And now indeed came for Marshall Dean a time in which he could see a divided duty.  A camp of woodchoppers in one of the deep, sequestered valleys of the mountains had been suddenly set upon by a host of mounted Indians that seemed, like the warriors born of the dragon’s teeth, to spring up from the earth, and yelling like fiends bore down upon the little guard.  Happily for the woodchoppers, but unluckily for Lo, the commander was a cool-headed veteran of the late war who had listened time and again to yells as frantic and had withstood charge after charge ten times as determined.  Most unluckily for Lo the infantry company was armed with the new Springfield breech-loader, and when the band came exultantly on, having, as they supposed, drawn the fire when full four hundred yards away, they were confounded by the lively crackle and sputter of rifles along the timber in front of them, toppling many a dashing warrior to earth and strewing the ground with slaughtered ponies.  That charge failed, but they rallied in furious force.  There were only forty soldiers:  they had five hundred braves, so on they came again from three different points, and again did Powell’s sheltered blue coats scatter them like red autumn leaves before the storm.  Thrice and four times did they essay to stampede the soldiers and sweep off their own dead and wounded, and each time were they soundly thrashed, thanks to cool courage and the new breech-loaders.  And Red Cloud, cursing his medicine men, drew off his baffled braves and the hills that night resounded to their vengeful war-whoops and echoed back the wailing of the Indian women mourning over the slain.  “All well enough so far, lads,” cried Folsom, when he heard the news.  “Machpealota is unmasked.  It’s war to the knife now, so for God’s sake send all the troops you can muster to the aid of those already up there in the Big Horn.  Next time he hits he’ll have all the Northern Sioux at his back, you mark my words!”

But, who the devil is John Folsom? said the Bureau again.  Arrest Red Cloud.  Bring his band in prisoners, were the orders to the agents, and the agents called for troops to go and do their bidding.  It’s one thing, as I’ve had occasion to say before, to stand off with breech-loaders a thousand Indians armed only with old percussion cap muskets, squirrel rifles, bows, clubs and lances; it’s another thing for soldiers armed even with the best the market affords, to march into an Indian position and arrest an Indian chief.  There were not soldiers enough north of the Platte to do it, and the War Department knew it if the Bureau didn’t.  Hence the mustering in force along the river, and the mounting in hot haste of perhaps ten more troops and companies, nowhere near enough for the work in hand, but all the nation had within a month’s march that could possibly be spared from other work and work more important.

And there was wrath at Emory, where the colonel found himself ordered to send all his transportation to Frayne forthwith, and all his remaining troops except one of foot.  “Damnation!  I’ve only got two companies of foot,” he screamed, in the shrill treble of piping senility.  “And they mean to rob me of my cavalry, too!  ‘C’ troop is ordered to be held in readiness for special service.”

The transportation, consisting of three wagons and two ambulances, with the somber company of infantry, started next day, however, and Dean, with eager expectancy kept his men in camp, cooked rations ready, ammunition pouches filled, arms and equipments overhauled and in perfect order, horses examined and reshod, ready for the word that might come any minute and carry him ­he knew not whither.  Folsom and the girls had to drive back to dinner without him.  Despite the permission sent by the colonel, he would not leave his troop and go in town.  So back they came in the soft moonlight and spent a long, lovely summer evening with him, while the band played melodiously in the fort inclosure, and the stars twinkled over the peaks of the Rockies in the southern skies.  Folsom spent the hours wiring to Omaha and conferring with such officers as he could reach.  They thought the lesson given Red Cloud would end the business.  He knew it would only begin it.  Burleigh, saying that he must give personal attention to the selection of the teams and wagons, spent the early evening in his corral, but sent word to Folsom that he hoped to see him in the morning on business of great importance.  He had other hopes, too, one of them being that now the order to send that big sum in currency to the new stockade would be revoked.  He had lost no time in suggesting to the chief quartermaster of the department the extreme hazard.  He quoted Folsom as saying that before we could send one hundred men to Warrior Gap Red Cloud could call five thousand, and the chief quartermaster, being a man of method and a stranger to the frontier said, as said the Bureau “Who the devil is John Folsom?  Do as you are told.”  But that answer only came the following day.  Meantime there was respite and hope.

Long lived that beautiful evening in the memory of four young hearts.  A sweet south wind had been gently playing all day and left the night warm and fragrant of the pines and cedars in the mountain parks.  All Fort Emory seemed made up of women and children now, for such few soldiers as were left, barring the bandsmen, were packing or helping pack and store about the barracks.  From soon after eight until nearly ten the musicians occupied their sheltered wooden kiosk on the parade, and filled the air with sweet strains of waltz or song or stirring martial melody.

For an hour, with Elinor Folsom on his arm, young Dean was strolling up and down the moonlit walk, marveling over the beauty of her dark, yet winsome face, and Loomis and Jessie, stanch friends already, sauntered after them.  For a time the merry chat went on unbroken.  They were talking of that never-to-be-forgotten visit to the Point ­Pappoose’s first ­and of the hop to which the tall cadet captain took the timid schoolgirl, and of her hop card and the distinguished names it bore, as names ran in the old days of the battalion; of Ray, who danced so beautifully and rode so well ­he was with the ­th cavalry now somewhere along the U. P., said Dean ­and of Billings the cadet adjutant; he was with a light battery in Louisiana.  “Where this Captain Newhall is stationed,” interrupted Pappoose, with quick, upward look.  “I wonder if he knows him, Mr. Dean.”

“He doesn’t like him, I’ll venture to say,” said Dean, “if Newhall doesn’t suit you and Jessie, and I’m sure I shan’t.”  And then they went on to talk of the lovely dance music they had at the Point that summer, and how bewitchingly Elsen used to play that pretty galop ­“Puckwudjies” ­the very thing for a moonlit night.  One could almost see the Indian fairies dancing about their tiny fires.

“It was that galop ­my first at West Point ­that I danced with Cadet Captain Dean,” said Pappoose, looking blithely up into his steadfast eyes.  “You’ve no idea what a proud girl I was!” They were at the upper end of the parade at the moment.  The kiosk was only fifty yards away, its band lights sparkling under the canopy, the moonlight glinting on the smooth surface of the dancing floor that an indulgent post commander had had placed there.  Half a dozen young garrison girls, arm in arm and by twos, were strolling about its waxen face awaiting the next piece; and some of them had been importuning the leader, for at the moment, soft and rippling, sweet and thrilling, quick and witching, the exquisite opening strains of “Puckwudjies” floated out upon the night.

“Oh, Jess!  Listen!” cried Elinor in ecstasy and surprise, as she turned back with quickly beating heart.

“No, no, indeed!” replied her soldier escort, with a throb in his breast that echoed and overmastered that in her own.  “No time to listen ­come!  It was your first galop at the Point ­let it be our first in Wyoming.”  And in a moment more the tall, lithe, supple, slender forms were gliding about the dancing-floor in perfect time to the lovely music, but now her dark eyes could not meet the fire in the blue.  Following their lead, Loomis and Jessie joined the dance.  Other couples from along the row hastened to the scene.  In five minutes a lively hop was on at Emory, and when at last, breathing a little hurriedly and with heightened color, Elinor Folsom glanced up into his joyous and beaming face ­“You had forgotten that galop, Mr. Dean,” she archly said, but down went the dark eyes again at his fervent reply.

“Yes, I admit it; but so long as I live I’ll never forget this.”

Small wonder was it that when Burleigh came driving out at tattoo for a brief conference with the colonel, his sallow face took on a darker shade as he suddenly caught sight of that couple standing at the moment apart from the dancers, seeing neither them nor him, hearing for the moment no music but that which trembled in the tones of his deep voice, for Elinor was strangely silent.

“Marshall Dean,” whispered Jessie that night, as she hugged him before being lifted to her seat, “tell me true, wasn’t Pappoose’s picture in your heart pocket?  Didn’t that bullet crease it?”

“Promise on your honor not to tell, Jess,” he whispered.

She nodded delightedly.

“Yes, and what’s more, it’s there now!”

Early on the morrow came further news.  Troops from Steele and Bridger were on the move, but no word came for the cavalry at Emory, and Marshall Dean, hitherto most eager for field service, learned with joy he felt ashamed to own that he had still another day to spend in the society of Jessie and her friend.  But how much of that elation Jessie could have claimed as due to her every sister whose brother is in love can better tell than I. At eight they came driving out to hear the band at guard-mounting, though to old Pecksniff’s pathetic sorrow he could mount only twelve men all told.  That ceremony over, they watched with kindling eyes the sharp drill of Marshall’s troop; that soldierly young commander, one may feel well assured, showing his men, his horses, and himself off to the best of his ability, as who would not have done under such scrutiny as that.  Loomis was with them, but Elinor drove, for her father had urgent business, he said, and must remain at his office.  Major Burleigh, he added, was to meet him, whereat the girls were silent.

“If you could have beard the major pleading with that cantankerous old fool at the fort in Marshall’s behalf you would get over your wrath at Burleigh just as I did,” said Folsom, to both, apparently, and still neither answered.  Burleigh was evidently persona non grata in the eyes of both.  “He tells me Captain Newhall is still here, waiting for a train to be made up to run back to Cheyenne.  I’m afraid I’ll have to ask him to bring the captain to dinner to-day.  Do you think Mr. Dean will care to come?” he asked.

“I think he would rather not leave camp,” said Jessie slowly.  “Orders may come any minute, he says.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” answered Folsom, vaguely relieved.  Something told him there was antagonism between the young fellow and Burleigh that would be apt to involve Newhall, too.  “I’ll ask them both, if you don’t very much mind,” he went on, whispering to Elinor.  “And will you tell Mrs. Fletcher?  How is she this morning?”

“Just as usual, papa.  She says she has rather violent headaches once in a while, and she thinks it prudent to keep her room to-day.  But I can attend to everything.”  Indeed, thought the daughter, she wished she had it all to do.

And so Folsom had gone to meet Burleigh, and the girls had planned, at least Jessie had, that Marshall after drill should ride beside them into town and have a chat in the parlor while she wrote to mother in the library.  But a thing happened that no one could have foreseen.  Just before drill was over and while they were still watching it from their seats in the covered wagon, a buggy drove up alongside and Major Burleigh jumped out, gave the reins to his companion and bade him come to him as soon as he had finished what he wished to do at the sutler’s.  The major’s face was perturbed, that of his companion looked black and ugly.  It was Captain Newhall, and something was amiss.  The latter barely tipped his hat in driving away, the former heaved a sigh of relief, then turned to greet the girls.

Ten minutes passed in constraint and awkwardness.  Burleigh felt that he was unwelcome, but his eyes were fixed in fascination on Elinor Folsom, and he could not go.  Presently drill was dismissed, and Dean, all aglow, came galloping up, his orderly trumpeter following.  Not until he had joyously greeted both the girls did he see who was standing by the forward wheel on the opposite side.

“Good-morning, Mr. Dean,” said Burleigh affably.  “I never saw that troop look so well.”

“Good-morning, sir,” said Dean coldly.  Then turned to speak again to Miss Folsom when the buggy came whirring back.

“He isn’t here, Burleigh,” said the occupant petulantly.  “He’s in town, and you’ve got to find him right off.  Come on!”

Burleigh turned livid.  “Captain Newhall,” he said, “you fail to notice I am with friends.”

“They are friends who will be glad to get rid of you, then,” replied the stranger thickly, and it was easy to see that he had been drinking.  All the same Burleigh went.