o further instructions until we deploy. Captain Calhoun, just
a word, please."

The officer thus directly addressed, a handsome, stalwart man of middle
age, reined in his mettlesome horse and waited.

"Captain, the messenger who has just brought us despatches from
Cheyenne is a civilian, but has requested permission to have a share in
this coming fight. I have assigned him to your troop."

Calhoun bowed.

"I thought it best to spare you any possible embarrassment by saying
that the man is not entirely unknown to you."

"May I ask his name?"

"Robert Nolan."

The strong, lion-like face flushed under its tan, then quickly lit up
with a smile. "I thank you. Captain Nolan will not suffer at my
hands."

He rode straight toward his troop, his eyes searching the ranks until
they rested upon the averted face of Hampton. He pressed forward, and
leaned from the saddle, extending a gauntleted hand. "Nolan, old man,
welcome back to the Seventh!"

For an instant their eyes met, those of the officer filled with manly
sympathy, the other's moistened and dim, his face like marble. Then
the two hands clasped and clung, in a grip more eloquent than words.
The lips of the disgraced soldier quivered, and he uttered not a word.
It was Calhoun who spoke.

"I mean it all, Nolan. From that day to this I have believed in
you,--have held you friend."

For a moment the man reeled; then, as though inspired by a new-born
hope, he sat firmly erect, and lifted his hand in salute. "Those are
words I have longed to hear spoken for fifteen years. They are more to
me than life. May God help me to be worthy of them. Oh, Calhoun,
Calhoun!"

For a brief space the two remained still and silent, their faces
reflecting repressed feeling. Then the voice of command sounded out in
front; Calhoun gently withdrew his hand from the other's grasp, and
with bowed head rode slowly to the front of his troop.

In column of fours, silent, with not a canteen rattling, with scabbards
thrust under their stirrup leathers, each man sitting his saddle like a
statue, ready carbine flung forward across the pommel, those sunburnt
troopers moved steadily down the broad _coulee_. There was no pomp, no
sparkle of gay uniforms. No military band rode forth to play their
famous battle tune of "Garryowen"; no flags waved above to inspire
them, yet never before or since to a field of strife and death rode
nobler hearts or truer. Troop following troop, the