his captain and two of his sergeants and was safely out of the troubles
that involved him at home. (He had been wise enough to confide these to
no one and to make poor Brannan swear to preserve his secret.) He was
beginning to hear from relations and receive money from them. He began
to put on airs over everybody, captain and all, and though Haney hated,
and was jealous of his influence, he dared not offend him. They knew it
was he who was seen prowling about Davies's quarters, but they could not
account for it, and strove to make it appear that Brannan was the
culprit. And then he began "sparking" Robideau's daughter in town, and
had become moody, nervous, excitable; talked about mysterious spies and
trailers, and then, suddenly and unaccountably, deserted after a spree
in Braska that had cost him much money,--after a mad scrape in which he
had terrified Mrs. Davies and thrashed Mr. Willett. Who he was or what
he was Sergeant Haney didn't know, but that he was a villain with a
history and a capacity for further devilment was certain. Haney had
still more to tell. The captain had sent for him and told him of the
adjutant's being in conference with the chaplain and Mr. Davies, and he
felt sure it was about the Antelope Springs matter. He was sure they had
his map, the one on which Archer based his report, and that this would
some day be brought up in evidence against him. It was locked for the
night in the second drawer of the adjutant's desk, said he, and Haney
understood. The drawer was chiselled that night and the map and papers
taken, but not until the robbery was known all over the post did the
captain see the map and see that it wasn't his original at all, but
simply a copy. Except for information obtained in the memoranda, they
had robbed the desk to no purpose.

Howard was gone before this, but there was Brannan's writing-case in
Haney's possession, why not throw further suspicion upon him? and so
there were the papers hidden in the hopes of further damning him should
he ever appear as a witness against them. For all this and much more the
poor dying sinner craved forgiveness, and, hearing promptly of the
confession, through Finucane, who had fled with horse, equipments, and
everything, Howard, in hiding and in want at Butte, wired to his
captain, hoping to extract more money, for Devers had been a thrifty,
and was regarded a wealthy, man.

And then when this confession had been made known to the wounded
sufferer the chaplain spoke. "You see the case that is building up
against you, Powlett, and just as soon as you are able to sit or stand
the court will meet for your trial. You have assault with intent to
kill, at Bluff Siding if not at Urbana, highway robbery, theft,
desertion, conspiracy, and kindred crimes to answer for; would it not be
infinitely better that you should confess fully and at once? Even the
men whom you have so bitterly wronged join in no clamor against--they
would even spare--you."

But Powlett was a villain game, and answered only with a sneer. It was
that packet of Mira's letters handed to Davies with his father's watch
that supplemented Brannan's story and told him all. Mira could not live
without adorers, could not resist the longing to flaunt her victims in
the faces of other girls, and Powlett was a conquest indeed until his
rascality at the institute became known. Then he had to flee, but such
was his infatuation that he returned in hopes of seeing her. She did
meet him in secret, for it was sweet to see his despair. She refused to
meet him again, however, and then he charged her with faithlessness and
demanded to be told the truth about Davies. If that fellow reappeared as
her lover he swore to kill him, and then she bade him go and never see
her more, with the result already known. And at Bluff Siding in the
crowd and confusion he might have killed Davies but for Brannan's
watchful eye and warding hand. That was the last pound that broke the
back of Brannan's feeling of friendship and gratitude. He would no more
of Powlett, yet remained true to his pledge of secrecy. Mira's dream of
joy and triumph as an army bride met its first rude shock when, under
her window at Scott, she heard stealthy footsteps and the soft, low
whistling of a familiar air, the signal with which he used to summon her
to their trysting-place at home. The mad fool thought either to recover
his ascendency over her or revenge himself by tormenting, and then, when
her husband was sent to the agency and he saw opportunity of meeting and
terrorizing her, he was infuriated with new jealousy by her flirtation
with Willett. Even there at Scott he must have written and made further
threats, for the freshest and newest of the precious collection of her
letters found in "Brannan's" case referred to something of the kind.
Driven to desperation, she wrote that she would expose him to her
husband and Captain Cranston if he again presumed to address her, and
finally wrote this last:

"My husband will be here within forty-eight hours and I have fully
resolved to confess all to him: that you, who made the cowardly assault
and left him for dead at Urbana, and have been guilty of such abominable
crimes, are here, in this garrison, a soldier in his troop. If you
remain it is at your peril. On my knees I swear it." And with this
melodramatic conclusion Mira had really frightened him. He had sense
enough to know that, with all the other complications in which he was
involved, this exposure was more than he could stand. He made other
efforts to see and plead with her, but they were fruitless, and his own
melodramatic _coup_,--his last appearance, as he supposed, before her
eyes, then followed. After that, desertion.

Davies read but two of these missives, the first and the last. He
restored them to her without a word. She was lying in the seclusion of
her shaded room at the hotel when he returned from the hospital, the
chaplain with him. They spoke few words together on the way, and parted
on the corridor, near her door, for there Davies turned and faced his
friend.

"And you must go back to Scott to-night, sir?"

"Yes." The chaplain was still grasping his hand and looking into the
sad, stern face with anxiety and tenderness and unspoken longing in his
eyes. "I will see to all you have charged me with." He placed his other
hand upon the broad shoulder before him. "My son, though I never met, I
knew, your father, and that told me what to look for in you." And now
the rich, deep voice was tremulous, and the kind old eyes were dim with
unshed tears. "The hand of the Lord has been laid in heaviness upon you,
but 'those whom He loveth He chasteneth.' Even could I lift the burden
of your sorrow as easily as I raise this hand, I should falter, because,
as I believe in God, so do I believe that through trial even such as
this your light shall yet shine before men so pure and strong that men
themselves shall be purer and stronger because of it."

There was a moment's pause. Davies stood with bowed head. Cranston,
coming into the hall-way, stopped at sight of them and tiptoed back,
motioning to others to wait. Then the chaplain spoke again,--

"You will write--as soon as--you have decided?"

"I have decided," was the low, calm answer.

"And----?"

"Yes, we go to-night. She is not too ill to move, and once at Urbana--no
one need know."

"Do you mean----?" began the chaplain.

"I mean," said Davies, looking calmly and with dry, tired eyes into the
chaplain's face, "that she is utterly alone in the world,--homeless,
friendless. Who knows but that her story may be true, despite
indications? What would be her fate if I were to fail her now? It was
'for better, for worse,' chaplain. I have tried to do my duty in the
past. God help me to do it to the end."

The tears were running down the old clergyman's face when, around the
corner, he came suddenly on Cranston and his friends, and they seemed to
understand.

There was a new post commander at Scott when the first snows fell that
winter, for honest Pegleg had retired and Leonard had a colonel after
his own heart, and the Fortieth sang songs of praise when the campaign
was over, and moved into quarters and renewed acquaintances with their
families and "assurances" with the Eleventh when they happened to meet
along the Union Pacific, and said they sorely missed them at the post,
as probably they did, but the Eleventh didn't care to go back. It was
too near civilization, said Truman. Tintop had his warriors under his
own wing after the close of the fighting season, and they were having
grand times at Ransom. There this winter were most of the familiar names
and faces. The Cranstons, Trumans, and Hays, Boynton, Hastings, and
Sanders, battle-scarred heroes, most of them, and dozens of others in
the congenial circle; but Margaret Cranston sorely missed her boys, who
were big enough now to be at school, and far too big to be staying
around garrison. She missed, too, their fair teacher and her friend, but
Agatha Loomis firmly told her she had decided not to return to the
frontier now that she no longer had her pupils. To the unspeakable
indignation and grief of her cousin, she had chosen what Margaret termed
"a life of drudgery" as a teacher in Mrs. Forester's seminary for young
ladies, only a few miles out of Chicago. Even there had Langston
followed, but in vain. That, however, was a subject on which Margaret
had promised to dilate no more. She had done her best, she said, for
Agatha. She had striven to aid and abet this distinguished and worthy
gentleman in his suit. She thought the difference of some twenty-five
years between his age and her cousin's a feeble consideration as against
his sterling worth and wealth. Agatha owned that she respected and
esteemed him highly,--looked up to him, in fact,--but as a maid of
twenty looks up to the man of forty-five. She did not love and therefore
would not marry him. The whole regiment seemed to feel for him, but he
came to them no more. He was East again, and seeking resignation in the
one safe solace, hard and constant work.

But the Davieses, where were they? Time and again was that question
asked. He hurried back for the grand chase they had in September when
Chief Joseph made his memorable rush cross continent. He left Mira at
Urbana installed in lodgings near her father's home. He went back to her
in December when the troops returned, and then came orders announcing
that Lieutenant Percy Davies, Eleventh Cavalry, was detailed on
temporary duty at division head-quarters. It was at this time that Aunt
Almira urgently offered him and her pretty niece, his wife, the
hospitality of her home, begging that he, her boy's friend and
fellow-soldier and admiration, should bring her and be their guest in
Chicago as long as they could possibly stay, and Aunt Almira was amazed
at the refusal, grateful, gentle, courteous though it was in every way.
Mira, junior, had been devoted to society when there before, was it
possible she had so soon tired of it all? Davies had some topographical
work to do, it soon transpired, for the lieutenant-general wanted
certain maps made of the Bad Lands traversed during the campaigns of the
two years, and the Gray Fox recommended the silent, observant young
graduate, whose field-notes had proved so accurate and complete. Not
oftener than once a week did Davies go in to consult the chief engineer
at head-quarters. The work he did in quiet at Urbana, and it might
detain him several months. Aunt Almira thought it really strange that he
could succeed in it at all. She was sure that the descriptions her boy
had given of the Bad Lands were so vividly accurate that he must know
them even better than did her nephew-in-law, the lieutenant. She asked
her husband if it did not seem almost as though Davies might be afraid
to have her lambkin take any part in it lest it should rob the officer
of the credit, but that hard-headed old railway-man thought not. He
shared her gratification in the wonderfully improved appearance of the
boy, and secretly marvelled at his apparent reformation. He had several
talks with him, gave her for him abundant money, so that on his home
visit he might dress as became his mother's son and enjoy himself like a
gentleman. He expected him to turn up speedily somewhere on a tremendous
drunk, and was rejoiced and surprised that he did not. Aunt Almira had
planned a grand dinner to which should be bidden the general and staff,
the Cranstons and others, all in honor of the home-coming of their
fellow-soldier, her son, and was utterly bewildered and crestfallen when
the latter laughingly told her to go ahead with the dinner, but count
him out; corporals didn't dine with their generals and captains, despite
the teachings of the modern military drama. The mother indignantly
protested. The son was firm. If her boy, said she, wasn't good enough to
sit at table with the President of the United States then she wasn't. If
that was the result of his joining the cavalry, the sooner he resigned
and quit the better, and then he saw the indignant tears and teased no
more, but took her in his arms and soothed and strove to explain. Soothe
he could, but explain he could not. She gave up the dinner until after
he had gone back to his regiment, for go he would, as he meant to be a
sergeant inside of two years, and when she found that the sole
difference between sergeant and corporal in our blessedly democratic
service was simply half an inch or so more of stripe on his trousers,
and brought him no nearer the commission and little farther from the
rank and file, she marvelled that the Department of War could be so
slow to appreciate a soldier ready to do so much for so little. Go back
to "C" Troop he would and did, and was proud of it, and her husband
comforted her by saying "Bran" was a man at last.

But if the Eleventh heard but little of the Davieses for a time, they
had abundant news of Devers, and much comfort did he seem to find in
sending to them stacks of local papers, and in writing long,
argumentative letters in which he sought to convince his readers that he
was a wronged and injured man. When Trooper Howard came up for the trial
which resulted in his going in irons for a five years' tour in prison,
an effort was made to get Devers before the court as a witness, and a
_subpoena duces tecum_ was duly served upon him in his far distant
home within sight of the sounding sea, but it did not fetch him. Devers
explained that as a civilian he had no interest in the proceedings and
could not be required to obey the mandate of a purely military court, a
view in which the judiciary of the great republic, ever steadfast in the
principle that military must be subservient to the civil power,
virtually sustained him. It was perfectly competent for a court-martial
to summon a civilian witness, said the bench, but it had no recourse in
case the civilian treated both court and summons with contempt, and
Devers's fellow-citizens in the far East, headed by the editor of the
_Mooselemeguntic Mirror_, congratulated their returned hero on the
spirited and just rebuke he had administered to a satrapy which should
have no place among an enlightened people. Indeed, the _Mirror's_
interviews and editorials were both full of brilliant mendacity just
now. Devers's story was in every issue, more or less of it, and West
Point jealousy was the theme of many a paragraphic fling. Brilliant,
daring, conspicuous as had been Devers's services during the civil war
and on the wild frontier, he had never succeeded in winning recognition,
owing to the persistent calumnies of his seniors, who, graduates of the
great national charity school on the Hudson, were leagued to down any
man whose ability, dash, and daring made him the object of their narrow
jealousy and the victim of their inordinate greed. After years of
patient service, loyal and dutiful, their distinguished fellow-citizen,
said the _Mirror_, had been relieved from his command on trumped-up
charges, and, though he pleaded hard to be allowed to go with them in
any capacity, even as an humble trooper in the ranks, his company took
the field on the late campaign without him, and, deprived of the
services of their beloved captain, met with grievous and irreparable
disaster. Even then his enemies were not silenced. The faithful soldiers
who clamored for the restoration of their captain were driven to death
or desertion. He himself begged to be confronted with his accusers, but
met denial, delay, and deceit at every hand. One pretext after another
was resorted to in postponing the meeting of the court, and at last,
worn out with long struggle against prejudice, injustice, and organized
enmity, he had thrown up his commission in a thankless service and
returned to the welcoming arms of his fellow-citizens. The _Mirror_, in
which Devers had a controlling interest, inquired whether the time had
not come for the recall of the amiable fossil then misrepresenting the
district in Congress, and the unanimous election of Colonel Devers as
his successor. The governor, needing the support of the _Mirror_ in a
coming campaign, gladly availed himself of the opportunity of rewarding
a war-tried veteran, and named the returning soldier an aide-de-camp
with the rank of colonel on his staff, and humble subalterns of
artillery from the two-battery post at the entrance of Mooselemeguntic
Bay looked with awe upon the future military committeeman of the --th
Congress, yet were charmed with his affability at the governor's ball,
where his new uniform fitted him better than did those of his associate
aides, and where the artillerymen heard things confirmatory of their
convictions that their comrades of the cavalry really had no idea how to
fight Indians. Devers was on the high-road to fame and Congress, and
might indeed have made successful run had the election occurred within
four months after his return, but four months was too long for him to
live without differing, and little by little the _Mirror_ became dimmed
and Devers's image faded out of public sight.

Only once did it revive, and that was when, several years after, all on
a sudden there appeared in the columns of the army paper notice that a
bill had been introduced in Congress providing for the restoration to
the army, with the rank he would have held had he remained continuously
in the cavalry service, of Jared B. Devers, formerly captain Eleventh
Cavalry, who had tendered his resignation some years before owing to
disagreements with certain officers representing the West Point element,
which was hostile to him, and friends in Washington warned the Eleventh
that old Differs had strong political backing.

And then did the Eleventh arise in its wrath. Good old Tintop had been
gathered to his fathers by that time. Riggs was rusting out of active
service, Pegleg was buried and Mrs. Pegleg was married again,--a
lieutenant this time; but there was no lack of men to remember how he
had managed by political influence at Washington to secure the
acceptance of his resignation the moment he saw how surely, if brought
to trial, the case would go against him, and the Eleventh published a
memorial, signed by almost every surviving officer who was with it in
the old days. The bill if passed would make Devers a major well up on
the list, for Warren was now lieutenant-colonel of the --th, Truman
major of the Fourth, Cranston senior captain, Boynton and Hastings were
junior troop commanders, Sanders a senior first and regimental
quartermaster. All these and other names appeared attached to the
remonstrance, and that bill was never even reported in committee. It was
learned that in the course of some years of differing with his business
associates, the gentle Devers, though still a colonel on his native
heath, had nearly wrecked the "Mirror" and his fortune with it, and so
bethought him of this scheme of restoration to the army. Leonard was by
this time an assistant adjutant-general, and prompt to act. There was a
jubilee at Ransom the evening after his despatch was received reporting
arrival of the regimental protest and the remarks thereon by members of
the military committee. The officers gathered in the club-room and drank
long life to Leonard and confusion to Devers, and then little Sanders
tuned up his guitar and sang. He was just back from leave, and a
popular lyric of the day was one they called "The Accent On," for the
last line of every verse was "with the accent on" some syllable of the
last word of the previous line. There was nothing especially poetic or
refined about the composition, but the newspapers were ringing the
changes on it. A popular comedian had sung and made much of it, and its
composer had presumably made something if not much out of it, and
Sanders was sure of laughter and applause when he sang it at the
"stags." One verse was of a man who came home in a maudlin state and his
wife remarked, "Well, you are beautiful. With the accent on the full."
Another was of a man who wanted unlimited credit at a bar and was told,
"I like not your arithmetic. With the accent on the tick." All very poor
literature, perhaps, but it amused, and this night after singing three
verses of the old song, Sanders "turned loose" on a verse of his own
which, when heard, the mess applauded and chorused to the echo, and
broke up singing again and again Sanders's telling hit in the last line:

    We had a cap in our corps
      Who left us years ago,
    Who never said a manly word
      Nor struck a manly blow.
    He never faced when he could dodge,
      He only spoke to slur,
    And now he is a colonel,
      But the accent's on the cur.

And that was Devers's requiem in the Eleventh Horse as well as in the
house of Congress. He never vexed them more.

One of the old names was lacking on the list that accompanied the
remonstrance,--that of the man of whom, nearly a decade before, Devers
"only spoke to slur." Lieutenant Davies would not sign. He was with the
regiment too, but, just as of old, eschewed the club-room and all
gatherings of the kind. They had taken the paper to him and he read,
pondered, and said no. Gray it was, now captain of "I" Troop, with which
Davies was on duty as first lieutenant, who draughted the paper, and
confidently presented it to his subaltern. "Why not?" said he, in
surprise. "No man ever did more to injure you except perhaps----" And
here Gray broke off short in sudden confusion.

"Perhaps that is why I prefer not to be quoted against him," said
Davies, quietly. And mentally kicking himself, as he expressed it, for
making such a "break" as in his bungling half allusion to the exception,
Gray hastened away to tell of it. His story came to unsympathetic ears.

"In my opinion," said Sanders, "if you mean that other fellow, he didn't
injure Parson half as much as he hurt himself."

That, too, was an old story in the Eleventh by this time. Six long
months was Davies absent from the regiment on his map-work at division
head-quarters. Then came the customary call to the field for another
season of scouting and campaigning, and he rejoined his troop, somewhat
pallid and graver looking, the result probably of long days of toil over
his drawing board. He was only a few hours at Ransom before they
marched, but the ladies wanted to know all about Mrs. Davies and what
she was to do in his absence. Mrs. Davies would remain at Urbana, said
he, where her father and sister dwelt, and those were indeed his
injunctions to her, and for a month after his departure she observed
them, then repaired to Chicago and Aunt Almira's roof. Davies by this
time was with his troop scouting near Yellowstone Park, far beyond reach
of telegrams or letters. Society was unusually gay that summer. There
was dancing, boating, dining, summer resorting, and one of the loveliest
of summer resorts within an hour's run of the great city was Forest
Glen, the seat of the famous seminary where Agatha Loomis was enjoying
the quiet of her vacation, and one night, strolling with Mrs. Forrester
over to the hotel to watch the dancers and hear the lovely music, she
came face to face in the soft moonlight with a couple so absorbed in
their conversation that not until they were actually brushing by did
they look up, and even Mrs. Forrester saw the sudden confusion and
dismay in their faces. The man turned white and made a hurried movement
as though to lift his hat. The woman flushed, almost angrily. Miss
Loomis bowed calmly and coldly and passed on without a word.

The next day, however, she called at the Glen House, where the two
Almiras, aunt and niece, were spending the week, and asked for Mrs.
Percy Davies. Mrs. Davies was out. Miss Loomis wrote a few words in
pencil, slipped them into an envelope, sent that up, and the next day
called again, and Mrs. Davies begged to be excused. Miss Loomis sadly
went home, penned a long letter to Mrs. Davies, and on the following
morning sent it. In half an hour her messenger and note returned. Mrs.
Davies had left for home that morning. Urbana was not far away, and two
days later Miss Loomis was there inquiring for Mrs. Davies on her native
heath. She had not returned. She was visiting her aunt at Forest Glen,
and then Agatha knew she had come too late. She had striven to prove to
the poor empty-headed, empty-hearted girl that she had at least one
friend. She had hoped to plead, to point out the right, and, if
possible, save her from herself and the impending step, but all to no
purpose. Two years later, among the papers of her unhappy boy, a
sorrowing mother found two little notes written, like Beatrix Esmond's,
to lure her lover on. One was dated Fort Scott in the summer of '77. "We
are desolate again with all our soldiers in the field, but we pray for
happier days. Have you no new waltz music for us?" And this reached him
at the sea-shore. The second was posted on the railway and addressed to
his club in New York. "I am even more desolate than last year. Shall I
never hear from you again?" It contained a self-addressed envelope. And
that was why her boy postponed until later in the summer the voyage his
physician had advised, and why he lived apart from friends and kindred,
in Paris most of the time, until the death of his wretched companion
within a year of their flight. Then Langston, at his mother's prayer,
went over and fetched him home. It had been a year soon given over to
recrimination, bitter reproaches, and frequent and increasing
estrangement. Willett was but the moody wreck of his old self when
restored to the one faithful friend who clung to him as only mothers
will, in spite of all.

The Eleventh was a thousand miles or so away the summer of poor Mira's
final escapade, and not until she was across the sea did the news reach
her husband. She wrote a few words of farewell such as would be expected
of her. "You never loved me," she said, "never understood me, and in
every way I was made to feel that I was only a burden, only a doll. You
have mured me here in prison, where I have no soul to sympathize with
me, and I can bear it no longer. You will not miss me. Indeed, I know
too well how soon you will find solace, and where. Henceforth I dedicate
my life to one who adores me, whose soul responds to every thought of
mine. Adieu."

It was predicted about this time that Davies would resign, shoot
Willett, or study for the ministry. Many men thought that he bore his
wrongs so meekly that he had mistaken his calling. One man, a sergeant,
said as much in Corporal Brannan's presence, and the result was a scene
that called for the intervention of the guard and the adjudication of a
court-martial. Brannan lost his chevrons, but gained an enthusiastic
friend and champion in Cranston, who sifted out the cause of the
fight,--a matter scrupulously hidden from the court. Brannan went into
the Ute campaign the following year a sergeant, and out of the army with
an Indian bullet through his arm and into his chest, where the doctors
couldn't find it. Little by little the doting mother at home began to
learn how very far away that longed-for commission might be. Her boy
himself flouted the idea. "I haven't the education," he said, "and would
be ill at ease and out of place among them." And so the magnate was
steadily importuned, and when at last the young fellow came home after
the Milk River campaign, and generals like Sheridan and Crook praised
his pluck and devotion, and the doctors said he simply couldn't go back
to service, they got him his discharge,--a medal of honor came
later,--and presently in the long list of railway officials of the Q. R.
and X. appeared his name as assistant general passenger agent, and for a
couple of years the way that great corporation dealt out passes to the
army was a matter that finally came up at directors' meeting and led to
a preliminary to the Interstate Commerce Law of '87, and a restriction
of the powers of the assistant. But there was no longer any hitch in the
maternal schemes for elaborate dinners to generals and staff. They
enjoyed meeting "the sergeant," as he rejoiced in being called, as much
as he could wish, and if they did not quite look upon him as she did, as
the central figure, the one Prince Paramount of the late campaign, there
was at least warmth and cordiality and comradeship enough to gratify
even a mother's heart.

But the Parson did not resign. He was away from the regiment again a
long month after Mira's flight, and again after her death, returning
suddenly on each occasion because of the imminence of Indian hostilities
which for a time seemed breaking out in new spots with every spring.
Between Cranston and himself there was ever the same firm and steadfast
friendship. He sought no intimacies anywhere, but in the same calm,
grave, consistent way he went about his duties in garrison, waking up to
something like enthusiasm or excitement only when "on the trail." For
three years after his brief absence in the summer of '79 he never left
his troop a day. A wonderfully good drill officer was the Parson, with a
powerful, ringing voice. "Make a splendid exhorter," said some of the
boys. He was an accurate tactician, too, and a man who had the faculty
of getting admirable results out of his command "without ever a cuss
word," said Truman, a thing which that old-time troop leader could not
understand. Davies lived hours in the open air, but read and studied
much. Popular he was not, and never cared to be; but, honored and
respected by one and all and loved by little children, he went his
earnest way, and little by little Margaret Cranston found herself
leaning more and more upon his opinions as to the pursuits and studies
of her boys, and would sit with her needle-work listening to the long
discussions between him and her husband, who read not much outside the
papers, and presently it got to be the established thing for the Parson
to read aloud to them when he came, and though Wilbur scandalized her by
going to sleep and snoring on two occasions, he soon began to wake up
and talk and discuss, and others, dropping in, either stayed to take
part in Cranston's impromptu lyceum or took their chatter elsewhere. The
second and third winters at old Laramie were some of the loveliest, said
Margaret afterwards, she ever knew, and Mr. Davies had become one of
themselves. His promotion to "I" Troop and transfer to a different post
was nothing short of a domestic calamity.

But not until that promotion and transfer occurred--though who shall say
there was significance in the fact?--was Mrs. Cranston able to induce
Miss Loomis to visit the frontier again. They were together all the
summer of '81, at the sea-shore with the boys, while Captain Cranston
and Davies and others were scorching on the plains, and Miss Loomis
evidently needed rest and salt air and water. The next winter she gave
up her duties at the seminary and joined the Cranstons on a trip down
the Mississippi, eventually returning with her cousin to Wyoming, for
her health seemed to have suffered from the long confinement at the
school. Bob Gray, with "I" Troop, was away up at Fort McKinney then, but
an important court met at the old station down on the Platte, and, as
luck would have it, Lieutenant Davies was sent in as judge-advocate.

Just why Mrs. Cranston should have made no mention to Miss Loomis of his
coming is a matter only a woman can explain, but she kept the matter to
herself until the evening of his arrival. It was their first meeting in
four years. The court was in session a month, and three evenings out of
four Davies spent as of old at Cranston's fireside. Sanders suggested
that the Parson seemed to be "taking notice" again. But Davies went back
to his station and Miss Loomis went on about her daily avocations,
reading aloud while Margaret's busy needle flew, or playing sweet old
melodies at the piano. The young officers were rather afraid of her. She
was "a somewhat superior old maid," said a youngster whom she had found
it expedient to repress. Some women declared her a trifle
unapproachable, unsympathetic perhaps, but even that did not seem to
disconcert her. Something happened ere long that did, however, for a few
months after adjournment of the court Davies reappeared at Laramie. He
had actually taken a leave of absence, and now he was at Cranston's six
evenings out of seven, and garrison gossip began in good earnest. Was
the Parson seeking solace where poor Mira always said he would? If so,
he had little to build on by way of encouragement. The Cranstons missed
him sorely when he went back to Gray, and Miss Loomis frankly referred
to him as "most instructive" and much broadened and improved. She missed
him as any one must miss so well-informed a companion. Four years before
she used to exasperate Margaret by standing up for him no matter what he
did; now she vexed her by refusing to see anything remarkable in him
whatever. Davies wrote with increasing frequency from Fort McKinney to
Mrs. Cranston, and Margaret always wanted to read the letters aloud,
which was bad generalship in a would-be match-maker.

Then one day came the tidings that head-quarters and six troops were to
be stationed together, "C" and "I" among them, and Miss Loomis returned
to Chicago. "I'll never forgive you as long as I live," said Margaret.
"I know just why you won't stay, and you needn't have worried
yourself,--he's far too proud to importune a woman who won't listen
to--to reason."

But Mrs. Cranston meant love, not reason, and the two are miles or
oceans apart. Mr. Davies might be too proud to worry a woman who
couldn't appreciate reason, but a woman worth the winning was worth the
wooing, and not a little of it. Business called him to Urbana several
days the following winter, and something kept him several weeks. He
resumed duty in the spring, steadfast as ever, but even less disposed
to take part in garrison affairs. Mrs. Cranston wrote fiercely and
frequently to Agatha, and, for aught I know, called her opprobrious
things. For another year she refused to return to them. Then came a
winter indeed of discontent, and the Eleventh was ordered to far away,
burning, blistering Arizona, all but Cranston's troop, excepted at the
last moment and detailed for service at the School of Application.
Agatha again came to stay with them, and here at last Margaret Cranston
learned the momentous fact that, after all these years, something had
happened: they were actually corresponding.

She learned more within the fortnight that followed. One exquisite May
evening just as the sunset gun had fired and all the bordering walks and
piazzas were thronged with gayly-dressed groups, women and children
mainly, watching the scene on the parade, there was some stir among the
clerks and orderlies and a gentle movement over on the porch of the
colonel commanding. The long line of officers dispersed as usual at
dismissal of parade, and Cranston came strolling over homeward chatting
with his friend and next-door neighbor, Captain Blake, of the --th.
Blake's lovely wife was even then on Cranston's veranda, for she and
Miss Loomis seemed to have taken a fancy to each other from the moment
of their meeting. Margaret, as usual, met her hero at the steps, just as
a young officer came excitedly and hurriedly down the brick walk from
the colonel's. It was Blake who heard him calling some tidings to other
households and who hailed him as he neared them and was bustling by.

"What's the row, Tommy?"

"Big fight in Arizona," was the startling answer. "Captain Hastings and
Parson Davies killed."

And Nannie Blake saw in amaze the light go out of her companion's eyes
and every vestige of color from her face. Her arms were about her in an
instant, and none too soon. Oh, the blessing of those clinging,
clustering vines! No one else saw how they had to fairly carry her
within doors, but Agatha's secret was revealed.

There was little exaggeration in the first story of that savage battle
in the cañon. Many a gallant fellow lay stripped and bloated when the
relief party reached the scene a few days later, but Davies, though
pierced through and through, still lived, and was moved and borne away
weeks later to bracing mountain air, and found many a reason for wanting
to live for many a year. Two men had gone to him fast as trains could
speed, Cranston and our old friend the chaplain. It was the former who
within the week that followed that engagement announced another. It was
the latter who within the fortnight joined her hand in his, white,
feeble as it was, and poured out his very heart and soul in the fervent
prayer for blessing on this man and this woman now at last made one.

That seems a long time ago. The regiment is famous now for its troop
commanders,--stalwart fellows in the prime of life who have brought the
training of men and mounts to a point of excellence such enthusiasts as
Cranston only dreamed of in the old campaigning days, when there was
little opportunity for experiment or practice in any other branch of
the trooper's art than that developed on the trail of savage foe.
Already the men who were stripling soldiers in '76 are wearing
patriarchal--long since they assumed patronizing--airs towards those who
came too late to learn campaigning when the Indian was not hemmed in by
railways, but ruled the Plains, proud monarch of all he surveyed.
Already silver threads are streaking the beards and temples of even such
rollicking spirits as Sanders, while Boynton is gray as the chargers of
the troop he commands. Cranston's squadron was cheered to the skies when
it marched away from Chicago after its month of riot duty, and on the
plains of Evanston during the manoeuvres the visitors thronged to see
the feats in horsemanship displayed by the men of Davies's troop. Even
in the Eleventh he was held to be the most brilliant instructor as well
as the most judicious and successful troop commander. Old-time dragoons
simply couldn't understand it. Here was a man who would neither drink,
swear, nor flare up and boil over when things went wrong on drill, but
preserved a calm, even-tempered, dignified bearing at all times. True,
he had native gifts which were not shared by all his kind,--a deep,
resonant voice, a ringing word of command, a fine physique, an admirable
seat, and an easy, practised hand, all of which were combined with a
consummate knowledge of his art. He was equally at home in saddle or
squad-room, and at all times was friend and almost father to his men.
"A" Troop, once the worst-drilled in the Eleventh, and universally known
as the "Differentials," is now called "the Parson's Flock," but there is
no irreverence in the term, for soldiers honor men like him whose faith
is backed by courage long tried on many a field. There isn't a man in
Cranston's squadron who would not resent an affront to their pet troop
commander, as they would were the major himself the object of aspersion,
and as for Agatha, his wife,--Florence Nightingale was not more beloved.

They were talking of it all the other evening, seated among the tents on
the broad, level prairie just before the separation for the winter
stations was announced. The old chaplain was there to say farewell to
his own stalwart son, now wearing his first shoulder-straps in the
regiment his father had known so long and well. "Sometimes," said the
dominie, "I look back almost wistfully on those old days with all their
danger and privation, and while the life our fellows lead to-day knows
little of the temptation and trial encountered twenty years ago, it
seems to lack its vim and vigor. Sometimes I almost wish my boy could
have begun--with you."

Davies was silent a moment. "It was a hard experience," said he,
finally. "It seems odd to think that to some of us there was more peace
on the war-path than at home, more rest in the field than in the fort.
Perhaps the reason why one's sterner qualities were so constantly called
into play was that not only in action but in all the surroundings of our
daily life we seemed forever 'under fire.'"

THE END.

WORKS OF

Captain Charles King, U.S.A.

UNDER FIRE. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
THE COLONEL'S DAUGHTER. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
MARION'S FAITH. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
CAPTAIN BLAKE. Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25.
FOES IN AMBUSH. Cloth, $1.25.
KITTY'S CONQUEST. Cloth, $1.00.
STARLIGHT RANCH, and OTHER STORIES. Cloth, $1.00.
LARAMIE; OR, THE QUEEN OF BEDLAM. Cloth, $1.00.
THE DESERTER, and FROM THE RANKS. Cloth, $1.00.
TWO SOLDIERS, and DUNRAVEN RANCH. Cloth, $1.00.
A SOLDIER'S SECRET, and AN ARMY PORTIA. Cloth, $1.00.
WARING'S PERIL. Cloth, $1.00.

Editor of

THE COLONEL'S CHRISTMAS DINNER, and OTHER STORIES. Cloth, $1.25.
AN INITIAL EXPERIENCE, and OTHER STORIES. Cloth, $1.00.

For sale by all Booksellers.

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, Philadelphia.