r in the band
quarters, where there was the excitement that night. It was caused by
the snare drummer, a pugnacious young Celt, who burst in upon his
comrades at eleven o'clock with a loud defiance of "doughboy" justice,
and an oath that he know'd the man as shot Gleason and suspicioned Ray,
and he'd have him at the gallows yet.

Reporters and special correspondents had been at the fort interviewing
everybody who would talk and, after the manner of their kind, making the
dumb speak in a way that would put to the blush the miracles of holy
writ. There seemed but one theory among those in authority,--that Ray
was guilty. This was duly heralded to an eager public, and the evening
extra and the morning journals in columns of detail had prepared all
minds for the culprit's coming. A crowd that blocked the street had
gathered in front of the building in which were located the offices of
the marshal, the sheriff, and other legal magnates, and Ray's pale, sad
face looked out upon a host of curious eyes, in which his own, brave and
unflinching, caught not one gleam of sympathy. Deadwood Dick, a ruffian
who had murdered a soldier for his money, went in through that door-way
a fortnight before amid many shouts of encouragement and the buoyant
reflection that no local jury had yet found a verdict of guilty against
a citizen of Wyoming where the offence committed was against the peace
or property of Uncle Sam. But a jury that would triumphantly acquit the
self-styled "Scourge of Sandy Bottom" on the ground of temporary
insanity would be apt to look less leniently upon one of those swells at
the fort. Had there been a man to raise the _a la lanterne_ of rejoicing
democracy,--had not the murdered man been himself one of the official
class, Blake and his revolver would probably have stood alone between
the accused and lynching. As it was, but for the one faithful comrade of
all who had loved and believed in him, realizing it all, yet calm, sad,
and self-possessed, Ray stood at the bar of justice practically
friendless.

It was early when Mrs. Stannard came down from her room after an almost
sleepless night. First call for guard-mounting was just sounding as she
stepped out on the piazza and noted little knots of men here and there,
all gazing intently towards the east gate, where the dust as of a
recently passing vehicle was settling back to earth. She opened Mrs.
Truscott's door, and saw Marion Sanford slowly descending the stairs,