At three o’clock in the morning, while the stars were still bright in the eastern sky, the little party of troopers, Dean at the irhead, had ridden away from the twinkling lights of camp, and long before sunrise had crossed the first divide to the north, and alternating trot, lope and walk had put miles between them and Fort Emory before the drums of the infantry beat the call for guard mounting.

At ten o’clock the party halted under some spreading willows, deep in a cleft of the bold, high hills that rolled away toward the Sweetwater valley.  Horses were unsaddled and picketed out to graze.  A little cook fire was started close to the spring that fed the tiny brook, trickling away down the narrow ravine, and in a few moments the aroma of coffee and of appetizing slices of bacon greeted the welcoming nostrils of the hungry men.  The sun that had risen clear and dazzling was now obscured by heavy masses of clouds, and time and again Dean cast anxious eyes aloft, for a storm seemed sweeping eastward from the distant Wahsatch range, and long before the little command had dived downward from the heights into the depths of this wild, romantic and contracted valley, all the rolling upland toward Green River, far to the west, lay under the pall of heavy and forbidding banks of hurrying vapor.  Coffee and breakfast finished, Dean climbed the steep bluff overhanging the spring, a faithful sergeant following, and what he saw was sufficient to determine immediate action.

“Saddle up.  We’ll push ahead at once.”

For an instant the veteran trooper looked dissent, but discipline prevailed.

“The lieutenant knows that Carey’s not in yet,” he ventured to say, as he started back down the narrow game trail which they had climbed.

“Yes; but yonder he comes and so does the storm.  We can’t be caught in this canon in case of a hard rain.  Let Carey have some coffee and a bite, if he feels well enough.  Then we’ll push on.”

Ordinarily when making summer marches over the range, the first “water camp” on the Sweetwater trail was here at Canon Springs.  On the road to Frayne, which crossed the brook ten miles to the east, all wagon trains and troops not on forced march made similar camp.  In the case of scouting detachments or little parties sent out from Emory, it was always customary to spend the first night and make the first camp on the Box Elder at furthermost, then to push on, ready and refreshed, the following day.  Dean well knew that to get the best work out of his horses he should start easily, and up to nine o’clock he had fully intended to make the usual camp at the Springs.  But once before, within a few years, a big scouting party camping in the gorge of the Box Elder had been surprised by one of those sudden, sweeping storms, and before they could strike tents, pack up and move to higher ground, the stream took matters into its own hands and spared them all further trouble on that score, distributing camp and garrison equipage for long leagues away to the east.  Two miles back, trooper Carey, who had been complaining of severe cramp and pain in the stomach, begged to be allowed to fall out and rest awhile.  He was a reliable old soldier when whisky was not winning the upper hand, and this time whisky was not at fault.  A dose of Jamaica ginger was the only thing their field pharmacopoeia provided, and Carey rolled out of his saddle and doubled up among the rocks with his hands on the pit of his stomach, grimacing.

“Go back if you think best, or come ahead and catch us at the Springs if well enough,” were the orders left him, while the men pushed on, and now, as the lieutenant said, Carey was coming himself.  Some of the party were already dozing when the sergeant’s sharp order “Saddle up” was given, but a glance at the lowering sky explained it all, and every man was standing to horse and ready when the missing trooper came jogging in among them, white, peaked, but determined.  A look of mingled disappointment and relief appeared on his face as he saw the preparations for the start, but his only comment was, “I can make it, sir,” as he saluted his young commander.  Less than two hours from the time they unsaddled, therefore, the troopers once more mounted, and, following their leader, filed away down the winding gorge.  Presently there came the low rumble of thunder, and a sweep of the rising wind.  “Trot,” said Dean, and without other word the little column quickened the pace.

The ravine grew wider soon and far less tortuous, but was still a narrow and dangerous spot.  For a mile or two from the Springs its course was nearly east of north, then it bore away to the northeast, and the Sweetwater trail abruptly left it and went winding up a cleft in the hills to the west.  Just as they reached this point the heavens opened and the clouds descended in a deluge of rain.  Out came the ponchos, unstrapped from the saddle, and every man’s head popped through the slit as the shiny black “shedwater” settled down on his shoulders.

“That outfit behind us will get a soaking if it has been fool enough to follow down to the Springs,” said Carey to the sergeant, as they began the pull up the slippery trail.

“What outfit?” asked Dean, turning in the saddle and looking back in surprise.

A blinding flash of lightning, followed almost on the instant by the crack and roar of thunder, put summary stop to talk of any kind.  Men and horses bowed their heads before the deluge and the rain ran in streams from the manes and tails.  The ascending path turned quickly into a running brook and the black forms of steeds and riders struggled sidewise up the grass-grown slopes in search of higher ground.  The heavens had turned inky black.  The gloomy ravine grew dark as night.  Flash after flash the lightning split the gloom.  Every second or two trooper faces gleamed ghastly in the dazzling glare, then as suddenly vanished.  Horses slipped or stumbled painfully and, man after man, the riders followed the example of the young soldier in the lead and, dismounting, led their dripping beasts farther up the steep incline.  Halfway to the summit, peering through the wind-swept sheets of rain, a palisaded clump of rocks jutted out from the heights and, after a hard climb, the little band found partial shelter from the driving storm, and huddled, awe-stricken, at their base.  Still the lightning played and the thunder cannonaded with awful resonance from crag to crag down the deep gorge from which they had clambered, evidently none too soon, for presently, far down the black depths, they could see the Box Elder, under a white wreath of foam, tearing in fury down its narrow bed.

“Beg pardon, lieutenant,” shouted the veteran sergeant in the young commander’s ear, even in that moment never forgetting the habitual salute, “but if I didn’t see the reason for that sudden order to saddle I more than see it now.  We would have been drowned like rats down there in the gulch.”

“I’m wondering if anybody has drowned like rats,” shouted Dean, in reply.  “Carey says another party was just behind us.  Who could they be?”

But for answer came another vivid, dazzling flash that for an instant blinded all eyes.  “By God! but that’s a stunner!” gasped a big trooper, and then followed the deafening bang and crash of the thunder, and its echoes went booming and reverberating from earth to heaven and rolling away, peal after peal, down the bluff-bound canon.  For a moment no other sound could be heard; then, as it died away and the rain came swashing down in fresh deluge, Carey’s voice overmastered the storm.

“That’s struck something, sir, right around yonder by the Springs.  God help that outfit that came a-gallopin’ after me!”

“What was it?  Which way were they coming?” Dean managed to ask.

“Right along the bluff, sir, to the east.  Seemed like they was ridin’ over from the old camp on the Frayne road.  There was twenty-five or thirty of ’em, I should say, coming at a lope.”

“Cavalry?” asked Dean, a queer look in his face.

“No, sir.  They rode dispersed like.  They was a mile away when I sighted them, and it was gittin’ so black then I don’t think they saw me at all.  They were ’bout off yonder, half a mile east of the Springs when I dipped down into the ravine, and what seemed queer was that two of them galloped to the edge, dismounted, and were peering down into the gorge like so many Indians, just as though they didn’t want to be seen.  I was goin’ to tell the lieutenant ’bout it first thing if I had found our fellows off their guard, but you were all mounted and just starting.”

Instinctively Dean put forth his hand under the dripping poncho and tugged at the straps of his off saddle-bag.  No need for dread on that score.  The bulky package, wrapped, sealed and corded, was bulging out of the side of his field pouch till it looked as though he had crammed a cavalry boot into its maw.

“Thirty men ­mounted? ­no wagons or ­anything?” he anxiously asked.

“Full thirty, sir, and every man armed with rifle as far as I could see,” said Carey, “and if it was us they was after, they’d have had us at their mercy down in that pocket at the Springs.”

A shout from one of the men attracted the attention of the leaders.  The storm had spent its force and gone rolling away eastward.  The thunder was rumbling far over toward the now invisible crest of the Black Hills of Wyoming.  The rain sheets had given place to trickling downpour.  A dim light was stealing into the blackness of the gorge.  Louder and fiercer roared the Box Elder, lashing its banks with foam.  And then came the cry again.

“I tell you it is, by God! for there goes another!”

All eyes followed the direction of the pointing finger.  All eyes saw, even though dimly, the saddled form of a horse plunging and struggling in the flood, making vain effort to clamber out, then whirling helplessly away ­swept out of sight around the shoulder of bluff, and borne on down the tossing waves of the torrent.  Men mean no irreverence when they call upon their Maker at such times, even in soldier oath.  It is awe, not blasphemy.

“By God, lieutenant, that’s what we’d a been doing but for your order.”  It was the sergeant who spoke.

And at that very hour there was excitement at Fort Emory.  At eight o’clock the colonel was on his piazza looking with gloomy eyes over the distant rows of empty barracks.  The drum-major with the band at his heels came stalking out over the grassy parade, and the post adjutant, girt with sash and sword-belt, stood in front of his office awaiting the sergeant-major, who was unaccountably delayed.  Reduced to a shadow, the garrison at Fort Emory might reasonably have been excused, by this time, from the ceremony of mounting a guard, consisting practically of ten privates, three of whom wore the cavalry jacket; but old “Pecksniff” was determined to keep up some show of state.  He could have no parade or review, but at least he could require his guard to be mounted with all the pomp and ceremony possible.  He would have ordered his officers out in epaulets and the full dress “Kossuth” hat of the period, but epaulets had been discarded during the war and not yet resumed on the far frontier.  So the rank and file alone were called upon to appear in the black-feathered oddity a misguided staff had designed as the headgear of the array.  “Pecksniff’s” half-dozen doughboys, therefore, with their attendant sergeants and corporals in the old fashioned frock and felt, and a still smaller squad of troopers in yellow-trimmed jackets and brass-mounted forage caps, were drawn up at the edge of the parade awaiting the further signal of adjutant’s call, while the adjutant himself swore savagely and sent the orderly on the run for the sergeant-major.  When that clock-governed functionary was missing something indeed must be going wrong.

Presently the orderly came running back.

“Sergeant Dineen isn’t home, sir, and his wife says he hasn’t been back since the lieutenant sent him in town with the last dispatch.”

“Tell the first sergeant of “B” Company, then, to act as sergeant-major at once,” said the adjutant, and hurried over to his colonel.  “Dineen’s not back, sir,” he reported at the gate.  “Can anything be wrong?”

“I ordered him to bring with him the answer to my dispatch to the general, who wired to me from the railway depot at Cheyenne.  Probably he’s been waiting for that, and the general’s away somewhere.  We ought to have an operator here day and night,” said Pecksniff petulantly.  But the irritation in his eyes gave way to anxiety when at that moment the sutler’s buggy was seen dashing into the garrison at headlong speed, his smart trotter urged almost to a run.  Griggs reined up with no little hard pulling at the colonel’s gate, and they could see a dozen yards off that his face was pale.

“Have you any idea, colonel,” he began the moment the officers reached him, “where Major Burleigh can be?  He left the depot somewhere about three o’clock this morning with that Captain Newhall.  He hasn’t returned and can’t be found.  Your sergeant-major was waylaid and robbed some time after midnight, and John Folsom was picked up senseless in the alley back of his house two hours ago.  What does it all mean?”