, at
last, came to an abrupt end in a high meadow below the distant
river-bluffs.

For decades the road had been a buffalo-trail, a foot wide and half as
deep, that, in the dry season, guided the herds in single file from the
caking meadow to the distant waters of the Missouri; then the travee
poles of Indian tribes gave it the semblance of a wagon track, the
centre of which was worn bare by the hoofs of laden ponies and the feet
of trudging squaws; and, finally, the lumbering carts of traders, the
Studebakers of settlers, and those heavier wagons that roll in the rear
of marching men, made of the track a plain and hardened highway.

Down it, that morning, approaching to the accompaniment of loud talking,
the tramping of horses, the cracking of whips and the jingling of spurs,
came a long procession. Yet so absorbed was Dallas in her plowing that
not until the head of its column was close upon her and there was barely
time to go to the bridles of the frightened mules did she see it.

A tanned, unkempt officer led the way, with baying foxhounds running
about him. On either hand rode his staff, and his scouts--Arickaree
Indians, in patched breeches and dusty blankets. And behind,
full-bearded, all military look gone from their boots, hats and
uniforms, came the cavalry, riding two and two, and flying torn and
faded guidons.

Dallas had no chance to view the front of the command, for the mules
claimed all her attention by hauling back on their bits. But now they
quieted a little, and she was free to watch the dozen or so musicians
who came next, mounted, with their brass instruments in hand. She saw
that these men were nudging one another, and directing at her glances
which were bold and amused.

Something of her father's hatred of soldiers stirred her. She grew
defiant; yet only for a moment. The musicians trotted by, and now
Indians were passing--men, women and children, whose stolid faces
disclosed no hint of grief or hatred for their captivity. The braves,
twenty in number, formed the head of the band, and kept no order of
march as they spurred forward their ragged, foot-sore ponies. Their
Springfield rifles, knives and tomahawks had been taken from them, but
they still carried their once gay lances, and shields of buffalo-hide
covered with rude pictures of the chase and battle. But though on other
occasions these would have betokened the free warrior, they now only
emphasised by contrast the blankets that traile