nd
though three warriors,--one of them raging and clamoring for further
attempt despite his wounds,--hovered about the retiring party, Blake and
his fellows within another hour were in sight of the sheltering walls of
Frayne; and, after a last, long-range swapping of shots, with Blake and
Meisner footing it most of the way, led their crippled mounts in safety
toward that Rubicon of the West--the swift flowing Platte. They were
still three miles out when Blake found leisure to examine the contents
of that beaded pouch, and the first thing drawn from its depths was
about the last a Christian would think to find in the wallet of a
Sioux--a dainty little billet, scented with wood violet,--an envelope of
delicate texture, containing a missive on paper to match, and the
envelope was addressed in a strange, angular, characteristic hand that
Blake recognized at once, to a man of whom, by that name at least, he
had never heard before:

"MR. RALPH MOREAU,
"_En Ville._"

CHAPTER IX

BAD NEWS FROM THE FRONT

It might well be imagined that a man returning from such a morning's
work as had been Blake's could be excused from duty the rest of the day.
He and his little party had had a spirited running fight of several
hours with an evasive and most exasperating trio of warriors, better
mounted for swift work than were the troopers. He had managed eventually
to bring down one of the Indians who lingered a little too long within
short range of the carbines, but it was the pony, not the rider, that
they killed. Meanwhile other Indians had appeared on distant divides,
and one feathered brave had galloped down to meet his comrades, and fire
a few shots at the pursuing pale faces. But at no time, until near their
supports and far from the fort, had the Sioux halted for a hand to hand
fight, and Blake's long experience on the frontier had stood him in good
stead. He saw they were playing for one of two results;--either to lure
him and his fellows in the heat of pursuit far round to the northwest,
where were the united hundreds of Lame Wolf and Stabber stalking that
bigger game, or else to tempt Blake himself so far ahead of his fellows
as to enable them to suddenly whirl about, cut him off, and, three on
one, finish him then and there; then speed away in frenzied delight,
possessors of a long-coveted scalp.

They well knew Blake,--almost as well as they did Ray. Many a year he
had fought them throug