Lieutenant Dean’s orders required that he should march his troop without unnecessary delay to Fork Emory, there to take station relieving Troop “F,” ordered to change to Frayne, which meant, in so many words, to take the field.  Captain Brooks, still wrestling with the fever, had retired to his quarters at the old frontier fort that stood so long on the bluffs overlooking the fords of the Platte.  The surgeon said he must remain in bed at least a week, so meantime the troop packed up, sent its wagons ahead over the range, bade God speed to “F” as it passed through en route to the front, exchanged a volley of chaff and chewing tobacco over the parting game of “freeze out” fought to a finish on many an outspread saddle blanket, then, jogged on toward Gate City, making wide detour at the suggestion of the field officer in command at Frayne, that they might scout the Laramie plains and see that all was well at Folsom’s ranch.  This detour was duly reported to the peppery veteran at Fort Emory, an old colonel whose command was by this time reduced from “headquarters, field, staff and band,” six companies of infantry and four troops of cavalry, to the band and two desperately overworked companies of foot.  “Two nights in bed” were all his men could hope for, and sometimes no more than one, so grievous was the guard duty.  Hence “old Pecksniff,” his adjutant and quartermaster and his two remaining companies saw fit to take it as most unkind in Lieutenant-Colonel Ford to authorize that diversion of Dean’s, and highly improper on Dean’s part to attempt it.  By this time, too, there was in circulation at Emory a story that this transfer of “C” to interior lines and away from probable contact with the Sioux was not so much that it had done far more than its share of that arduous work, completely using up its captain, as that, now the captain was used up, the authorities had their doubts as to the “nerve” of the lieutenant in temporary command.  A fellow who didn’t care to come to Emory and preferred rough duty up along the Platte must be lacking in some essential particular, thought the women folk, and at the very moment that Marshall Dean sat there at Hal Folsom’s ranch, as brave and hardy and capable a young officer as ever forded the Platte, looking forward with pleasurable anticipations to those days to come at Emory, with Jessie ­Jessie and, of course, Pappoose ­so close at hand in town, there was gaining ground at the post an impression that the safety of the board of officers sent to choose the site of the new Big Horn post had been imperiled by Dean’s weakening at a critical moment in presence of a band of probably hostile Sioux.  Burleigh had plainly intimated as much to his chief clerk and Colonel Stevens, and when Loring and Stone came through a day or two later and questions were asked about that meeting, the aide-de-camp gave it as distinctly to be understood that he had practically assumed command, Dean’s inexperience being manifest, and his own prompt measures had extricated the little detachment from a most delicate and dangerous position.  The engineer, let it be said, did not hear this statement, and the aid was very careful not to make it in his presence.  He was a comparative stranger and as no one presumed to question him, he volunteered no information.

Planning to bivouac until dawn of the next day at Folsom’s, Dean had then intended to reach Fort Emory in three easy marches.  He was anxious to bring his horses in in best possible condition, despite all their hard service; yet now, barely two o’clock on this hot June afternoon, came most unlooked-for, most importunate interruption to his plans.  Springing to the gate at the sergeant’s summons, he first directed his gaze to the distant peak, recognized instantly the nature of the smoke puffs there rising, then turned for explanation to the swift-riding courier, whose horse’s heels were making the dust fly from the sun-dried soil.  One or two ranch hands, with anxious faces, came hastening over from the corral.  The darkey cook rushed up from the kitchen, rifle in hand.  Plainly these fellows were well used to war’s alarms.  Mrs. Folsom, with staring eyes and dreadful anxiety in her face, gazed only at the hurrying courier, clinging the while to the pillar of the portico, as though needing support.  The smoke puffs on the mountain, the dust-cloud back of the tearing rider were symptoms enough for Dean.

“Get in your herd, sergeant!” he shouted at the top of his voice; and over the rushing of the Laramie his words reached the rousing bivouac, and saddle blankets were sent swinging in air in signal to the distant guards, and within a few seconds every horse was headed for home; and then, to the sound of excited voices was added the rising thunder of scores of bounding hoofs, as, all in a dust-cloud of their own, the sixty chargers came galloping in, ears erect, eyes ablaze, nostrils wide, manes and tails streaming in the breeze, guided by their eager guards full tilt for camp.  Out ran their riders, bridles in hand, to meet and check them, every horse when within a few yards of his master seeming to settle on his haunches and plow up the turf in the sudden effort to check his speed, long months of service on the plains and in the heart of Indian land having taught them in times of alarm or peril that the quicker they reached the guiding hand and bore, each, his soldier on his back, the quicker would vanish the common foe.  Even before the panting steed of the headlong courier came within hailing distance of the ranch, half the horses in the troop were caught and the bits were rattling between their teeth; then, as the messenger tore along the gentle slope that led to the gateway, his wearied horse laboring painfully at the rise, Mrs. Folsom recognized one of her husband’s herdsmen, a man who had lived long years in Wyoming and could be unnerved by no false alarm, and her voice went up in a shriek of fear as she read the tidings in his almost ghastly face.

“Where is Hal?” she screamed.  “Oh, what has happened?”

“He’s safe,” was the answering call, as the rider waved a reassuring hand, but at the instant he bent low.  “Thank God, you’re here, lieutenant,” he gasped.  “Mount quick.  Hal’s corralled two miles out there under the butte ­Sioux!” And then they saw that he was swooning, that the blood was streaming down the left thigh and leg, and before hand could help him, he rolled senseless, doubled up in the dust at his horse’s feet, and the weary creature never even started.

“Saddle up, men!” rang the order across the stream.  And then while strong arms lifted and bore the wounded herdsman to the porch, Dean turned to the wailing mistress, who, white-faced and terror-stricken, was wringing her hands and moaning and running wildly up and down the walk and calling for some one to go and save her husband.  Dean almost bore her to a chair and bade her fear nothing.  He and his men would lose not a moment.  On the floor at her feet lay the little card photograph, and Dean, hardly thinking what he did, stooped, picked it up and placed it in the pocket of his hunting shirt, just as the trumpeter on his plunging gray reached the gate, Dean’s big, handsome charger trotting swiftly alongside.  In an instant the lieutenant was in saddle, in another second a trooper galloped up with his belt and carbine.  Already the men were leading into line across the stream, and, bidding the trumpeter tell Sergeant Shaughnessy to follow at speed, the young officer struck spur to his horse and, carbine in hand, a single trooper at his heels, away he darted down the valley, “C” Troop, splashing through the ford a moment later, took the direct road past the stockade of the corral, disappeared from sight a moment behind that wooden fortification, and, when next it hove in view, it was galloping front into line far down the Laramie, then once more vanished behind its curtain of dust.

“Two miles out there under the butte,” was the only indication the young officer had of the scene of the fight, for fight he knew it must be, and even as he went bounding down the valley he recalled the story of the Indian girl, the threats of Burning Star, the vowed vengeance of her brothers.  Could it be that, taking advantage of this raid of Red Cloud, far from all the reservations, far from possibility of detection by count of prying agents, the three had induced a gang of daring, devil-may-care young warriors to slip away from the Big Horn with them and, riding stealthily away from the beaten trails, to ford the Platte beyond the ken of watchful eyes at Frayne and sneak through the mountain range to the beautiful, fertile valley beyond, and there lie in wait for Hal Folsom or for those he loved?  What was to prevent?  Well they knew the exact location of his ranch.  They had fished and sported all about it in boy days ­days when the soldiers and the Sioux were all good friends, days before the mistaken policy of a post commander had led to an attack upon a peaceful band, and that to the annihilation of the attacking party.  From that fatal day of the Grattan massacre ten years before, there had been no real truce with the Sioux, and now was opportunity afforded for a long-plotted revenge.  Dean wondered Folsom had not looked for it instead of sleeping in fancied security.

A mile nearer the butte and, glancing back, he could see his faithful men come bounding in his tracks.  A mile ahead, rising abruptly from the general level, a little knoll or butte jutted out beyond the shoulders of the foothills and stood sentinel within three hundred yards of the stream.  On the near ­the westward ­side, nothing could be seen of horse or man.  Something told him he would find the combatants beyond ­that dead or alive, Hal Folsom would be there awaiting him.  A glance at the commanding height and the ridge that connected it with the tumbling, wooded hills to the north, convinced him that at this moment some of the foe were lurking there, watching the westward valley, and by this time they knew full well of the coming of the cavalry to the rescue.  By this time, more than likely, they were scurrying off to the mountains again, returning the way they came, with a start of at least two miles.

“With or without the coveted scalps?” he wondered.  Thus far he had been riding straight for the butte.  The road wound along and disappeared behind him, but there was no sense in following the road.  “Pursue and punish,” was the thing to be done.  Surely not more than a dozen were in the band, else that courier could never have hoped to get in, wounded as he was.  The Indians were too few in number to dare follow to the ranch, guarded as, by almost God-given luck, it happened to be through the unlooked-for presence of the troops.  No, it was a small band, though a daring one.  Its lookout had surely warned it by this time of his coming, and by this time, too, all save one or two who rode the fleetest ponies and lingered probably for a parting shot at the foremost of the chase, had scampered away behind the curtain of that ridge.  Therefore, in long curve, never checking his magnificent stride, Dean guided his bounding bay to the left ­the northeast ­and headed for the lowest point of the divide.

And then it all occurred to him too that he was far in front of his men, too far to be of use to them and just far enough to be an easy prey for the lurking foe.  Then, too, it occurred to him that he must not leave the ranch unprotected.  Already he was within long rifle range of the height; already probably some beady eye was glancing through the sights, and the deadly tube was covering him as he came bounding on.  Three hundred yards more and his life probably wouldn’t be worth a dollar in Confederate money, and wisely the young leader began to draw rein, and, turning in saddle, signaled to his single companion, laboring along one hundred yards behind, to hasten to join him.  Presently the trooper came spurring up, a swarthy young German, but though straining every nerve the troop was still a mile away.

“Ride back, Wegner, and tell the sergeant to take ten men around that side ­the south side of the bluff,” and he pointed with his hand; “the rest to come straight to me.”

Oh, well was it for Dean that he checked his speed, and as the young dragoon went sputtering back, that he himself drew rein and waited for the coming of his men.  Suddenly from far out along the ridge in front, from the very crest there leaped a jet or two of fire and smoke.  Two little spurts of dust and turf flew up from the prairie sod a dozen yards in front, a rifle bullet went singing off through the sunny air, Rabb, his handsome bay, pawed the ground and switched about, and up on the crest, riding boldly in full view, two lithe, naked, painted warriors, war bonnets trailing over their ponies’ croups, yelling shrill insult and derision, went tearing away northward, one of them pausing long enough to wave some ragged object on high, and give one ringing, exultant whoop ere he disappeared from view.

“It’s a scalp, lieutenant,” shouted the foremost sergeant as he came lunging up to join his chief.  “They’ve got one, anyhow.”

“Come on, then, and we’ll get it back,” was the only answer, as with nearly thirty troopers stringing out behind them, the two launched out in chase.