night. Can you promise?"

"I'll cut my tongue out before I ever spake the word that'll harm the
lieutenant, or the--the--or any one he says, sir. But never will I
forget! It ain't in me, sir."

"Let it go at that then. Here, shake hands, Kennedy. Now, good-night!"
Another instant and Field was in saddle and speeding away toward the
post where lights were now dancing about the quartermaster's corral, and
firefly lamps were flitting down the slope toward the stables on the
flats. Ray's men were already up and doing. Slowly, stiffly following,
Pat Kennedy rubbed his aching head, with a hand that shook as never did
his resolution. His bewildered brain was puzzling over a weighty
problem. "The lieutenant's safe all right," he muttered, "but what's
gone wid the squaw that was shoutin' Sioux at that murdherin' buck?"

Meantime all Fort Frayne had seemed to wake to life. No call had sounded
on the trumpet. No voice had been raised, save the invariable call of
the sentries, passing from post to post the half hours of the night; but
the stir at the guard-house, the bustle over at the barracks, the swift
footsteps of sergeants or orderlies on the plank walk or resounding
wooden galleries, speedily roused first one sleeper, then another, and
blinds began to fly open along the second floor fronts, and white-robed
forms to appear at the windows, and inquiring voices, male and female,
hailed the passerby with "What's the matter, sergeant?" and the answer
was all sufficient to rouse the entire garrison.

"Captain Ray's troop ordered out, sir," or "ma'am," as the case might
be. No need to add the well-worn cause of such night excursions--"Indians."

The office was brightly lighted, and there, sleepy-eyed and silent, were
gathered many of the officers about their alert commander. Ray was down
at his stables, passing judgment on the mounts. Only fifty were to go,
the best half hundred in the sorrel troop, for it was to be a forced
march. Neither horse nor man could be taken unless in prime condition,
for a break down on part of either on the way meant delay to the entire
command, or death by torture to the hapless trooper left behind. Small
hope was there of a march made unobserved, for Stabber's band of
Ogalallas had been for weeks encamped within plain view. Less hope was
there of Stabber's holding aloof now that his brethren at the Big Horn
had declared for war. He was a recalcitrant of the first magnitude, a
sub-chief who had neve