it
and by God! he won't fail."

As the shades of the cold winter evening crept silently over the earth,
the firing died away, and the command settled down to another night of
the tensest anxiety and watching. Oh! why didn't those northern
regiments come? Did Hogan succeed in his perilous mission? Depressed
indeed were the spirits of the officers and men.

About nine o'clock Lieutenant Tracy, the adjutant, was sitting beside
his chief, who was apparently asleep. Suddenly, Colonel Clarke sat up
and grabbing Tracy by the arm said, "Hark! what's that noise I hear?"

"Nothing sir, nothing," replied Tracy; "lie down Colonel and try to
rest, you need it sir"--and then aside--"poor old chap, his mind's
wandering."

"No, no, Tracy. Listen man, don't you hear it? It sounds like the beat
of many horses' hoofs, re-enforcements are coming, thank God. Hogan got
through."

Just then, Crash! Bang! and a clear voice rang out, "Right front into
line, gallop, March! _Charge!_" and those sturdy chaps of the 11th
Cavalry true to their regimental hatred for the Indians, charged down
among the red men scattering them like so much chaff. Then to the
northwards was heard another ringing cheer, and the two long-delayed
regiments came down among the Indians like a thunderbolt of vengeance.
Truly, "It never rains but it pours." The 29th, all that was left of it,
was saved, and when Colonel Foster leaned over the prostrate form of his
old friend and comrade, Colonel Clarke feebly asked, "Where is that
brave little chap, Hogan?"

"Hogan? Who is Hogan?" asked Foster.

"Why, my God, man, Hogan was the man that got beyond the Indian lines to
make the ride to inform you of our plight. Didn't you see him?"

"No, I didn't see him," and then Colonel Foster related how the
information had reached him.

A rescuing party was started out and in the pale moonlight they came
upon the body of poor Denny lying stark and stiff under the telegraph
line, his left hand grasping the instrument and the key open. A bullet
hole in his head mutely told how he had met his death. Beside him lay
the Indian, dead, one hand grasping Hogan's scalp lock, the other
clasping a murderous-looking knife. Death had mercifully prevented the
accomplishment of his hellish purpose.

Hogan's shot had mortally wounded the Indian in the left breast, but
with all the vengeful nature of his race, he had crawled forward on his
hands and knees, and while Hogan was intent on sending