Mid June had come, and there was the very devil to pay ­so said the scouts and soldiers up along the Big Horn.  But scouts and soldiers were far removed from the States and cities where news was manufactured, and those were days in which our Indian outbreaks were described in the press long after, instead of before, their occurrence.  Such couriers as had got through to Frayne brought dispatches from the far-isolated posts along that beautiful range, insisting that the Sioux were swarming in every valley.  Such dispatches, when wired to Washington and “referred” to the Department of the Interior and re-referred to the head of the Indian Bureau, were scoffed at as sensational.

“Our agents report the Indians peaceably assembled at their reservations.  None are missing at the weekly distribution of supplies except those who are properly accounted for as out on their annual hunt.”  “The officers,” said the papers, “seem to see red Indians in every bush,” and unpleasant things were hinted at the officers as a consequence.

Indians there certainly were in other sections, and they were unquestionably “raising the devil” along the Smoky Hill and the Southern Plains, and there the Interior Department insisted that troops in strong force should be sent.  So, too, along the line of the Union Pacific.  Officials were still nervous.  Troops of cavalry camped at intervals of forty miles along the line between Kearney and Julesburg, and even beyond.  At Washington and the great cities of the East, therefore, there was no anxiety as to the possible fate of those little garrisons, with their helpless charge of women and children away up in the heart of the Sioux country.  But at Laramie and Frayne and Emory, the nearest frontier posts; at Cheyenne, Omaha and Gate City the anxiety was great.  When John Folsom said the Indians meant a war of extermination people west of the Missouri said:  “Withdraw those garrisons while there is yet time or else send five thousand troops to help them.”  But people east of the Missouri said:  “Who the devil is John Folsom?  What does he know about it?  Here’s what the Indian agents say, and that’s enough,” and people east of the Missouri being vastly in the majority, neither were the garrisons relieved nor the reinforcements sent.  What was worse, John Folsom’s urgent advice that they discontinue at once all work at Warrior Gap and send the troops and laborers back to Reno was pooh-poohed.

“The contracts have been let and signed.  The material is all on its way.  We can’t hack out now,” said the officials.  “Send runners to Red Cloud and get him in for a talk.  Promise him lots of presents.  Yes, if he must have them, tell him he shall have breech-loaders and copper cartridges, like the soldiers ­to shoot buffalo with, of course.  Promise him pretty much anything to be good and keep his hands off a little longer till we get that fort and the new agency buildings finished, and then let him do what he likes.”

Such were the instructions given the commissioners and interpreters hurried through Gate City and Frayne, and on up to Reno just within the limit fixed by Folsom.  Red Cloud and his chiefs came in accordingly, arrayed in pomp, paint and finery; shook hands grimly with the representatives of the Great Father, critically scanned the proffered gifts, disdainfully rejected the muzzle-loading rifles and old dragoon horse-pistols heaped before him.  “Got heap better,” was his comment, and nothing but brand new breech-loaders would serve his purpose.  Promise them and he’d see what could be done to restrain his young men.  But they were “pretty mad,” he said, and couldn’t be relied upon to keep the peace unless sure of getting better arms and ammunition to help them break it next time.  It was only temporizing.  It was only encouraging the veteran war-chief in his visions of power and control.  The commissioners came back beaming, “Everything satisfactorily arranged.  Red Cloud and his people are only out for a big hunt.”  But officers whose wives and children prayed fearfully at night within the puny wooden stockades, and listened trembling to the howls and tom-toms of the dancing Indians around the council fires in the neighboring valleys, wished to heaven they had left those dear ones in safety at their Eastern homes ­wished to heaven they could send them thither now, but well knew that it was too late.  Only as single spies, riding by night, hiding by day, were couriers able to get through from the Big Horn to the Platte.  Of scouts and soldiers sent at different times since the middle of May, seven were missing, and never, except through vague boastings of the Indians, were heard of again.

“It is a treacherous truce, I tell you,” said Folsom, with grave, anxious face, to the colonel commanding Fort Emory.  “I have known Red Cloud twenty years.  He’s only waiting a few weeks to see if the government will be fool enough to send them breech-loaders.  If it does, he’ll be all the better able to fight a little later on.  If it doesn’t he will make it his casus belli.”

And the veteran colonel listened, looked grave, and said he had done his utmost to convince his superiors.  He could do no more.

It was nearly three hundred miles by the winding mountain road from Gate City to Warrior Gap.  Over hill and dale and mountain pass the road ran to Frayne, thence, fording the North Platte, the wagon trains, heavily guarded, had to drag over miles of dreary desert, over shadeless slopes and divides to the dry wash of the Powder, and by roads deep in alkali dust and sage brush to Cantonment Reno, where far to the west the grand range loomed up against the sky ­another long day’s march away to the nearest foothills, to the nearest drinkable water, and then, forty miles further still, in the heart of the grand pine-covered heights, was the rock-bound gateway to a lovely park region within, called by the Sioux some wild combination of almost unpronounceable syllables, which, freely translated, gave us Warrior Gap, and there at last accounts, strengthened by detachments from Frayne and Reno, the little command of fort builders worked away, ax in hand, rifle at hand, subjected every hour to alarm from the vedettes and pickets posted thickly all about them, pickets who were sometimes found stone dead at their posts, transfixed with arrows, scalped and mutilated, and yet not once had Indians in any force been seen by officers or man about the spot since the day Red Cloud’s whole array passed Brooks’s troop on the Reno trail, peaceably hunting buffalo.  “An’ divil a sowl in in the outfit,” said old Sergeant Shaughnessy, “that hadn’t his tongue in his cheek.”

For three months that hard-worked troop had been afield, and the time had passed and gone when its young first lieutenant had hoped for a leave to go home and see the mother and Jess.  His captain was still ailing and unfit for duty in saddle.  He could not and would not ask for leave at such a time, and yet at the very moment when he was most earnestly and faithfully doing his whole duty at the front, slander was busy with his name long miles at the rear.

Something was amiss with Burleigh, said his cronies at Gate City.  He had come hurrying back from the hills, had spent a day in his office and not a cent at the club, had taken the night express unbeknown to anybody but his chief clerk, and gone hurrying eastward.  It was a time when his services were needed at the depot, too.  Supplies, stores, all manner of material were being freighted from Gate City over the range to the Platte and beyond, yet he had wired for authority to hasten to Chicago on urgent personal affairs, got it and disappeared.  A young regimental quartermaster was ordered in from Emory to take charge of shipments and sign invoices during Burleigh’s temporary absence, and the only other officer whom Burleigh had seen and talked with before his start was the venerable post commander.  One after another the few cavalry troops (companies) on duty at Emory had been sent afield until now only one was left, and three days after Burleigh started there came a dispatch from department headquarters directing the sending of that one to Frayne at once.  Captain Brooks’s troop, owing to the continued illness of its commander, would be temporarily withdrawn and sent back to Emory to replace it.

Marshall Dean did not know whether to be glad or sorry.  Soldier from top to toe, he was keenly enjoying the command of his troop.  He gloried in mountain scouting, and was in his element when astride a spirited horse.  Then, too, the air was throbbing with rumors of Indian depredations along the northward trails, and everything pointed to serious outbreak any moment, and when it came he longed to be on hand to take his share and win his name, for with such a troop his chances were better for honors and distinctions than those of any youngster he knew.  Therefore he longed to keep afield.  On the other hand the visit paid by Jessie’s school friend, little “Pappoose” Folsom, was to be returned in kind.  John Folsom had begged and their mother had consented that after a week at home Jess should accompany her beloved friend on a visit to her far western home.  They would be escorted as far as Omaha, and there Folsom himself would meet them.  His handsome house was ready, and, so said friends who had been invited to the housewarming, particularly well stocked as to larder and cellar.  There was just one thing on which Gate City gossips were enabled to dilate that was not entirely satisfactory to Folsom’s friends, and that was the new presiding goddess of the establishment.

“What on earth does John Folsom want of a housekeeper?” asked the helpmates of his friends at Fort Emory, and in the bustling, busy town.  “Why don’t he marry again?” queried those who would gladly have seen some unprovided sister, niece or daughter thus cozily disposed of.  It was years since Elinor’s mother’s death, and yet John Folsom seemed to mourn her as fondly as ever, and except in mid-winter, barely a month went by in which he did not make his pilgrimage to her never-neglected grave.  Yet, despite his vigorous years in saddle, sunshine or storm, and his thorough love for outdoor life, Folsom, now well over fifty, could no longer so lightly bear the hard life of the field.  He was amazed to see how his sleepless dash to head off Red Cloud, and his days and nights of gallop back, had told upon him.  Women at Fort Emory who looked with approving eyes on his ruddy face and trim, erect figure, all so eloquent of health, and who possibly contemplated, too, his solid bank account, and that fast-building house, the finest in Gate City, had been telling him all winter long he ought to have a companion ­an elder guide for Miss Elinor on her return; he ought to have some one to preside at his table; and honest John had promptly answered:  “Why, Nell will do all that,” which necessitated their hinting that although Miss Folsom would be a young lady in years, she was only a child in experience, and would be much the better for some one who could take a mother’s place.  “No one could do that,” said John, with sudden swimming of his eyes, and that put as sudden a stop to their schemings, for the time at least, but only for the time.  Taking counsel together, and thinking how lovely it would be now if Mr. Folsom would only see how much there was in this unmarried damsel, or that widowed dame, the coterie at Emory again returned to the subject, until John, in his perplexity, got the idea that propriety demanded that he should have a housekeeper against his daughter’s coming, and then he did go and do, in his masculine stupidity, just exactly what they couldn’t have had him do for worlds ­invite a woman, of whom none of their number had ever heard, to come from Omaha and take the domestic management of his hearth and home.  All he knew of her was what he heard there.  She was the widow of a volunteer officer who had died of disease contracted during the war.  She was childless, almost destitute, accomplished, and so devoted to her church duties.  She was interesting and refined, and highly educated.  He heard the eulogiums pronounced by the good priest and some of his flock, and Mrs. Fletcher, a substantial person of some forty years at least, was duly installed.

Fort Emory was filled with women folk and consternation ­most of the men being afield.  The seething question of the hour was whether they should call on her, whether she was to be received at the fort, whether she was to be acknowledged and recognized at all, and then came, mirabile dictu, a great government official from Washington to inspect the Union Pacific and make speeches at various points along the road, and Mrs. Fletcher, mind you, walked to church the very next Sunday on the Honorable Secretary’s arm, sat by his side when he drove out to hear the band at Emory, and received with him on the colonel’s veranda, and that settled it.  Received and acknowledged and visited she had to be.  She might well prove a woman worth knowing.

Within a fortnight she had made the new homestead blossom like the rose.  Within a month everything was in perfect order for the reception of Elinor and her school friend ­a busy, anxious month, in which Folsom was flitting to and fro to Reno and Frayne, as we have seen; to Hal’s ranch in the Medicine Bow, to Rawhide and Laramie, and the reservations in Northwestern Nebraska; and it so happened that he was away the night Major Burleigh, on his way to the depot, dropped in to inquire if he could see Mr. Folsom a moment on important business.  The servant said he was not in town ­had gone, she thought, to Omaha.  She would inquire of Mrs. Fletcher, and meantime would the major step inside?  Step inside, and stand wonderingly at the threshold of the pretty parlor he did; and then there was a rustle of silken skirts on the floor above, and, as he turned to listen, his haggard, careworn face took on a look something like that which overspread it the night he got the letter at Reno ­something that told of bewilderment and perplexity as a quiet, modulated voice told the servant to tell the gentleman Mr. Folsom might not return for several days.  Burleigh had no excuse to linger, none to ask to hear that voice again; yet as he slowly descended the steps its accents were still strangely ringing in his ears.  Where on earth had he heard that voice before?