t, would have leveled the shack with the ground, but the
mournful plight of his predecessor, condemned for not preventing what
Stone would almost precipitate, gave him timely pause. Sandy might have
sallied forth and shot somebody not feminine, but Sandy was still in
arrest. The paymaster had come and gone. So had most of the money; so,
worse luck, after two days of salooning, had gone no less than fifty of
the garrison. In nearly two years Minneconjou had not had as many
desertions as resulted from those two days.

But, sorrowful to relate, among the first to go and the last to be heard
from were two of Priscilla's trusties--gone no man could say
whither--and in addition to this catastrophe something had strangely,
surely gone amiss with her paragon, Blenke--Blenke the scholarly, Blenke
the writer and linguist--and Priscilla's world was reeling under her
well-shod feet.

To begin with, how came Blenke, the impeccable, the would-be candidate
for transfer to the cavalry and aspirant for commission, to be
sojourning even for an hour at so disreputable a spot as Skidmore's?
Blenke, it will be remembered, had a forty-eight hour pass to enable him
to visit Rapid City on important personal business. Blenke was supposed
to have taken the westbound Flyer on Monday--the Flyer that flew five
hours late. Blenke was supposed to be spending all Tuesday, or most of
it, in the heart of the Hills. Blenke was not due at the post until the
afternoon of Wednesday, and was not expected to leave Rapid City until
Wednesday morning; yet here he was, of all places in the world, at that
hog ranch on Tuesday night. Stone sent a patrol over at 1 A. M. with a
spare horse and invitation for Private Blenke to return at once and
account for his eccentric orbit at office hours in the morning. The
patrol trotted over, nothing loath, but Blenke had disappeared. "Gone to
town for a doctor," said the abandoned few still groping about the
smoldering ruins. So the patrol returned without him. It was represented
that Blenke had scorched his face, singed off his eyebrows and burned
his hands in his gallant essay to save the women. But this was all
hearsay evidence.

When Blenke did appear on Wednesday afternoon his hands were bandaged,
his face was disfigured a bit, but his eyes were as deep and mournful,
his dignity and self-poise quite as unimpeachable, as before. He seemed
grieved, indeed, that his captain and colonel both so sharply questioned
him. He