t he had somebody to help
him bring in his pack-saddle.

The work of bringing in his luggage and taking care of his animals was
soon performed, and then George came back and began his letter. It took
him a long time to write it, for he wanted to make it one that would
produce an impression upon the person to whom it was addressed. It was
to Gus Robbins's father. It conveyed to that gentleman the information
that although his son was alive and in fair bodily health, he had
brought himself into serious trouble, having been detected in two
attempts at desertion, and unless his friends at home interested
themselves in his behalf he had a fair prospect of going to prison. If
Mr. Robbins would move in the matter he could easily procure the
culprit's discharge from the service, for he was a minor and had
enlisted without his father's consent; but if there was anything done it
must be done quickly, for it was probable that a court-martial would be
convened in a very few days. Having sealed and addressed the letter, he
bade the colonel good-night and went to bed, feeling satisfied that he
had done all he could for the unfortunate Gus.

George slept soundly, as he always did, but the morning gun and the
first notes of reveille awoke him. While he was making his toilet with
his usual care and deliberation--as we have said, his long intercourse
with river-dandies had made him very particular on this point--his
friend, Bob Owens, and the men who occupied the quarters with him, were
hurrying on their clothes in order to get into line in time to answer to
their names at roll-call. While they were dressing they talked, and this
was a portion of the conversation that took place between the corporal
and one of the colonel's orderlies--the same one who had been on duty
when Bob went in to report his arrival with the deserters.

"I say, Owens," exclaimed the orderly, "who was that nobby young officer
who came in with you last night? What is his name, and what rank does he
hold? I know he is green, for he didn't know enough to put on a
dress-coat before he went into the colonel's presence."

"His name is George Ackerman," answered Bob, "but he is not an officer;
he's a scout."

"'A scout'!" repeated the orderly in a tone of contempt. "He is a
pretty-looking scout, I must say. What does he know about life on the
Plains?"

"He knows a good deal more about it than anybody in this room, for he
was born right here in Texas," was the reply