of its unenclosed limits there flows a
rapid-running stream, down in whose barren valley are placed the long
unsightly wooden stables, the big square corrals for quartermaster's
stock, the huge stacks of hay and straw, and vast piles of cord-wood.
Farther east along this tortuous stream, and on its left bank, too,
midway between fort and city, is another big brown enclosure, in which
are dozens of sheds and storehouses. It is a great supply depot for
quartermaster's stores and ordnance, and over it, as over the fort,
flutters the little patch of color which stamps the property as Uncle
Sam's. For reasons that can soon be explained only small-sized flags are
ever hoisted near Cheyenne. By noon of three hundred days a year,
straight from the wild pass to the west, there comes sweeping down a
gale that would snap the stoutest flag-staff into flinders, and that
whips even a storm-flag threadbare in a few brief weeks.

But it is a rare June morning now, too early for the "zephyr," and
nature beams and sparkles even over such bare landscape. The air is
crisp, cool, invigorating. Far out on the slopes and side hills great
herds of horses and mules are grazing, guarded by vigilant troopers,
some alert in saddle, others prone upon the turf. Out along the road
from town comes a train of white-covered wagons slowly crawling
northward, with stores and supplies for the army up in the Indian
country, and down here to our right front, covering the flat between
fort and depot, blocked out in regular rows and groups, dotting the
plain with gleaming canvas, is the camp of the --th regiment of cavalry.
For the first time since the war of the rebellion two-thirds of its
entire strength is massed under command of its senior officer.

Morning mounted drill is just over, and the two battalions, having
unsaddled and turned the horses out to graze, are now busily occupied
about the camp. The soft notes of the trumpet sounding "Officer's Call"
has drawn to the colonel's tent a knot of tanned and athletic men in
rough field uniform and bristling beards. Those who best know the --th
will be quicker to recognize old friends in this guise than when in the
glitter of parade uniform or the accurate and irreproachable evening
dress of civilization. There is not a man in the group who is not quite
at his ease in ball-room attire; most of them have held acquaintance
time and again with the white tie and stiff "choker" of conventionality,
but the averag