field. It is simply the loss of _prestige_
among his fellow red men that he hates and dreads. Therefore, nothing
short of starvation or probable annihilation prompts him, as a rule, to
yield himself a prisoner. Stabber urged it rather than risk further
battle and further loss, but Stabber had long been jealous of the
younger chief, envied him his much larger following and his record as a
fighter, and Stabber, presumably, would be only too glad to see him
fallen from his high estate. They could then enjoy the hospitality of a
generous nation (a people of born fools, said the unreasoning and
unregenerate red man) all winter, and, when next they felt sufficiently
slighted to warrant another issue on the warpath, they could take the
field on equal terms. Lame Wolf, therefore, swore he'd fight to the
bitter end. Stabber swore he'd gather all his villagers, now herding
with those of Wolf; and, having segregated his sheep from the more
numerous goats, would personally lead them whither the white man could
not follow. At all events he made this quarrel the pretext for his
withdrawal with full five score fighting men, and Lame Wolf cursed him
roundly as the wretch deserved and, all short-handed now, with hardly
five hundred braves to back him, bent his energies to checking Henry's
column in the heart of the wild hill country.

And this was the situation when the general's first despatches were sent
in to Frayne,--this the last news to reach the garrison from the distant
front for five long days, and then one morning, when the snow was
sifting softly down, there came tidings that thrilled the little
community, heart and soul--tidings that were heard with mingled tears
and prayers and rejoicings, and that led to many a visit of
congratulation to Mrs. Hay, who, poor woman, dare not say at the moment
that she had known it all as much as twenty-four hours earlier, despite
the fact that Pete and Crapaud were banished from the roll of her
auxiliaries.

Even as the new couriers came speeding through the veil of falling
flakes, riding jubilantly over the wide-rolling prairie with their news
of victory and battle, the post commander at Fort Frayne was puzzling
over a missive that had come to him, he knew not how, mysterious as the
anarchists' warnings said to find their way to the very bedside of the
guarded Romanoffs. Sentry Number 4 had picked it up on his post an hour
before the dawn--a letter addressed in bold hand to Major Stanley F