der
and the men still wait. There comes no further order from the heights.
Lee, with the sergeant, is now bending over faint footprints just
discernible in the pallid light.

Suddenly up he starts and gazes eagerly out to the west. The sergeant,
too, at the same instant, leaps towards his commander. Distant, but
distinct, two quick shots have been fired far over among those tumbling
buttes and ridges lying there against the horizon. Before either man
could speak or question, there comes another, then another, then two or
three in quick succession, the sound of firing thick and fast.

"It's a fight, sir, sure!" cries the sergeant, eagerly.

"To horse, then,--quick!" is the answer, as the two soldiers bound back
to the trail.

"Saddle up, men!" rings the order, shouted down the rocky flanks of the
ravine. There is instant response in the neigh of excited horses, the
clatter of iron-shod hoofs. Through the dim light the men go rushing,
saddles and bridles in hand, each to where he has driven his own picket
pin. Promptly the steeds are girthed and bitted. Promptly the men come
running back to the bivouac, seizing and slinging carbines, then leading
into line. A brief word of command, another of caution, and then the
whole troop is mounted and, following its leader, rides ghost-like up a
winding ravine that enters the canyon from the west and goes spurring to
the high plateau beyond. Once there the eager horses have ample room;
the springing turf invites their speed. "Front into line" they sweep at
rapid gallop, and then, with Lee well out before them, with carbines
advanced, with hearts beating high, with keen eyes flashing, and every
ear strained for sound of the fray, away they bound. There's a fight
ahead! Some one needs their aid, and there's not a man in all old "B"
troop who does not mean to avenge those new-made graves. Up a little
slope they ride, all eyes fixed on Lee. They see him reach the ridge,
sweep gallantly over, then, with ringing cheer, turn in saddle, wave his
revolver high in air, clap spur to his horse's flank and go darting down
the other side.

"Come _on_, lads!"

Ay, on it is! One wild race for the crest, one headland charge down the
slope beyond, and they are rolling over a band of yelling, scurrying,
savage horsemen, whirling them away over the opposite ridge, driving
them helter-skelter over the westward prairie, until all who escape the
shock of the onset or the swift bullet in the raging