept back to his cheek; and, noting this, Mr. Billings smiledvery quietly, and said, "Now, O'Grady, lie down; you will be able tosleep now until the men come in at noon; then you shall have anotherdrink, and you'll be able to eat what I send you. If you cannot sleep,call the sergeant of the guard; or if you want anything, I'll come toyou."

  Then, with tears starting to his eyes, the soldier found words: "I thankthe lieutenant. If I live a thousand years, sir, this will never beforgotten,--never, sir! I'd have gone crazy without your help, sir."

  Mr. Billings held out his hand, and, taking that of his prisoner, gaveit a cordial grip: "That's all right, O'Grady. Try to sleep now, andwe'll pull you through. Good-by, for the present." And, with a heartlighter, somehow, than it had been of late, the lieutenant left.

  At noon that day, when the prisoners came in from labor and theofficer's of the day inspected their general condition before permittingthem to go to their dinner, the sergeant of the guard informed him thatO'Grady had slept quietly almost all the morning, but was then awake andfeeling very much better, though still weak and nervous.

  "Do you think he can walk over to my quarters?" asked Mr. Billings.

  "He will try it, sir, or anything the lieutenant wants him to try."

  "Then send him over in about ten minutes."

  Home once more, Mr. Billings started a tiny blaze in his oil-stove, andsoon had a kettle of water boiling merrily. Sharp to time a member ofthe guard tapped at the door, and, on being bidden "Come in," entered,ushering in O'Grady; but meantime, by the aid of a little pot ofmeat-juice and some cayenne pepper, a glass of hot soup or beef-tea hadbeen prepared, and, with some dainty slices of potted chicken and theaccompaniments of a cup of fragrant tea and some ship-biscuit, was inreadiness on a little table in the back room.

  Telling the sentinel to remain in the shade on the piazza, thelieutenant proceeded first to make O'Grady sit down in a big wickerarm-chair, for the man in his broken condition was well-nigh exhaustedby his walk across the glaring parade in the heat of an Arizona noondaysun. Then he mixed and administered the counterpart of the beverage hehad given his prisoner-patient in the morning, only in point of potencyit was an evident falling off, but sufficient for the purpose, and in afew minutes O'Grady was able to swallow his breakfast with evidentrelish, meekly and unhesitatingly obeying every suggestion of hissuperior.

  His breakfast finished, O'Grady was then conducted into a cool, darkenedapartment, a back room in the lieutenant's quarters.

  "Now, pull off your boots and outer clothing, man, spread yourself onthat bed, and go to sleep, if you can. If you can't, and you want toread, there are books and papers on that shelf; pin up the blanket onthe window, and you'll have light enough. You shall not be disturbed,and I know you won't attempt to leave."

  "Indeed, sir, I won't," began O'Grady, eagerly; but the lieutenant hadvanished, closing the door after him, and a minute later the soldier hadthrown himself upon the cool, white bed, and was crying like a tiredchild.

  Three or
four weeks after this incident, to the small regret of histroop and the politely-veiled indifference of the commissioned elementof the garrison, Captain Buxton concluded to avail himself of along-deferred "leave," and turned over his company property to Mr.Billings in a condition that rendered it necessary for him to do a thingthat "ground" him, so to speak: he had to ask several favors of hislieutenant, between whom and himself there had been no cordiality sincethe episode of the bivouac, and an open rupture since Mr. Billings'ssomewhat eventful tour as officer of the day, which has just beendescribed.

  It appeared that O'Grady had been absent from no duty (there were nodrills in that scorching June weather), but that, yielding to the adviceof his comrades, who knew that he had eaten nothing for two days and wasdrinking steadily into a condition that would speedily bring punishmentupon him, he had asked permission to be sent to the hospital, where,while he could get no liquor, there would be no danger attendant uponhis sudden stop of all stimulant. The first sergeant carried his requestwith the sick-book to Captain Buxton, O'Grady meantime managing to taketwo or three more pulls at the bottle, and Buxton, instead of sendinghim to the hospital, sent for him, inspected him, and did what he had noearthly authority to do, directed the sergeant of the guard to confinehim at once in the dark cell.

  "It will be no punishment as he is now," said Buxton to himself, "but itwill be hell when he wakes."

  And so it had been; and far worse it probably would have been but forMr. Billings's merciful interference.

  Expecting to find his victim in a condition bordering upon the abjectand ready to beg for mercy at any sacrifice of pluck or pride, Buxtonhad gone to the guard-house soon after retreat and told the sergeantthat he desired to see O'Grady, if the man was fit to come out.

  What was his surprise when the soldier stepped forth in his trimmestundress uniform, erect and steady, and stood unflinchingly beforehim!--a day's rest and quiet, a warm bath, wholesome and palatable food,careful nursing, and the kind treatment he had received having broughthim round with a sudden turn that he himself could hardly understand.

  "How is this?" thundered Buxton. "I ordered you kept in the dark cell."

  "The officer of the day ordered him released, sir," said the sergeant ofthe guard.

  And Buxton, choking with rage, stormed into the mess-room, where theyounger officers were at dinner, and, regardless of the time, place, orsurroundings, opened at once upon his subaltern:

  "Mr. Billings, by whose authority did you release O'Grady from the darkcell?"

  Mr. Billings calmly applied his napkin to his moustache, and then ascalmly replied, "By my own, Captain Buxton."

  "By ----! sir, you exceeded your authority."

  "Not at all, captain; on the contrary, you exceeded yours."

  At this Buxton flew into a rage that seemed to deprive him of allcontrol over his language. Oaths and imprecations poured from his lips;he raved at Billings, despite the efforts of the officers to quiet him,despite the adjutant's threat to report his language at once to thecommanding officer.

  Mr. Billings paid no attention whatever to his accusations, but went oneating his dinner with an appearance of serenity that only added fuel tohis captain's fire. Two or three officers rose and left the table indisgust, and just how far the thing might have gone cannot be accuratelytold, for in less than three minutes there came a quick, bounding stepon the piazza, the clank and rattle of a sabre, and the adjutant fairlysprang back into the room:

  "Captain Buxton, you will go at once to your quarters in close arrest,by order of Major Stannard."

  Buxton knew his colonel and that little fire-eater of an adjutant toowell to hesitate an instant. Muttering imprecations on everybody, hewent.

  The next morning, O'Grady was released and returned to duty. Two dayslater, after a long and private interview with his commanding officer,Captain Buxton appeared with him at the officers' mess at dinner-time,made a formal and complete apology to Lieutenant Billings for hisoffensive language, and to the mess generally for his misconduct; and sothe affair blew over; and, soon after, Buxton left, and Mr. Billingsbecame commander of Troop "A."

  And now, whatever might have been his reputation as to sobriety before,Private O'Grady became a marked man for every soldierly virtue. Weekafter week he was to be seen every fourth or fifth day, when his guardtour came, reporting to the commanding officer for duty as "orderly,"the nattiest, trimmest soldier on the detail.

  "I always said," remarked Captain Wayne, "that Buxton alone wasresponsible for that man's downfall; and this proves it. O'Grady has allthe instincts of a gentleman about him, and now that he has a gentlemanover him he is himself again."

  One night, after retreat-parade, there was cheering and jubilee in thequarters of Troop "A." Corporal Quinn had been discharged by expirationof term of service, and Private O'Grady was decorated with his chevrons.When October came, the company muster-roll showed that he had won backhis old grade; and the garrison knew no better soldier, no moreintelligent, temperate, trustworthy non-commissioned officer, thanSergeant O'Grady. In some way or other the story of the treatmentresorted to by his amateur medical officer had leaked out. Whetherfaulty in theory or not, it was crowned with the verdict of success inpractice; and, with the strong sense of humor which pervades allorganizations wherein the Celt is represented as a component part, Mr.Billings had been lovingly dubbed "Doctor" by his men, and there was oneof their number who would have gone through fire and water for him.

  One night some herdsmen from up the valley galloped wildly into thepost. The Apaches had swooped down, run off their cattle, killed one ofthe cowboys, and scared off the rest. At daybreak the next morningLieutenant Billings, with Troop "A" and about a dozen Indian scouts, wason the trail, with orders to pursue, recapture the cattle, and punishthe marauders.

  To his disgust, Mr. Billings found that his allies were not of thetribes who had served with him in previous expeditions. All the trustyApache Mojaves and Hualpais were off with other commands in distantparts of the Territory. He had to take just what the agent could givehim at the reservation,--some Apache Yumas, who were total strangers tohim. Within forty-eight hours four had deserted and gone back; theothers proved worthless as trailers, doubtless intentionally, and had itnot been for the keen eye of Sergeant O'Grady it would have beenimpossible to keep up the pursuit by night; but keep it up they did, andjust at sunset, one sharp autumn evening, away up in the mountains, theadvance caught sight of the cattle grazing along the shores of a placidlittle lake, and, in less time than it takes to write it, Mr. Billingsand his command tore down upon the quarry, and, leaving a few men to"round up" the herd, were soon engaged in a lively running fight withthe fleeing Apaches which lasted until dark, when the trumpet soundedthe recall, and, with horses somewhat blown, but no casualties ofimportance, the command reassembled and marched back to thegrazing-ground by the lake. Here a hearty supper was served out, thehorses were rested, then given a good "feed" of barley, and at teno'clock Mr. Billings with his second lieutenant and some twenty menpushed ahead in the direction taken by the Indians, leaving the rest ofthe men under experienced non-commissioned officers to drive the cattleback to the valley.

  That night the conduct of the Apache Yuma scouts was incomprehensible.Nothing would induce them to go ahead or out on the flanks; they coweredabout the rear of column, yet declared that the enemy could not behereabouts. At two in the morning Mr. Billings found himself wellthrough a pass in the mountains, high peaks rising to his right andleft, and a broad valley in front. Here he gave the order to unsaddleand camp for the night.

  At daybreak all were again on the alert: the search for the trail wasresumed. Again the Indians refused to go out without the troops; but themen themselves found the tracks of Tonto moccasins along the bed of alittle stream purling through the canyon, and presently indications thatthey had made the ascent of the mountain to the south. Leaving a guardwith his horses and pack-mules, the lieutenant ordered up his men, andsoon the little command was silently picking its w
ay through rock andboulder, scrub-oak and tangled juniper and pine. Rougher and steepergrew the ascent; more and more the Indians cowered, huddling together inrear of the soldiers. Twice Mr. Billings signalled a halt, and, with hissergeants, fairly drove the scouts up to the front and ordered them tohunt for signs. In vain they protested, "No sign,--no Tonto here," theirvery looks belied them, and the young commander ordered the search to becontinued. In their eagerness the men soon leaped ahead of the wretchedallies, and the latter fell back in the same huddled group as before.

  After half an hour of this sort of work, the party came suddenly upon apoint whence it was possible to see much of the face of the mountainthey were scaling. Cautioning his men to keep within the concealmentafforded by the thick timber, Mr. Billings and his comrade-lieutenantcrept forward and made a brief reconnoissance. It was evident at aglance that the farther they went the steeper grew the ascent and themore tangled the low shrubbery, for it was little better, until, nearthe summit, trees and underbrush, and herbage of every description,seemed to cease entirely, and a vertical cliff of jagged rocks stoodsentinel at the crest, and stretched east and west the entire length ofthe face of the mountain.

  "By Jove, Billings! if they are on top of that it will be a nasty placeto rout them out of," observed the junior.

  "I'm going to find out where they are, anyhow," replied the other. "Nowthose infernal Yumas have _got_ to scout, whether they want to or not.You stay here with the men, ready to come the instant I send or signal."

  In vain the junior officer protested against being left behind; he wasdirected to send a small party to see if there were an easier way up thehill-side farther to the west, but to keep the main body there inreadiness to move whichever way they might be required. Then, withSergeant O'Grady and the reluctant Indians, Mr. Billings pushed up tothe left front, and was soon out of sight of his command. For fifteenminutes he drove his scouts, dispersed in skirmish order, ahead of him,but incessantly they sneaked behind rocks and trees out of his sight;twice he caught them trying to drop back, and at last, losing allpatience, he sprang forward, saying, "Then _come_ on, you whelps, if youcannot lead," and he and the sergeant hurried ahead. Then the Yumashuddled together again and slowly followed.

  Fifteen minutes more, and Mr. Billings found himself standing on theedge of a broad shelf of the mountain,--a shelf covered with hugeboulders of rock tumbled there by storm and tempest, riven bylightning-stroke or the slow disintegration of nature from the bare,glaring, precipitous ledge he had marked from below. East and west itseemed to stretch, forbidding and inaccessible. Turning to the sergeant,Mr. Billings directed him to make his way off to the right and see ifthere were any possibility of finding a path to the summit; then lookingback down the side, and marking his Indians cowering under the treessome fifty yards away, he signalled "come up," and was about movingfarther to his left to explore the shelf, when something went whizzingpast his head, and, embedding itself in a stunted oak behind him, shookand quivered with the shock,--a Tonto arrow. Only an instant did he seeit, photographed as by electricity upon the retina, when with a sharpstinging pang and whirring "whist" and thud a second arrow, betteraimed, tore through the flesh and muscles just at the outer corner ofhis left eye, and glanced away down the hill. With one spring he gainedthe edge of the shelf, and shouted to the scouts to come on. Even as hedid so, bang! bang! went the reports of two rifles among the rocks, and,as with one accord, the Apache Yumas turned tail and rushed back downthe hill, leaving him alone in the midst of hidden foes. Stung by thearrow, bleeding, but not seriously hurt, he crouched behind a rock, withcarbine at ready, eagerly looking for the first sign of an enemy. Thewhiz of another arrow from the left drew his eyes thither, and quick asa flash his weapon leaped to his shoulder, the rocks rang with itsreport, and one of the two swarthy forms he saw among the boulderstumbled over out of sight; but even as he threw back his piece toreload, a rattling volley greeted him, the carbine dropped to theground, a strange, numbed sensation had seized his shoulder, and hisright arm, shattered by a rifle-bullet, hung dangling by the flesh,while the blood gushed forth in a torrent.

  Defenceless, he sprang back to the edge; there was nothing for it nowbut to run until he could meet his men. Well he knew they would betearing up the mountain to the rescue. Could he hold out till then?Behind him with shout and yells came the Apaches, arrow and bulletwhistling over his head; before him lay the steep descent,--jaggedrocks, thick, tangled bushes: it was a desperate chance; but he triedit, leaping from rock to rock, holding his helpless arm in his lefthand; then his foot slipped: he plunged heavily forward; quickly thenerves threw out their signal for support to the muscles of theshattered member, but its work was done, its usefulness destroyed.Missing its support, he plunged heavily forward, and went crashing downamong the rocks eight or ten feet below, cutting a jagged gash in hisforehead, while the blood rained down into his eyes and blinded him; buthe struggled up and on a few yards more; then another fall, and,well-nigh senseless, utterly exhausted, he lay groping for hisrevolver,--it had fallen from its case. Then--all was over.

  Not yet; not yet. His ear catches the sound of a voice he knows well,--arich, ringing, Hibernian voice it is: "Lieutenant, _lieutenant_!_Where_ are ye?" and he has strength enough to call, "This way,sergeant, this way," and in another moment O'Grady, with blended anguishand gratitude in his face, is bending over him. "Oh, thank God you're notkilt, sir!" (for when excited O'Grady _would_ relapse into the brogue);"but are ye much hurt?"

  "Badly, sergeant, since I can't fight another round."

  "Then put your arm round my neck, sir," and in a second the littlePatlander has him on his brawny back. But with only one arm by which tosteady himself, the other hanging loose, the torture is inexpressible,for O'Grady is now bounding down the hill, leaping like a goat from rockto rock, while the Apaches with savage yells come tearing after them.Twice, pausing, O'Grady lays his lieutenant down in the shelter of somelarge boulder, and, facing about, sends shot after shot up the hill,checking the pursuit and driving the cowardly footpads to cover. Once hegives vent to a genuine Kilkenny "hurroo" as a tall Apache drops hisrifle and plunges head foremost among the rocks with his handsconvulsively clasped to his breast. Then the sergeant once more picks uphis wounded comrade, despite pleas, orders, or imprecations, and rusheson.

  "I cannot stand it, O'Grady. Go and save yourself. You _must_ do it. I_order_ you to do it." Every instant the shots and arrows whiz closer,but the sergeant never winces, and at last, panting, breathless, havingcarried his chief full three hundred yards down the rugged slope, hegives out entirely, but with a gasp of delight points down among thetrees:

  "Here come the boys, sir."

  Another moment, and the soldiers are rushing up the rocks beside them,their carbines ringing like merry music through the frosty air, and theApaches are scattering in every direction.

  "Old man, are you much hurt?" is the whispered inquiry hisbrother-officer can barely gasp for want of breath, and, reassured bythe faint grin on Mr. Billings's face, and a barely audible "Armbusted,--that's all; pitch in and use them up," he pushes on with hismen.

  In ten minutes the affair is ended. The Indians have been swept awaylike chaff; the field and the wounded they have abandoned are in thehands of the troopers; the young commander's life is saved; and then,and for long after, the hero of the day is Buxton's _bete noire_, "theworst man in the troop."

  VAN.

  He was the evolution of a military horse-trade,--one of those periodicalswappings required of his dragoons by Uncle Sam on those rare occasionswhen a regiment that has been dry-rotting half a decade in Arizona is atlast relieved by one from the Plains. How it happened that we of theFifth should have kept him from the clutches of those sharphorse-fanciers of the Sixth is more than I know. Regimental traditionhad it that we got him from the Third Cavalry when it came our turn togo into exile in 1871. He was the victim of some temporary malady at thetime,--one of those multitudinous ills to which horse-flesh is heir,--orhe never would hav
e come to us. It was simply impossible that anybodywho knew anything about horses should trade off such a promising youngracer so long as there remained an unpledged pay-account in theofficers' mess. Possibly the arid climate of Arizona had disagreed withhim and he had gone amiss, as would the mechanism of some of the bestwatches in the regiment, unable to stand the strain of anything so hotand high and dry. Possibly the Third was so overjoyed at getting out ofArizona on any terms that they would gladly have left their eye-teeth inpawn. Whatever may have been the cause, the transfer was an accomplishedfact, and Van was one of some seven hundred quadrupeds, of greater orless value, which became the property of the Fifth Regiment of Cavalry,U.S.A., in lawful exchange for a like number of chargers left in thestables along the recently-built Union Pacific to await the coming oftheir new riders from the distant West.

  We had never met in those days, Van and I. "Compadres" and chums as wewere destined to become, we were utterly unknown and indifferent to eachother; but in point of regimental reputation at the time, Van haddecidedly the best of it. He was a celebrity at head-quarters, I asubaltern at an isolated post. He had apparently become acclimated, andwas rapidly winning respect for himself and dollars for his backers; Iwas winning neither for anybody, and doubtless losing both,--they gotogether, somehow. Van was living on metaphorical clover down nearTucson; I was roughing it out on the rocks of the Mogollon. Each afterhis own fashion served out his time in the grim old Territory, and atlast "came marching home again;" and early in the summer of theCentennial year, and just in the midst of the great Sioux war of 1876,Van and I made each other's acquaintance.

  What I liked about him was the air of thoroughbred ease with which headapted himself to his surroundings. He was in swell society on theoccasion of our first meeting, being bestridden by the colonel of theregiment. He was dressed and caparisoned in the height of martialfashion; his clear eyes, glistening coat, and joyous bearing spoke ofthe perfection of health; his every glance and movement told of elasticvigor and dauntless spirit. He was a horse with a pedigree,--let aloneany self-made reputation,--and he knew it; more than that, he knew thatI was charmed at the first greeting; probably he liked it, possibly heliked me. What he saw in me I never discovered. Van, thoughdemonstrative eventually, was reticent and little given to verbalflattery. It was long indeed before any degree of intimacy wasestablished between us: perhaps it might never have come but for thestrange and eventful campaign on which we were so speedily launched.Probably we might have continued on our original status of dignified anddistant acquaintance. As a member of the colonel's household he couldhave nothing in common with me or mine, and his acknowledgment of theintroduction of my own charger--the cavalryman's better half--was ofthat airy yet perfunctory politeness which is of the club clubby.Forager, my gray, had sought acquaintance in his impulsive frontierfashion when summoned to the presence of the regimental commander, and,ranging alongside to permit the shake of the hand with which the colonelhad honored his rider, he himself had with equine confidence addressedVan, and Van had simply continued his dreamy stare over the springyprairie and taken no earthly notice of him. Forager and I had justjoined regimental head-quarters for the first time, as was evident, andwe were both "fresh." It was not until the colonel good-naturedlystroked the glossy brown neck of his pet and said, "Van, old boy, thisis Forager, of 'K' Troop," that Van considered it the proper thing toadmit my fellow to the outer edge of his circle of acquaintance. My graythought him a supercilious snob, no doubt, and hated him. He hated himmore before the day was half over, for the colonel decided to gallopdown the valley to look at some new horses that had just come, andinvited me to go. Colonels' invitations are commands, and we went,Forager and I, though it was weariness and vexation of spirit to both.Van and his rider flew easily along, bounding over the springyturf with long, elastic stride, horse and rider taking the rapidmotion as an every-day matter, in a cool, imperturbable,this-is-the-way-we-always-do-it style; while my poor old troop-horse, inanswer to pressing knee and pricking spur, strove with panting breathand jealously bursting heart to keep alongside. The foam flew from hisfevered jaws and flecked the smooth flank of his apparently unconsciousrival; and when at last we returned to camp, while Van, without a turnedhair or an abnormal heave, coolly nodded off to his stable, poorForager, blown, sweating, and utterly used up, gazed revengefully afterhim an instant and then reproachfully at me. He had done his best, andall to no purpose. That confounded clean-cut, supercilious beast hadworn him out and never tried a spurt.

  It was then that I began to make inquiries about that airy fellow Van,and I soon found he had a history. Like other histories, it may havebeen a mere codification of lies; but the men of the Fifth were ready toanswer for its authenticity, and Van fully looked the character theygave him. He was now in his prime. He had passed the age of tell-taleteeth and was going on between eight and nine, said the knowing ones,but he looked younger and felt younger. He was at heart as full of funand frolic as any colt, but the responsibilities of his positionweighed upon him at times and lent to his elastic step the grave dignitythat should mark the movements of the first horse of the regiment.

  And then Van was a born aristocrat. He was not impressive in point ofsize; he was rather small, in fact; but there was that in his bearingand demeanor that attracted instant attention. He was beautifullybuilt,--lithe, sinewy, muscular, with powerful shoulders and solidhaunches; his legs were what Oscar Wilde might have called poems, andwith better reason than when he applied the epithet to those of HenryIrving: they were straight, slender, and destitute of those heterodoxdevelopments at the joints that render equine legs as hideousdeformities as knee-sprung trousers of the present mode. His feet andpasterns were shapely and dainty as those of the _senoritas_ (only forpastern read ankle) who so admired him on _festa_ days at Tucson, andwho won such stores of _dulces_ from the scowling gallants who had withgenuine Mexican pluck backed the Sonora horses at the races. His colorwas a deep, dark chocolate-brown; a most unusual tint, but Van was proudof its oddity, and his long, lean head, his pretty little pointed ears,his bright, flashing eye and sensitive nostril, one and all spoke ofspirit and intelligence. A glance at that horse would tell the veriestgreenhorn that speed, bottom, and pluck were all to be found rightthere; and he had not been in the regiment a month before the knowingones were hanging about the Mexican sports and looking out for a chancefor a match; and Mexicans, like Indians, are consummate horse-racers.

  Not with the "greasers" alone had tact and diplomacy to be brought intoplay. Van, though invoiced as a troop-horse sick, had attracted theattention of the colonel from the very start, and the colonel hadspeedily caused him to be transferred to his own stable, where,carefully tended, fed, groomed, and regularly exercised, he speedilygave evidence of the good there was in him. The colonel rarely rode inthose days, and cavalry-duties in garrison were few. The regiment was inthe mountains most of the time, hunting Apaches, but Van had to beexercised every day; and exercised he was. "Jeff," the colonel'sorderly, would lead him sedately forth from his paddock every morningabout nine, and ride demurely off towards the quartermaster's stables inrear of the garrison. Keen eyes used to note that Van had a way ofsidling along at such times as though his heels were too impatient tokeep at their appropriate distance behind the head, and "Jeff's" hand onthe bit was very firm, light as it was.

  "Bet you what you like those 'L' Company fellows are getting Van intraining for a race," said the quartermaster to the adjutant one brightmorning, and the chuckle with which the latter received the remark wasan indication that the news was no news to him.

  "If old Coach don't find it out too soon, some of these swaggering_caballeros_ around here are going to lose their last winnings," was hisanswer. And, true to their cavalry instincts, neither of thestaff-officers saw fit to follow Van and his rider beyond the gate tothe _corrals_.

  Once there, however, Jeff would bound off quick as a cat, Van would bespeedily taken in charge by a squad of old dragoon sergeants, hiscavalry bridle and saddle ex
changed for a light racing-rig, and MasterMickey Lanigan, son and heir of the regimental saddle-sergeant, would behoisted into his throne, and then Van would be led off, all plungingimpatience now, to an improvised race-track across the _arroyo_, wherehe would run against his previous record, and where old horses from thetroop-stables would be spurred into occasional spurts with the champion,while all the time vigilant "non-coms" would be thrown out as picketsfar and near, to warn off prying Mexican eyes and give notice of thecoming of officers. The colonel was always busy in his office at thathour, and interruptions never came. But the race did, and more than onerace, too, occurring on Sundays, as Mexican races will, and well-nighwrecking the hopes of the garrison on one occasion because of thecolonel's sudden freak of holding a long mounted inspection on that day.Had he ridden Van for two hours under his heavy weight and housings thatmorning, all would have been lost. There was terror at Tucson when thecavalry trumpets blew the call for mounted inspection, full dress, thatplacid Sunday morning, and the sporting sergeants were well-nigh crazed.Not an instant was to be lost. Jeff rushed to the stable, and in fiveminutes had Van's near fore foot enveloped in a huge poultice, much toVan's amaze and disgust, and when the colonel came down,

  Booted and spurred and prepared for a ride,

  there stood Jeff in martial solemnity, holding the colonel's otherhorse, and looking, as did the horse, the picture of dejection.

  "What'd you bring me that infernal old hearse-horse for?" said thecolonel. "Where's Van?"

  "In the stable, dead lame, general," said Jeff, with face of woe, butwith diplomatic use of the brevet. "Can't put his nigh fore foot to theground, sir. I've got it poulticed, sir, and he'll be all right in a dayor two----"

  "Sure it ain't a nail?" broke in the colonel, to whom nails in the footwere sources of perennial dread.

  "Perfectly sure, general," gasped Jeff. "D--d sure!" he added, in a toneof infinite relief, as the colonel rode out on the broad parade."'Twould 'a' been nails in the coffins of half the Fifth Cavalry if it_had_ been."

  But that afternoon, while the colonel was taking his siesta, half thepopulace of the good old Spanish town of Tucson was making the air bluewith _carambas_ when Van came galloping under the string an easy winnerover half a score of Mexican steeds. The "dark horse" became anotoriety, and for once in its history head-quarters of the FifthCavalry felt the forthcoming visit of the paymaster to be an object ofindifference.

  Van won other races in Arizona. No more betting could be got against himaround Tucson; but the colonel went off on leave, and he was borroweddown at Camp Bowie awhile, and then transferred to Crittenden,--onlytemporarily, of course, for no one at head-quarters would part with himfor good. Then, when the regiment made its homeward march across thecontinent in 1875, Van somehow turned up at the _festa_ races atAlbuquerque and Santa Fe, though the latter was off the line of march bymany miles. Then he distinguished himself at Pueblo by winning ahandicap sweepstakes where the odds were heavy against him. And so itwas that when I met Van at Fort Hays in May, 1876, he was a celebrity.Even then they were talking of getting him down to Dodge City to runagainst some horses on the Arkansaw; but other and graver matters turnedup. Van had run his last race.

  Early that spring, or rather late in the winter, a powerful expeditionhad been sent to the north of Fort Fetterman in search of the hostilebands led by that dare-devil Sioux chieftain Crazy Horse. On "Patrick'sDay in the morning," with the thermometer indicating 30 deg. below, andin the face of a biting wind from the north and a blazing glare from thesheen of the untrodden snow, the cavalry came in sight of the Indianencampment down in the valley of Powder River. The fight came off thenand there, and, all things considered, Crazy Horse got the best of it.He and his people drew away farther north to join other roving bands.The troops fell back to Fetterman to get a fresh start; and when springfairly opened, old "Gray Fox," as the Indians called General Crook,marched a strong command up to the Big Horn Mountains, determined tohave it out with Crazy Horse and settle the question of supremacy beforethe end of the season. Then all the unoccupied Indians in the Northdecided to take a hand. All or most of them were bound by treatyobligations to keep the peace with the government that for years pasthad fed, clothed, and protected them. Nine-tenths of those who rushed tothe rescue of Crazy Horse and his people had not the faintest excusefor their breach of faith; but it requires neither eloquence nor excuseto persuade the average Indian to take the war-path. The reservationswere beset by vehement old strifemongers preaching a crusade against thewhites, and by early June there must have been five thousand eager youngwarriors, under such leaders as Crazy Horse, Gall, Little Big Man, andall manner of Wolves, Bears, and Bulls, and prominent amongthe later that head-devil, scheming, lying, wire-pulling,big-talker-but-no-fighter, Sitting Bull,--"Tatanka-e-Yotanka",--fivethousand fierce and eager Indians, young and old, swarming through theglorious upland between the Big Horn and the Yellowstone, and morea-coming.

  Crook had reached the head-waters of Tongue River with perhaps twelvehundred cavalry and infantry, and found that something must be done toshut off the rush of reinforcements from the southeast. Then it was thatwe of the Fifth, far away in Kansas, were hurried by rail through Denverto Cheyenne, marched thence to the Black Hills to cut the trails fromthe great reservations of Red Cloud and Spotted Tail to the disputedground of the Northwest; and here we had our own little personal tusslewith the Cheyennes, and induced them to postpone their further progresstowards Sitting Bull and to lead us back to the reservation. It washere, too, we heard how Crazy Horse had pounced on Crook's columns onthe bluffs of the Rosebud that sultry morning of the 17th of June andshowed the Gray Fox that he and his people were too weak in numbers tocope with them. It was here, too, worse luck, we got the tidings of thedread disaster of the Sunday one week later, and listened in awedsilence to the story of Custer's mad attack on ten times his weight infoes--and the natural result. Then came our orders to hasten to thesupport of Crook, and so it happened that July found us marching for thestoried range of the Big Horn, and the first week in August landed us,blistered and burned with sun-glare and stifling alkali-dust, in thewelcoming camp of Crook.

  Then followed the memorable campaign of 1876. I do not mean to tell itsstory here. We set out with ten days' rations on a chase that lasted tenweeks. We roamed some eighteen hundred miles over range and prairie,over "bad lands" and worse waters. We wore out some Indians, a good manysoldiers, and a great many horses. We sometimes caught the Indians, andsometimes they caught us. It was hot, dry summer weather when we leftour wagons, tents, and extra clothing; it was sharp and freezing beforewe saw them again; and meantime, without a rag of canvas or any coveringto our backs except what summer-clothing we had when we started, we hadtramped through the valleys of the Rosebud, Tongue, and Powder Rivers,had loosened the teeth of some men with scurvy before we struck theYellowstone, had weeded out the wounded and ineffective there and sentthem to the East by river, had taken a fresh start and gone rapidly onin pursuit of the scattering bands, had forded the Little Missouri nearwhere the Northern Pacific now spans the stream, run out of rationsentirely at the head of Heart River, and still stuck to the trail andthe chase, headed southward over rolling, treeless prairies, and foreleven days and nights of pelting, pitiless rain dragged our waythrough the bad-lands, meeting and fighting the Sioux two lively daysamong the rocks of Slim Buttes, subsisting meantime partly on what gamewe could pick up, but mainly upon our poor, famished, worn-out,staggering horses. It is hard truth for cavalryman to tell, but thechoice lay between them and our boots and most of us had no boots leftby the time we sighted the Black Hills. Once there, we found provisionsand plenty; but never, I venture to say, never was civilized army insuch a plight as was the command of General George Crook when hisbrigade of regulars halted on the north bank of the Belle Fourche inSeptember, 1876. Officers and men were ragged, haggard, half starved,worn down to mere skin and bone; and the horses,--ah, well, only half ofthem were left: hundreds had dropped starved and exha
usted on the lineof march, and dozens had been killed and eaten. We had set out blitheand merry, riding jauntily down the wild valley of the Tongue. Westraggled in towards the Hills, towing our tottering horses behind us:they had long since grown too weak to carry a rider.

  Then came a leisurely saunter through the Hills. Crook bought up all theprovisions to be had in Deadwood and other little mining towns, turnedover the command to General Merritt, and hastened to the forts toorganize a new force, leaving to his successor instructions to come inslowly, giving horses and men time to build up. Men began "building up"fast enough; we did nothing but eat, sleep, and hunt grass for ourhorses for whole weeks at a time; but our horses,--ah, that wasdifferent. There was no grain to be had for them. They had been starvingfor a month, for the Indians had burned the grass before us wherever wewent, and here in the pine-covered hills what grass could be found wasscant and wiry,--not the rich, juicy, strength-giving bunch grass of theopen country. Of my two horses, neither was in condition to do militaryduty when we got to Whitewood. I was adjutant of the regiment, and hadto be bustling around a good deal; and so it happened that one day thecolonel said to me, "Well, here's Van. He can't carry my weight anylonger. Suppose you take him and see if he won't pick up." And thatbeautiful October day found the racer of the regiment, though the ghostof his former self, transferred to my keeping.

  All through the campaign we had been getting better acquainted, Van andI. The colonel seldom rode him, but had him led along with thehead-quarters party in the endeavor to save his strength. A big,raw-boned colt, whom he had named "Chunka Witko," in honor of the Sioux"Crazy Horse," the hero of the summer, had the honor of transporting thecolonel over most of those weary miles, and Van spent the long days onthe muddy trail in wondering when and where the next race was to comeoff, and whether at this rate he would be fit for a finish. One day onthe Yellowstone I had come suddenly upon a quartermaster who had a peckof oats on his boat. Oats were worth their weight in greenbacks, but sowas plug tobacco. He gave me half a peck for all the tobacco in mysaddle-bags, and, filling my old campaign hat with the precious grain, Isat me down on a big log by the flowing Yellowstone and told poor old"Donnybrook" to pitch in. "Donnybrook" was a "spare horse" when westarted on the campaign, and had been handed over to me after the fighton the War Bonnet, where Merritt turned their own tactics on theCheyennes. He was sparer still by this time; and later, when we got tothe muddy banks of the "Heecha Wapka," there was nothing to spare ofhim. The head-quarters party had dined on him the previous day, and onlygroaned when that Mark Tapley of a surgeon remarked that if this wasDonnybrook Fare it was tougher than all the stories ever told of it.Poor old Donnybrook! He had recked not of the coming woe that blissfulhour by the side of the rippling Yellowstone. His head was deep in mylap, his muzzle buried in oats; he took no thought for the morrow,--hewould eat, drink, and be merry, and ask no questions as to what was tohappen; and so absorbed were we in our occupation--he in his happiness,I in the contemplation thereof--that neither of us noticed the rapidapproach of a third party until a whinny of astonishment sounded closebeside us, and Van, trailing his lariat and picket-pin after him, cametrotting up, took in the situation at a glance, and, unhesitatinglyranging alongside his comrade of coarser mould and thrusting his velvetmuzzle into my lap, looked wistfully into my face with his great softbrown eyes and pleaded for his share. Another minute, and, despite thechurlish snappings and threatening heels of Donnybrook, Van was suppliedwith a portion as big as little Benjamin's, and, stretching myselfbeside him on the sandy shore, I lay and watched his enjoyment. Fromthat hour he seemed to take me into his confidence, and his was afriendship worth having. Time and again on the march to the LittleMissouri and southward to the Hills he indulged me with some slight butunmistakable proof that he held me in esteem and grateful remembrance.It may have been only a bid for more oats, but he kept it up long afterhe knew there was not an oat in Dakota,--that part of it, at least. ButVan was awfully pulled down by the time we reached the pine-barrens upnear Deadwood. The scanty supply of forage there obtained (at starvationprice) would not begin to give each surviving horse in the threeregiments a mouthful. And so by short stages we plodded along throughthe picturesque beauty of the wild Black Hills, and halted at last inthe deep valley of French Creek. Here there was grass for the horses andrest for the men.

  For a week now Van had been my undivided property, and was the object oftender solicitude on the part of my German orderly, "Preuss," andmyself. The colonel had chosen for his house the foot of a big pine-treeup a little ravine, and I was billeted alongside a fallen ditto a fewyards away. Down the ravine, in a little clump of trees, thehead-quarters stables were established, and here were gathered atnightfall the chargers of the colonel and his staff. Custer City, analmost deserted village, lay but a few miles off to the west, andthither I had gone the moment I could get leave, and my mission wasoats. Three stores were still open, and, now that the troops had comeswarming down, were doing a thriving business. Whiskey, tobacco, bottledbeer, canned lobster, canned anything, could be had in profusion, butnot a grain of oats, barley, or corn. I went over to a miner'swagon-train and offered ten dollars for a sack of oats. The bossteamster said he would not sell oats for a cent apiece if he had them,and so sent me back down the valley sore at heart, for I knew Van'seyes, those great soft brown eyes, would be pleading the moment I camein sight; and I knew more,--that somewhere the colonel had "made araise," that he _had_ one sack, for Preuss had seen it, and Chunka Witkohad had a peck of oats the night before and another that very morning.Sure enough, Van was waiting, and the moment he saw me coming up theravine he quit his munching at the scanty herbage, and, with ears erectand eager eyes, came quickly towards me, whinnying welcome and inquiryat the same instant. Sugar and hard-tack, delicacies he often fancied inprosperous times, he took from my hand even now; he was too truly agentleman at heart to refuse them when he saw they were all I had togive; but he could not understand why the big colt should have his oatsand he, Van, the racer and the hero of two months ago, should starve,and I could not explain it.

  That night Preuss came up and stood attention before my fire, where Isat jotting down some memoranda in a note-book:

  "Lieutenant, I kent shtaendt ut no longer yet. Dot scheneral's horse hegit oats ag'in diesen abent, unt Ven, he git noddings, unt he look, untlook. He ot dot golt unt den ot me look, unt I _couldn't_ shtaendt ut,lieutenant----"

  And Preuss stopped short and winked hard and drew his raggedshirt-sleeve across his eyes.

  Neither could I "shtaendt ut." I jumped up and went to the colonel andbegged a hatful of his precious oats, not for my sake, but for Van's."Self-preservation is the first law of nature," and your own horsebefore that of all the world is the cavalryman's creed. It was a heap toask, but Van's claim prevailed, and down the dark ravine "in thegloaming" Preuss and I hastened with eager steps and two hats full ofoats; and that rascal Van heard us laugh, and answered with impatientneigh. He knew we had not come empty-handed this time.

  Next morning, when every sprig and leaf was glistening in the brilliantsunshine with its frosty dew, Preuss led Van away up the ravine topicket him on a little patch of grass he had discovered the day beforeand as he passed the colonel's fire a keen-eyed old veteran of thecavalry service, who had stopped to have a chat with our chief, droppedthe stick on which he was whittling and stared hard at our attenuatedracer.

  "Whose horse is that, orderly?" he asked.

  "De _etschudant's_, colonel," said Preuss, in his labored dialect.

  "The adjutant's! Where did he get him? Why, that horse is a runner!"said "Black Bill," appreciatively.

  And pretty soon Preuss came back to me, chuckling. He had not smiled forsix weeks.

  "Ven--he veels pully dis morning," he explained. "Dot Colonel Royle heshpeak mit him unt pet him, unt Ven, he laeff unt gick up mit his hintlecks. He git vell bretty gwick yet."

  Two days afterwards we broke up our bivouac on French Creek, for everyblade of grass was eaten off, a
nd pushed over the hills to its nearneighbor, Amphibious Creek, an eccentric stream whose habit of divinginto the bowels of the earth at unexpected turns and disappearing fromsight entirely, only to come up surging and boiling some miles fartherdown the valley, had suggested its singular name. "It was half land,half water," explained the topographer of the first expedition that hadlocated and named the streams in these jealously-guarded haunts of thered men. Over on Amphibious Creek we were joined by a motley gang ofrecruits just enlisted in the distant cities of the East and sent out tohelp us fight Indians. One out of ten might know how to load a gun, butas frontier soldiers not one in fifty was worth having. But they broughtwith them capital horses, strong, fat, grain-fed, and these wecampaigners levied on at once. Merritt led the old soldiers and the newhorses down into the valley of the Cheyenne on a chase after somescattering Indian bands, while "Black Bill" was left to hammer therecruits into shape and teach them how to care for invalid horses. Twohandsome young sorrels had come to me as my share of the plunder, andwith these for alternate mounts I rode the Cheyenne raid, leaving Van tothe fostering care of the gallant old cavalryman who had been so struckwith his points the week previous.

  One week more, and the reunited forces of the expedition, Van and all,trotted in to "round up" the semi-belligerent warriors at the Red Cloudagency on White River, and, as the war-ponies and rifles of the scowlingbraves were distributed among the loyal scouts, and dethronedMachpealota (old Red Cloud) turned over the government of the greatSioux nation, Ogallallas and all, to his more reliable rival,Sintegaliska,--Spotted Tail,--Van surveyed the ceremony of abdicationfrom between my legs, and had the honor of receiving an especial pat andan admiring "_Washtay_" from the new chieftain and lord of the loyalSioux. His highness Spotted Tail was pleased to say that he wouldn'tmind swapping four of his ponies for Van, and made some further remarkswhich my limited knowledge of the Brule Dakota tongue did not enable meto appreciate as they deserved. The fact that the venerable chieftainhad hinted that he might be induced to throw in a spare squaw "to boot"was therefore lost, and Van was saved. Early November found us, after anall-summer march of some three thousand miles, once more within sightand sound of civilization. Van and I had taken station at Fort D. A.Russell, and the bustling prairie city of Cheyenne lay only three milesaway. Here it was that Van became my pet and pride. Here he lived hislife of ease and triumph, and here, gallant fellow, he met his knightlyfate.

  Once settled at Russell, all the officers of the regiment who wereblessed with wives and children were speedily occupied in getting theirquarters ready for their reception; and late in November my own littlehousehold arrived and were presented to Van. He was then domesticated ina rude but comfortable stable in rear of my little army-house, and therehe slept, was groomed and fed, but never confined. He had the run of ouryard, and, after critical inspection of the wood-shed, the coal-hole,and the kitchen, Van seemed to decide upon the last-named as hisfavorite resort. He looked with curious and speculative eyes upon ourdarky cook on the arrival of that domestic functionary, and seemed foronce in his life to be a trifle taken aback by the sight of her woollypate and Ethiopian complexion. Hannah, however, was duly instructed byher mistress to treat Van on all occasions with great consideration, andthis to Hannah's darkened intellect meant unlimited loaf-sugar. Theadjutant could not fail to note that Van was almost always to be seenstanding at the kitchen door, and on those rare occasions when hehimself was permitted to invade those premises he was never surprised tofind Van's shapely head peering in at the window, or head, neck, andshoulders bulging in at the wood-shed beyond.

  Yet the ex-champion and racer did not live an idle existence. He had hishours of duty, and keenly relished them. Office-work over atorderly-call, at high noon it was the adjutant's custom to return to hisquarters and speedily to appear in riding-dress on the front piazza. Atabout the same moment Van, duly caparisoned, would be led forth from hispaddock, and in another moment he and his rider would be flying offacross the breezy level of the prairie. Cheyenne, as has been said, layjust three miles away, and thither Van would speed with long, elasticstrides, as though glorying in his powers. It was at once his exerciseand his enjoyment, and to his rider it was the best hour of the day. Herode alone, for no horse at Russell could keep alongside. He rode atfull speed, for in all the twenty-four that hour from twelve to one wasthe only one he could call his own for recreation and for healthfulexercise. He rode to Cheyenne that he might be present at the event ofthe day,--the arrival of the trans-continental train from the East. Hesometimes rode beyond, that he might meet the train when it was belatedand race it back to town; and this--_this_ was Van's glory. The rollingprairie lay open and free on each side of the iron track, and Van soonlearned to take his post upon a little mound whence the coming of the"express" could be marked, and, as it flared into sight from thedarkness of the distant snow-shed, Van, all a-tremble with excitement,would begin to leap and plunge and tug at the bit and beg for the wordto go. Another moment, and, carefully held until just as the puffingengine came well alongside, Van would leap like arrow from the string,and away we would speed, skimming along the springy turf. Sometimes theengineer would curb his iron horse and hold him back against the"down-grade" impetus of the heavy Pullmans far in rear; sometimes hewould open his throttle and give her full head, and the long train wouldseem to leap into space, whirling clouds of dust from under the whirlingwheels, and then Van would almost tear his heart out to keep alongside.

  Month after month through the sharp mountain winter, so long as the snowwas not whirling through the air in clouds too dense to penetrate, Vanand his master had their joyous gallops. Then came the spring, slow,shy, and reluctant as the springtide sets in on that high plateau inmid-continent, and Van had become even more thoroughly domesticated. Henow looked upon himself as one of the family, and he knew thedining-room window, and there, thrice each day and sometimes at oddhours between, he would take his station while the household was attable and plead with those great soft brown eyes for sugar.Commissary-bills ran high that winter, and cut loaf-sugar was an item ofuntold expenditure. He had found a new ally and friend,--a little girlwith eyes as deep and dark as and browner than his own, a winsome littlemaid of three, whose golden, sunshiny hair floated about her bonny headand sweet serious face like a halo of light from another world. Van"took to her" from the very first. He courted the caress of her littlehand, and won her love and trust by the discretion of his movements whenshe was near. As soon as the days grew warm enough, she was always outon the front piazza when Van and I came home from our daily gallop, andthen she would trot out to meet us and be lifted to her perch on thepommel; and then, with mincing gait, like lady's palfrey, stepping asthough he might tread on eggs and yet not crush them, Van would take thelittle one on her own share of the ride. And so it was that the loyalfriendship grew and strengthened. The one trick he had was neverventured upon when she was on his back, even after she became accustomedto riding at rapid gait and enjoying the springy canter over the prairiebefore Van went back to his stable. It was a strange trick: it proved afatal one.

  No other horse I ever rode had one just like it. Running at full speed,his hoofs fairly flashing through the air and never seeming to touch theground, he would suddenly, as it were, "change step" and gallop"disunited," as we cavalrymen would say. At first I thought it must bethat he struck some rolling stone, but soon I found that when boundingover the soft turf it was just the same; and the men who knew him inthe days of his prime in Arizona had noted it there. Of course there wasnothing to do for it but make him change back as quick as possible onthe run, for Van was deaf to remonstrance and proof against the rebukeof spur. Perhaps he could not control the fault; at all events he didnot, and the effect was not pleasant. The rider felt a sudden jar, asthough the horse had come down stiff-legged from a hurdle-leap; andsometimes it would be so sharp as to shake loose the forage-cap upon hisrider's head. He sometimes did it when going at easy lope, but neverwhen his little girl-friend was on his back; th
en he went on springs ofair.

  One bright May morning all the different "troops," as thecavalry-companies are termed, were out at drill on the broad prairie.The colonel was away, the officer of the day was out drilling his owncompany, the adjutant was seated in his office hard at work overregimental papers, when in came the sergeant of the guard, breathlessand excited.

  "Lieutenant," he cried, "six general prisoners have escaped from theguard-house. They have got away down the creek towards town."

  In hurried question and answer the facts were speedily brought out. Sixhard customers, awaiting sentence after trial for larceny, burglary,assault with intent to kill, and finally desertion, had been cooped uptogether in an inner room of the ramshackle old wooden building thatserved for a prison, had sawed their way through to open air, and,timing their essay by the sound of the trumpets that told them the wholegarrison would be out at morning drill, had slipped through the gap atthe right moment, slid down the hill into the creek-bottom, and thenscurried off townward. A sentinel down near the stables had caught sightof them, but they were out of view long before his shouts had summonedthe corporal of the guard.

  No time was to be lost. They were malefactors and vagabonds of the worstcharacter. Two of their number had escaped before and had made it theirboast that they could break away from the Russell guard at any time.Directing the sergeant to return to his guard, and hurriedly scribblinga note to the officer of the day, who had his whole troop with him inthe saddle out on the prairie, and sending it by the hand of thesergeant-major, the adjutant hurried to his own quarters and called forVan. The news had reached there already. News of any kind travels likewildfire in a garrison, and Van was saddled and bridled before theadjutant reached the gate.

  "Bring me my revolver and belt,--quick," he said to the servant, as heswung into saddle. The man darted into the house and came back with thebelt and holster.

  "I was cleaning your 'Colt,' sir," he said, "but here's the Smith &Wesson," handing up the burnished nickel-plated weapon then in useexperimentally on the frontier. Looking only to see that freshcartridges were in each chamber and that the hammer was on thesafety-notch, the adjutant thrust it into the holster, and in an instanthe and Van flew through the east gate in rapid pursuit.

  Oh, how gloriously Van ran that day! Out on the prairie the gay guidonsof the troops were fluttering in the brilliant sunshine; here, there,everywhere, the skirmish-lines and reserves were dotting the plain; theair was ringing with the merry trumpet-calls and the stirring words ofcommand. Yet men forgot their drill and reined up on the line to watchVan as he flashed by, wondering, too, what could take the adjutant offat such an hour and at such a pace.

  "What's the row?" shouted the commanding officer of one company.

  "Prisoners loose," was the answer shouted back, but only indistinctlyheard. On went Van like one inspired, and as we cleared the drill-groundand got well out on the open plain in long sweeping curve, we changedour course, aiming more to the right, so as to strike the valley west ofthe town. It was possible to get there first and head them off. Thensuddenly I became aware of something jolting up and down behind me. Myhand went back in search: there was no time to look: the prairie justhere was cut up with little gopher-holes and criss-crossed by tinycanals from the main _acequia_, or irrigating ditch. It was thatwretched Smith & Wesson bobbing up and down in the holster. The Coltrevolver of the day was a trifle longer, and my man in changing pistolshad not thought to change holsters. This one, made for the Colt, was toolong and loose by half an inch, and the pistol was pounding up and downwith every stride. Just ahead of us came the flash of the sparklingwater in one of the little ditches. Van cleared it in his stride with noeffort whatever. Then, just beyond,--oh, fatal trick!--seemingly when inmid-air he changed step, striking the ground with a sudden shock thatjarred us both and flung the downward-pointed pistol up against theclosely-buttoned holster-flap. There was a sharp report, and my heartstood still an instant. I knew--oh, well I knew it was the death-note ofmy gallant pet. On he went, never swaying, never swerving, neverslackening his racing speed; but, turning in the saddle and glancingback, I saw, just back of the cantle, just to the right of the spine inthe glossy brown back, that one tiny, grimy, powder-stained hole. I knewthe deadly bullet had ranged downward through his very vitals. I knewthat Van had run his last race, was even now rushing towards a goal hewould never reach. Fast as he might fly, he could not leave Deathbehind.

  The chase was over. Looking back, I could see the troopers alreadyhastening in pursuit, but we were out of the race. Gently, firmly I drewthe rein. Both hands were needed, for Van had never stopped here, andsome strange power urged him on now. Full three hundred yards he ranbefore he would consent to halt. Then I sprang from the saddle and ranto his head. His eyes met mine. Soft and brown, and larger than ever,they gazed imploringly. Pain and bewilderment, strange, wistfulpleading, but all the old love and trust, were there as I threw my armsabout his neck and bowed his head upon my breast. I could not bear tomeet his eyes. I could not look into them and read there the deadly painand faintness that were rapidly robbing them of their lustre, but thatcould not shake their faith in his friend and master. No wonder minegrew sightless as his own through swimming tears. I who had killed himcould not face his last conscious gaze.

  One moment more, and, swaying, tottering first from side to side, poorVan fell with heavy thud upon the turf. Kneeling, I took his head in myarms and strove to call back one sign of recognition; but all that wasgone. Van's spirit was ebbing away in some fierce, wild dream: hisglazing eyes were fixed on vacancy; his breath came in quick, convulsivegasps; great tremors shook his frame, growing every instant moreviolent. Suddenly a fiery light shot into his dying eyes. The old highmettle leaped to vivid life, and then, as though the flag had dropped,the starting-drum had tapped, Van's fleeting spirit whirled into hisdying race. Lying on his side, his hoofs flew through the air, hispowerful limbs worked back and forth swifter than ever in their swiftestgallop, his eyes were aflame, his nostrils wide distended, his chestheaving, and his magnificent machinery running like lightning. Only fora minute, though,--only for one short, painful minute. It was only ahalf-mile dash,--poor old fellow!--only a hopeless struggle against arival that never knew defeat. Suddenly all ceased as suddenly as allbegan. One stiffening quiver, one long sigh, and my pet and pride wasgone. Old friends were near him even then. "I was with him when he wonhis first race at Tucson," said old Sergeant Donnelly, who had ridden toour aid, "and I knowed then he would die racing."

  THE END.

  PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.

  Transcriber's note

  Some of the spellings and hyphenations in the original are unusual;they have not been changed. Minor punctuation errors have been correctedwithout notice. A few obvious typographical errors have beencorrected and are listed below.

  Page 107: "would he hurried to their support" changed to "would behurried to their support".

  Page 160: "See knew how her father trusted" changed to "She knew how herfather trusted".

  Page 197: "The car-seems whirling" changed to "The car seems whirling".

  Page 227: "jagged rocks stook" changed to "jagged rocks stood".

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