one of
these had formerly served an enlistment in Dwight's old regiment, the
--th. The adjutant was of opinion that he must have known Foster in
those days and might well have been one of quite a number of men, none
of whom liked and some of whom hated the imperious and abusive
lieutenant. The --th had had few of Foster's stamp since the days of
Canker and Gleason, and his case was therefore the more conspicuous. The
two officers were talking of this as slowly they strolled homeward up
the northwest side of the parade, when, faint and wind-buffeted, the
call of the sentry at the main gate caught their ears. No. 2 wanted the
corporal and No. 1 promptly echoed, although already the corporal was
going on the jump. There was a ring and vim to the cry that told its own
story. The sentry saw something that demanded instant attention. It was
not half a minute before the corporal came racing back to the
guard-house, nor a full minute before the bugler of the guard came
chasing in pursuit of the officer of the day. "A fire, sir," he cried,
"'way out beyond the Flats!"

Together the officers hastened eastward across the parade, and even
before they reached the gate the cause of the alarm became visible. The
low-hanging, swift-driven clouds blackening the valley were taking on a
lurid glare, and, once at the gate the fire could be distinctly seen.
"Well, if that isn't a blessing!" cried the adjutant gleefully. "It's
Skid's old hog ranch, as sure as you're born!"

It was useless, of course, to send aid even if aid had been desirable.
Ever since Silver Hill became the county seat and a mining town of much
importance, Skidmore's dive had been the bane of the community. Driven
from town by a vigilance committee made up of the best citizens, the
divekeeper had resumed business beyond the corporate limits and at a
point where he could draw custom from three different sources, the town,
the fort and the agency, for only a few miles beyond the Cheyenne were
the supply depot and buildings of the Minneconjou tribe, their brethren
of Brule being far over to the southeast and the Ogalallas at Red Cloud.
Many a desperate deed had been charged to the gang ever hovering about
these unsavory walls of Skidmore's, many a poor fellow had been beaten
and drugged and robbed, more than one good soldier had met his
death-blow in brutal affray beneath its grimy roof, and still it lived,
detested but unhampered. There was no good reason why the fort shou