uld know better than I, for--think of it!--I have never been
east of the Missouri since my babyhood," answers Wing. "Fan writes
that her aunt has a lovely house on what they call the North
Side,--near the great water-works at the lake front."

"I know the neighborhood well," says Drummond. "Chicago is as familiar
to me as San Francisco was to you. Only--I have no roof to call my own
anywhere, and as soon as Puss is married shall not have a relative or
friend on earth who is not much more deeply interested in somebody
else." And the senior lieutenant is lying on his back now, blinking up
at the rapidly scudding clouds. Presently he pulls the broad brim of
his campaign hat down over his eyes. "What do you hear from your
mother, Wing?"

"Nothing new. Bless the dear old lady! You should have seen her
happiness in Harvey. She could hardly bear to let the little fellow
out of her arms, and how she cried and clung to him when we parted at
the Oakland wharf! Poor little mother! She has never given up the hope
of seeing that scapegrace of an uncle of mine again."

"Has she ever heard how he tried to murder his nephew?" queries
Drummond, grimly.

"Never. Nor have we the faintest trace of him since the break up of
the old Morales gang at Fronteras. They went all to pieces after their
encounter with you and 'C' troop. What a chain of disasters! Lost
their leaders and three of their best men, lost their rendezvous at
Moreno's, lost horses and mules,--for what our men didn't get the
Apaches did,--and won absolutely nothing except the twenty-four-hour
possession of a safe they hadn't time to open. Whereas I got my
commission and my wife; Feeny, honorable wounds and mention and the
chevrons of a first sergeant; Costigan got his sergeant's stripes and
the medal of honor, Murphy his sergeantcy, Walsh and Latham medals
and corporalships; and the only fellow who didn't get a blessed thing
but scars was the commanding lieutenant,--your worthy self,--thanks to
wiseacres at Washington who say Indian fighting isn't war."

"Didn't I get a letter of thanks from the department commander?" grins
Drummond. "What else could I expect?"

"What else?" is Wing's impulsive rejoinder. Then, as though mindful of
some admonition, quieting at once and speaking in tone less
suggestive. "Well, in your case I suppose you can be content with
nothing, but bless me if I could." Then, suddenly rising and
respectfully touching his weather-beaten hat, he salut