chase finally
vanish from their sight; and then, obedient to the ringing "recall" of
the trumpet, slowly they return, gathering again in the little ravine;
and there, wondering, rejoicing, jubilant, they cluster at the entrance
of a deep cleft in the rocks, where, bleeding from a bullet-wound in the
arm, but with a world of thankfulness and joy in his handsome face,
their leader stands, clasping Philip Stanley, pallid, faint, well-nigh
starved, but--God be praised!--safe and unscathed.

CHAPTER VIII.

CAPTURED.

How the tidings of that timely rescue thrill through every heart at old
Fort Warrener! There are gathered the wives and children of the
regiment. There is the colonel's home, silent and darkened for that one
long week, then ringing with joy and congratulation, with gladness and
thanksgiving. Miriam again is there, suddenly lifted from the depths of
sorrow to a wealth of bliss she had no words to express. Day and night
the little army coterie flocked about her to hear again and again the
story of Philip's peril and his final rescue, and then to exclaim over
Romney Lee's gallantry and devotion. It was all so bewildering. For a
week they had mourned their colonel's only son as dead and buried. The
wondrous tale of his discovery sounded simply fabulous, and yet was
simply true. Hurrying forward from the railway, the little party had
been joined by two young frontiersmen eager to obtain employment with
the scouts of Stanley's column. Halting just at sunset for brief rest at
Box Elder Springs, the lieutenant with Sergeant Harris had climbed the
bluffs to search for Indian signal fires. It was nearly dark when on
their return they were amazed to hear the sound of fire-arms in the
canyon, and were themselves suddenly attacked and completely cut off from
their comrades. Stanley's horse was shot; but Sergeant Harris, though
himself wounded, helped his young officer to mount behind him, and
galloped back into the darkness, where they evaded their pursuers by
turning loose their horse and groping in among the rocks. Here they hid
all night and all next day in the deep cleft where Lee had found them,
listening to the shouts and signals of a swarm of savage foes. At last
the sounds seemed to die away, the Indians to disappear, and then
hunger, thirst, and the feverish delirium of the sergeant, who was
tortured for want of water, drove Stanley forth in hopes of reaching
the canyon. Fired at, as he supposed, by India