his
apparently unjust accusation, Folsom had begged the quartermaster's
pardon and insisted on his coming with him and seeing the young people
before driving back to town. The horses were being groomed at the picket
line. The western sun was low. Long shadows were thrown out over the
sward and the air was full of life and exhilaration. The somber fears
that had oppressed the quartermaster an hour earlier were retiring
before a hope that then he dare not entertain.

"You--you stood by me like a trump, Burleigh," old Folsom was saying,
"even after I'd abused you like a thief. If I can ever do you a good
turn don't you fail to let me know."

And Burleigh was thinking then and there how desperately in need of a
good turn he stood that minute. What if Folsom would back him? What
if----

But as they came in full view of the picket line beyond the row of
tents, the major's eagerly searching gaze was rewarded by a sight that
gave him sudden pause. Halted and examining with almost professional
interest the good points of a handsome little bay, Lieutenant Loomis and
Jessie Dean were in animated chat. Halted and facing each other, he with
glowing admiration in his frank blue eyes, she with shy pleasure in her
joyous face, Dean and Elinor Folsom stood absorbed in some reminiscence
of which he was talking eagerly. Neither saw the coming pair. Neither
heard the rapid beat of bounding hoofs nearing them in eager haste.
Neither noted that a horseman reined in, threw himself from saddle and
handed Burleigh a telegraphic message which, with trembling hands, he
opened and then read with starting eyes.

"My heaven, Folsom!" he cried. "I ought to have known something was
coming when I got orders to have every mule and wheel ready.
Everything's to be rushed to the Big Horn at once. Just as you
predicted, Red Cloud's band has broken loose. There's been a devil of a
fight not eighty miles from Frayne!"

CHAPTER XIII.

And now indeed came for Marshall Dean a time in which he could see a
divided duty. A camp of woodchoppers in one of the deep, sequestered
valleys of the mountains had been suddenly set upon by a host of mounted
Indians that seemed, like the warriors born of the dragon's teeth, to
spring up from the earth, and yelling like fiends bore down upon the
little guard. Happily for the woodchoppers, but unluckily for Lo, the
commander was a cool-headed veteran of the late war who had listened
time and again to yells as fra