be greatly felt, whoile I--I--well I haven't any wan, sir, and
besoides, I'm an Irishman, and you know, kurnel, an Irishman is a fool
for luck." This last was said with a broad grin.

Colonel Clarke was somewhat amazed at this speech, but he studied
reflectively, with knitted brows for a moment, and then said, "All
right, Hogan, I'll let you try it. Take my horse and start at three
o'clock in the morning. Do your best, my man, do your best; the lives of
the remainder of this command depend on your efforts. God be with you."

"If I fail kurnel, it will be because I'm dead, sir."

Shortly before three o'clock in the morning, Denny made ready for his
perilous ride. The horse's hoofs were carefully padded, ammunition and
revolver looked after, the pocket instrument fastened around his neck by
the wire, so if any accident happened to the horse he would not be
unnecessarily delayed, and all was ready. He gave his old bunkie a
farewell silent clasp of the hand and then started on his ride that
meant life or death to his comrades. The horse was a magnificent
Kentuckian and seemed to know what was required of him. Carefully and
slowly Hogan pushed his way to the place opposite the ravine, and then
giving his mount a light touch with the spurs, he took to the cold
water. The stream was filled with floating ice but was only about fifty
yards wide and in a few minutes he was safely over, and climbing up the
other bank through the ravine. Finally, the end was reached and he was
on high ground. Resting a minute to see if all was well, he started. So
far, so good, he was beyond the Indian lines. He was congratulating
himself on the promised success of his mission when all at once,
directly in front of him he saw the dim shadowy outlines of a mounted
Indian. Quick as a flash Denny pulled his revolver and another Indian
was soon in the happy hunting ground. This caused a general alarm and
Hogan knew he was in for it. Putting his spurs deep in his horse's
flanks away he went with the speed of the wind. A perfect swarm of
Indians came after him, yelling like fiends and shooting like demons.
On! on! he sped, seemingly bearing a charmed life because bullets
whizzed by him like hail. He was not idle, and when the opportunity
presented itself his revolver spoke and more than one Indian pony was
made riderless thereby.

Suddenly he felt a sharp stinging pain in his right shoulder, and but
for a convulsive grasp of the pommel with his bridl