REVELATIONS.

When Colonel Rand arrived from Omaha the next afternoon, and Blake met him at the depot, he found that there was less for him to do than he imagined.  He had known Ray well for many years of his army life, had served with him in Arizona, and was one of his stanchest friends.  He was wild with enthusiasm when Truscott’s despatch was received, telling of Wayne’s rescue and Ray’s heroic conduct, and he was furious over the tidings that his gallant friend had been placed in arrest on charges that had not been investigated at department headquarters, or by anybody who could represent Ray’s interests.  Even before the telegrams came in from the regiment protesting against Ray’s trial in their absence, he had started for Kansas City armed with a copy of the charges and specifications, had easily determined that the civilians cited as witnesses were men who really knew little or nothing, but had only a vague, “hearsay” idea of matters, which vigorous cross-questioning developed that they had mainly derived from letters or talks of Gleason’s, or had got from Rallston himself, who, said they, was riled because he couldn’t play off a lot of broken-down mustangs for sound horses on that board.  No one could swear that he had seen Ray drink; no one could swear he had played any game for any stake; no one could testify to a single act of his that was in the faintest degree unofficerlike or unbecoming a gentleman.  Indeed, even the cads with whom Gleason consorted seemed to have become inspired with contempt.  And Rand went back to Omaha satisfied that the charges were all conspiracy.  But Rallston had kept out of his way.  He could not reach him.  No one knew where he was.  Some went so far as to say he was ashamed of having been mixed up with Gleason in such a low piece of business.  Even Mrs. Rallston at Omaha could tell nothing of her husband’s whereabouts, and was in great distress over the letters from her brother announcing the trouble in which he was enveloped, all on account of Rallston’s rascality as she felt, though he would not say.  Then came the fearful news that Gleason was murdered by her brother, and the next day she had sold one of the beautiful solitaires that Rallston had given her in the days when he was a dashing wooer, and on the same train with Colonel Rand she hastened to Cheyenne.  Blake was presented to her as she alighted from the cars, and conducted her to the parlor of the hotel, where in few words he told them of the discovery of Rallston’s letters in the dead man’s pockets, and of Wolfs gauntlet in the dead man’s room.  The detectives had urged that nothing should be revealed in this last matter, as every effort was now being made to capture the ex-sergeant, and that little man from Denver had already a reply from his chief, saying that Rallston was there and could be produced at any time.  Poor Mrs. Rallston!  She winced at the professional technicalities, but wrote a hurried despatch, care of the Rocky Mountain Detective Agency, enjoining him to come to them at once; breathing no word of reproach or blame, but telling him that his letters were now in Ray’s hands, and they felt that he bitterly regretted the part he had taken in connection with Gleason.  He must come and exonerate her brother from the charge of accepting a bribe, to which he was assigned as the sole witness.

There was a further conference that need not be detailed.  Colonel Rand desired first to see some of the prominent business men whom he knew, as he proposed to have Ray bailed out instanter no matter what that young gentleman’s wishes might be, and Blake, giving her his arm, escorted Mrs. Rallston through the bustling streets until they reached the jail.  Even then there was a little knot of hangers-on watching with wolfish curiosity every comer.  The officials touched their hats to Blake and his veiled companion, and looked admiringly at her tall, graceful form.  Already something was beginning to whisper that justice had been blinder than ever, had been groping painfully in the dark, and had nabbed the wrong man.  Mr. Perkins and his jury had been basely and ungratefully alluded to as a batch of leather heads, and it behooved the sheriffs and others to look to the buttered side of their bread, lest it, too, should fall in the municipal mud.  Blake felt her trembling as they passed through the office into a long and dimly-lighted hall.

“Courage, Mrs. Rallston,” he whispered.  “We are going to lose him, you and I, but it’s to a very different captivity.  Oh, he’s gone this time past all saving.  Just wait till you see her!” And before she could ask one question in her wonderment, a door was opened, there was a fond, welcoming cry of “Nell!” and for the first time in all her life, so far as Ray could tell, the sister fell forward, fainting, into his arms.  Blake assisted in carrying her to the sofa, brought a glass of water, and then, as she began to revive, he silently withdrew and left them together.

Later that afternoon Colonel Rand, Mr. Green, and Blake had a quiet consultation with the prisoner.  The matter of bail, said Rand, was already settled.  On his representations half a dozen prominent citizens had signified their willingness to act.  Mr. Green stated that he had received advice of other offers, at which Blake was seen to give him a kick under the table whereon their papers were spread.  There was really nothing to prevent the arrangement being made this evening so that he might not have to pass another night under the jail roof, but Ray was firm.  He would not return to Russell in arrest; he would not accept his release until it could be freedom; he was treated courteously and considerately by the sheriff’s people, was allowed this comfortable room instead of a cell, and he resolutely refused all offer of bail so long as there remained a pretext for the continuance of his arrest on other charges.  Rand himself, who had been accustomed to his quick, impetuous ways for years, could hardly recognize in the Ray of to-day the reckless, devil-may-care, laughing fellow of two years ago.  He seemed utterly changed.  He was years older in manner, grave, patient, tolerant of the opinions of those about him, but doubly tenacious of his own, and surprisingly capable of demonstrating their justice.

“It has simply come to this, colonel.  I stand charged at division headquarters of crimes that if proven would dismiss me from the service.  The death of the principal witness is the worst mishap that could have befallen me.  It leaves me unvindicated, because now we cannot impeach his testimony; because now my enemies can say that had he lived the result might have been different.  I urge, I claim that I must be tried; and Blake here is my witness that I have said so from the very first.  Nothing but a trial can clear me fully of the infamous charges you hold there, and no friend of mine will delay it an instant.  So far from postponing that court, I say hasten it.  Let it sit at once.  I am ready to-day, any day to meet and refute the charges.  I need no friend from the regiment, from anywhere.  I shall not draw on my field record for a cent’s worth of consideration.  The case must be tried on its merits.  I do not believe a witness need be called for the defence, but until vindicated I protest against any step that may send me back to Russell.  Answer as to that, and then we will come to this matter of my situation here.”

And Rand agreed with him that the court should meet forthwith, and that telegrams should be sent at once to division headquarters urging that no postponement be granted.  The despatch was written, and Blake took it to the office.  Then Ray went on with his talk: 

“And now, colonel, I have waited for your coming that in your presence I might refer to two points that, as Mr. Green has said, bore heavily against me with the coroner’s jury, and would have to be met should the case come to trial.  Until it come to trial there are one or two matters which I will not explain, simply because they concern others more than they do me.  As you have seen, suspicion is already pointing to Sergeant Wolf.  I have connected him with the murder from the first.  The detective has ascertained beyond doubt that that was his glove; that a horse was tied at the northeast corner of the hospital yard about the time of the occurrence, and that a bandsman ­the drummer ­is almost certain that my pistol, which did the work, was in the sergeant’s possession the night he deserted.  I know it was:  this note will prove it.”  And he produced from an envelope bearing the Laramie City postmark, and addressed to him at Russell, a sheet of note-paper on which, without date or signature, was written, “I had to take your pistol.  Time was everything.  The enclosed twenty dollars will pay.”  “Compare that writing,” he continued, “with dozens of specimens to be found in the office at Russell, and that will settle it.

“Now, the jury could not understand why I refused to let Hogan have my pistol that night.  It was because I knew it was gone, and I did not wish any one else to know it.  The colonel could not understand why I would not tell the cause of Wolf’s desertion.  I did not wish any one to know.  Everybody, I presume, wanted to know how I explained away the presence of my pistol at the scene, and that was another thing I wanted kept in the dark until ­until released from a promise that involved the peace of one whom I was bound to protect. (Mrs. Rallston’s eyes were dilating to twice their usual size.) As soon as notified of the decision of that jury, I wrote saying that it might soon be necessary to save my honor to reveal what I had kept so sacred.  No answer came until ­until last night; full and free release from my promise; but I believe that all may be kept sacred still. You will understand that I am prepared to explain these matters should the case come to trial, but not before.”

Even as he was speaking there came a knock at the door:  a telegram for Mr. Green.  The lawyer opened and read it, thought earnestly a moment, and then left the room, saying he would soon return.  It was getting dark, and Ray lighted the oil lamp that stood upon its bracket.  Rand was watching his every movement, and had been quietly jotting some memoranda of his statements.  As the young cavalryman returned to his seat by his sister’s side and took her hand in his, the colonel remarked, ­

“Ray, I thought I knew you pretty well all these years, but I believe I’m only just beginning to get acquainted with you.  Blake said you had astonished him, but your capacity for taking things coolly is an unexpected trait to more than one, I fancy.  Now I’m going to take Mrs. Rallston over to the hotel for tea, and then we are coming back.  Tell Blake I want him to apply to his post commander for a seven days’ leave to-night.  I’ll send it out and see that he gets it.  If you won’t go back to Russell he must be here with you.  Ah! here he comes now!”

“Where’s Green?” was the exclamation that greeted their ears as Blake bolted in, all excitement.  “I want him, quick.  Billy, they’ve got that man Wolf, and he wants to see you or somebody.  He’s pretty near gone and fought like a tiger, they say.”

“Where is he?” asked Rand, springing to his feet.

“Just out here at the edge of town in a blackguardly sort of dive.  It’s my belief they’ve kept him there hid ever since the night of the murder.  Come, we must have Green and the sheriff.  I know Ray can go with us.  There’ll be a carriage in a minute.”

“Let me escort you to the hotel, Mrs. Rallston,” said Rand, “then I can go with them.  This means confirmation of our theory and the end of our troubles,” he said, reassuringly.  Ray, very pale and very quiet, kissed her good-night and saw her to the hall, promising to send for her as soon as was possible.  Then, as for a moment he was left alone, he took from an inner pocket a crumpled little note that Blake had brought him the previous evening, read it lingeringly, though with eyes that softened and glowed with a light that no one yet had seen, and when he had finished he stood there gazing at the signature and the few words with which the note was concluded: 

“Believe me, dear Mr. Ray, she never for an instant thought you guilty.  And now good-night.  I shall pray God to watch over and cheer you. Need I tell you that your trouble has made me only the more

     Loyally your friend,

MARION SANFORD.”

Oh, Ray!  Ray!  Here was strength and cheer and comfort for twenty men.  No wonder you could bear the slings and arrows of your outrageous fortune with that charming endorsement!  No wonder people thought you changed!  What would people think ­or rather what would they say if they knew of that letter and its very comforting conclusion?  What will be said of our heroine, Marion, when these damaging particulars are brought to light?  What would the girls at Madame Reichard’s have said? though they knew she had a romantic streak in her, and was a worshipper of heroes?  What will the cold and unsympathetic and critical reader remark of the unmaidenly lack of reserve which prompted those last few lines?  What will Marion herself say when she hears of them as thus ruthlessly dragged to the bar of public opinion?  Poor Marion!  Her cheeks will redden, her eyes flash and suffuse, her heart beat like a trip-hammer, her white teeth set, her soft lips will firmly close.  She will be annoyed.  She may admit that in cold blood ­under any other circumstances ­she would never have so committed herself, and that nothing but the thought of the wrongs and sorrows and sufferings that had been heaped one after another upon the undeserving head of that luckiest of young Kentuckians would ever have betrayed her into such an outburst of sentiment.  She may admit what indeed was the truth, that she wrote the whole thing after a vehement interview with Grace, at a time when she thought she saw her gallant friend dragged off to jail, believing he had been denied by those whom he was actually suffering to shield.  She may say that, had there been time, she would have less pointedly worded the closing sentence.  But of one thing you may be certain, ­once and for all, ­she said just what she thought, and now ­against the opinion of the whole world if need be ­she will stand by those words through thick and thin, ­she will never retract.

And as for Ray:  he gazed upon them as he might upon a heaven-inspired message from a better world; he bowed his head and kissed, reverently, humbly, prayerfully, the sweet and thrilling words; and then, and then ­he bent his knee and bowed his head, and with deeper reverence, with humility such as he had never known before, with a prayer that came from the depths of his loyal heart, he thanked God for the infinite blessing that had come to him through the darkness of his bitter trials; he rose calm, strengthened, steadfast, as he heard the rapidly-approaching footsteps of his friends.

Less than half an hour thereafter a little group sat in silence around a rude bed in a darkened room.  Outside, sullen and scowling, two rough-looking men, the owners of the establishment, were guarded by the officers of the law, while within, Ray, Blake, Mr. Green, the sheriff, and an officer of the territorial court were listening to the dying deposition of the Saxon soldier Wolf, ­the physicians had declared it impossible for him to live another day.

Late on the night of the murder three men, returning townwards from the “house on the hill,” had come suddenly upon a gray horse dragging a man by the stirrup.  They picked the man up and carried him into the gambling-house at the edge of town, where they laid him upon this bed.  Noting the U. S. on the shoulder of the horse and his cavalry equipments, they sent him away in charge of one of their number, and proceeded to search the pockets of the still insensible soldier, who was clad in comparatively new “ranchman’s” clothing, and who wore a gauntlet on his left hand.  He had revived for a moment, was told that he was among friends and had nothing to fear.  He said his horse had stumbled into an acequia in the darkness and fallen on him, and now he wanted to get up.  They assured him no horse was there; that, finding him insensible, they had carried him to this place, where he was all right “if he kept quiet,” and Wolf soon realized that he was in a notorious “dive” where soldiers were often drugged and robbed of their money.  He was locked in that night, and though suffering intensely from internal injuries, he strove to make his escape.  The next morning people in the neighborhood heard appalling cries and uproar, but such things had often happened there before in the drunken fights that took place, and not until this day had it leaked out in some way that there was a man there dying from injuries received partly in a runaway and partly in a fight in the house.  The police made a raid, and there discovered the very man for whom the detectives and the military were searching high and low.  His first words were to ask for Lieutenant Ray, then for a physician and a lawyer.  And now his story was almost done.  Ray was fully, utterly exonerated.

In brief, it was about as follows:  He was mad with rage at the treatment he had received at the hands of Lieutenant Gleason, and at a deed of his which he would not detail, ­Lieutenant Ray knew, and that was enough.  He himself had only one thought, ­to follow at once on the trail, to find him alone if possible, and to compel him to fight him as gentlemen fought, a outrance, in the old country.  He took Ray’s pistol, and after getting some papers and some clothing he needed from the band barracks, he went to the stables, raised the shutter, and crept into the window of the stall which held his horse, led him noiselessly out over the earthen floor to the rear entrance, which was easily opened from the inside, and long before dawn was on the road to Fetterman, in pursuit of the stage.  He had no fear of ranch people betraying him as a deserter.  They knew nothing but what he was carrying despatches.  He had received plenty of money but a short time before through friends in Dresden; he hoped to secure fresh horses, and overtake the stage before it reached a ranch where they stopped for meals several hours south of Fetterman.  His plan was wild and impracticable, enough to throw doubts on his sanity, but he only thought of revenge, he said; he was determined to waylay Gleason and force him to fight.  But his plan failed.  His horse gave out long before he could get another; he left him at a cattle ranch finally, and went ahead on a borrowed “plug,” but to no purpose.  Gleason reached Fetterman ahead of him, and by the time he neared there he knew that his desertion had been telegraphed.  Still he thought to follow as a scout or teamster, and bought rough canvas and woolen clothing; hung around the neighborhood, but avoided all soldiers; learned of Gleason’s going with Webb, and actually crossed the Platte and followed on their trail, until he met him coming back at the head of the little escort.  Keeping his eager lookout far ahead, he had easily hidden himself and his horse where he could watch them as they went by, and had recognized his victim, turned on his tracks, and once more trailed him back; had lost him and followed the wrong “buckboard” from Fetterman, and had gone towards Rock Creek before he found out that Gleason went by way of Fort Laramie.  A countryman going in to Laramie City had taken, some days previous, the note with its enclosure to Ray, ­he could not steal, he said, and at last, having recovered his horse, he returned by night to Cheyenne, easily learned of Lieutenant Gleason’s presence at Russell, and that very night rode out across the prairie, tied his gray to a post near the northeast corner of the hospital enclosure, and stole to Gleason’s back-yard.  Not for an instant had he ever flinched in his purpose.  He knew the lieutenant was officer of the day, and that he would be out to visit his sentries after midnight; but it occurred to him he would have no weapon but the sabre, and he meant to offer him fair fight.  A light was burning in the rear room.  He peeped through the blinds and saw him undressing as though to go to bed.  He could wait no longer.  He opened the kitchen door, which Shea had left unlocked, entered the house, and rapped at Gleason’s door.  The lieutenant supposed it to be Shea, probably, and opened it himself.  “Behold the man you have outraged, I said.  I give you one instant only to get your pistol.  We fight here to the death.  He sprang back, still facing me; he was livid with fear; he called for help, help! he ordered me to leave, he was a craven and would not fight; he called louder, and then I fired; he gave a scream and fell towards me on his face.  I had hurled my gauntlet at him as I challenged, but there was no time to pick it up.  I turned and fled.  Some one seized me at the back gate, but I hurled him aside and ran on tiptoe to my horse.  I heard voices coming, but no one could hear me.  I led my horse some distance; then mounted and galloped madly this way.  Near town he stumbled, fell, and rolled on me, and I knew no more till I heard them say he was dead and that the Herr Lieutenant had killed him.  Then I strove to escape, and we had a fearful fight.  They overcame and drugged me, I think, but again I came to, and begged to be let to see you.  They keep me for the reward, perhaps, but they see me dying, and the police come at last.”

In the solemn hush of the darkened room, far from the land where he had been known and loved, where doubtless his gifts had been valued, and his life, until wrecked by that duel, was honored, the Saxon soldier lay breathing his last.  Mad or sane, there was no one there to rightly judge.  The one trait that shone to the end was the strong love of the profession which he could have adorned so well.  His glazing eyes looked wistfully into Ray’s pale face; his tremulous hand sought that of the young officer, who knelt there by his side; in faint, broken accents he spoke his last earthly plea: 

“I was a gentleman once, Herr Lieutenant.  I am soldier ­even now.  You are the soldier the men all love.  May I not take your hand?”