Never unless sure of its ground and the weakness of the adversary does the modern Indian band attack at night.  Folsom and his people well knew that.  Yet not five minutes after the Indian girl, faint with exhaustion and dread, was carried within doors, the big mastiff challenged again.  The dogs charged furiously out to the northeast and would not be recalled.  For nearly half an hour they kept up their angry clamor.  Time and again during the night, suspicious and excited, they dashed out again and again, and once one of them, venturing further than his fellows, broke suddenly into loud cries of mingled pain and rage, and when at last he came whining piteously back to the ranch it was found that he was bleeding from a gash along the flank, where an Indian arrow had seared him.  Only by fits and starts did any man sleep.  Hour after hour Folsom’s little garrison was on the alert.  The women had all been moved to the deep, dry cellar, Mrs. Hal moaning over her baby, utterly unnerved, Jessie silent, but white and tremulous; the herdsman’s wife, an Amazon, demanded the right to have a gun and fight by her husband’s side; Lizette, the Indian girl, faint and starved, asked nothing but to be allowed to crouch at the door of the room where Halbert lay, fevered and unconscious, and Pappoose, scorning danger, flitted from her brother’s bedside to her father’s log-barricade at the east porch.  In dread anxiety the hours dragged by, and at last Lannion reached forth his hand and pulled the shirt sleeve of his comrade Jake, half-dozing at his side.  In an instant the latter was kneeling at his post.  “What is it?” he queried, and Lannion, pointing to the first faint, pallid gleam in the eastern sky, whispered:  “Time to be up, man.  It’s coming.”

For half an hour, except for the rushing of the Laramie, a silence almost unearthly had brooded over the prairie, and even the dogs seemed lulled to sleep.  But now, as the cold light crept slowly over the distant range, and a soft flush began to overspread the pallor of the dawn, far out over the valley the yelp of a coyote began again and all men strained their ears and listened, while strong hands grabbed the growling dogs and pinned them to earth, for, beginning at the east, the cry was taken up on every side.  Folsom’s ranch seemed beleaguered by the gaunt, half-famished wolves of the upland prairies.  “Look to your sights, now, men!  Down into the cellar, Pappoose!” exclaimed Folsom, kindling with fierce excitement.  “I’ve been the friend of all that tribe for thirty years, but when they break faith with me and mine that ends it!  Look to your sights and make every shot count!” he cautioned, as he made the rounds of the little shelters thrown up during the past two days.  “We can stand off a hundred of ’em if you only keep your grit.”

Again the clamor as of coyotes ceased.  It was only the Indian signal “Ready,” and every ranchman knew that with the rising sun, if not before, the swoop would come.  Again as the light broadened the dogs were loosed and presently were challenging all four points of the compass.  The unseen foe was on every hand.

Perched as it was on a little rise, the ranch stood forth conspicuous over the valley.  At the foot of the slope to the south lay the corral and some of the buildings, about one hundred yards away, where the shallow Laramie curled and lapped beneath their walls, and now the dogs seemed to concentrate their attention on that side.  Folsom, rifle in hand, was kneeling on the porch, listening intently.  Two of the hands were with him.  Jake and Lannion, experienced and reliable, had been given independent posts on the other front, and just as objects could be dimly recognized along the flats, there burst upon the ears of the little garrison a sudden chorus of exultant yells.  A tongue of flame leaped upward from beyond the huts lately occupied by the ranchmen.  The half-used haystacks caught and held one moment the fiery messenger, and then in a broad glare that reddened the flood of the Laramie for miles and lighted up the ranch like a sunburst, gave forth a huge column of blaze and smoke that could be seen far over the Black Hills of Wyoming, and all the valley seemed to spring to instant life.  On every side arose the stirring war-cry of the Sioux, the swift beat of pony hoofs, the ring of rifle, and brave John Folsom’s heart sank within him as he realized that here was no mere marauding party, but a powerful band organized for deliberate vengeance.  The Laramie plains were alive with darting, yelling, painted horsemen, circling about the ranch, hemming it in, cutting it off from the world.

The bullets came whistling through the morning air, biting fiercely into the solid logs, spattering the chinking, smashing pane after pane.  Some of the dogs came howling and whining back for shelter, though the mastiffs held their ground, fiercely barking and bounding about, despite the whistles and calls from the besieged who sought to save them to the last, but not once as yet had the ranch replied with a shot.  Down in the cellar women clung together or clasped their wailing children and listened fearfully to the clamor.  In Hal’s room the fevered sufferer awoke from his stupor and, demanding his rifle, struggled to rise from the bed, and there John Folsom found Pappoose, pale and determined, bending over her weakened brother and holding him down almost as she could have overpowered a child.  Lifting his son in his strong arms, he bore him to the cellar and laid him upon a couch of buffalo robes.  “Watch him here, my child,” he said, as he clasped her in his arms one moment.  “But on no account let any one show above ground now.  There are more of them than I thought, yet there is hope for us.  Somebody is vexing them down the Laramie.”

Bounding up the steps, the veteran was almost back at his post upon the porch when there came a sound that seemed to give the lie to his last words and that froze the hope that had risen in his breast ­the sudden rumble and thunder of at least two hundred hoofs, the charging yell of an Indian band, the sputter and bang of rifles close at hand, and then a rush of feet, as, with faces agonized by fear, three of the men came darting within.  “It’s all up!  There’s a million Indians!” they cried.  Two of the demoralized fellows plunged into the passage that led to the cellar.  One burst into childish wailing and clung to Folsom’s knees.

“Let go, you coward!” yelled the old man in fury, as he kicked himself loose, then went bounding out upon the porch.  God, what a sight!  Sweeping up the gentle slope, brandishing rifles and lances and war-clubs, racing for their hapless prey, came fifty Ogallallas, Burning Star among the leaders.  Bullets could not stop them now.  The two men who had stood to their posts knelt grim and desperate, and Lannion’s last shot took effect.  Within fifty yards of the walls Burning Star’s rushing pony went down on his nose, and in the fury of his pace, turned sudden and complete somersault, crushing his red rider under him, and stretching him senseless on the turf.  An inspiration, almost God given, seemed to flash upon the old trader at the instant.  Bareheaded, in his shirt sleeves, throwing upward and forward his empty hands, he sprang out as though to meet and rebuke his assailants.  “Hold!” he cried, in the tongue he knew so well “Are my brothers crazed?  Look!  I am no enemy It is your friend!  It is old John!” And even in the rage of their charge, many Indians at sight of him veered to right and left; many reined up short within ten paces of the unarmed man; two sprang from their ponies and threw themselves between him and their brethren, shouting to be heard.  And then in the midst of furious discussion, some Indians crying out for the blood of all at the ranch in revenge for Chaska, some demanding instant surrender of every woman there in expiation for Lizette, some urging that old John be given respectful hearing, but held prisoner, there came lashing into their midst a young brave, crying aloud and pointing down the now well-lighted valley where, darting about a mile away, a few Indians were evidently striving to head off the coming of some hostile force.  Leaving two or three of their number trying to restore consciousness to the stricken chief, and a dozen, Folsom’s advocates among them, to hold possession of the ranch, away scurried most of the warriors at top speed to the aid of their outlying scouts.

Meantime, under cover of the fierce argument, Jake and Lannion had managed to crawl back within the building.  Folsom himself, in such calm as he could command, stood silent while his captors wrangled.  The warriors who pleaded for him were Standing Elk, a sub chief of note, whose long attachment to Folsom was based on kindnesses shown him when a young man, the other was Young-Shows-the-Road, son of a chief who had guided more than one party of whites through the lands of the Sioux before the bitterness of war arose between the races.  They had loved Folsom for years and would not desert him now in the face of popular clamor.  Yet even their influence would have failed but for the sound that told of hotter conflict still among the foothills along the opposite side of the valley.  With straining ears, Folsom listened, hope and fear alternating in his breast.  The mingling yells and volleying told that the issue was in doubt.  Man after man of his captors galloped away until not half a dozen were left.  Now, Jake and Lannion could have shot them down and borne him within, but to what good?  Escape from the ranch itself was impossible!  Such action would only intensify the Indian hate and make more horrible the Indian vengeance.  For twenty minutes the clamor continued, then seemed to die gradually away, and, with fury in their faces, back at full gallop came a dozen of the braves.  One glance was enough.  They had penned their foe among the rocks, but not without the loss of several at least of their band, for the foremost rode with brandished war-club straight at Folsom, and despite the leap of his two champions to save, felled the old trader with one stunning blow, then gave the savage order to burn the ranch.

By this time the sun was just peering into the valley.  The smoke and flame from the corral were dying or drifting away.  Eagerly half a dozen young braves rushed for faggots and kindling with which to do his bidding, and a cry of despair went up from within the walls.  Recklessly now Lannion and his comrade opened fire from the loopholes and shot down two of the dancing furies without, sending every other Indian to the nearest cover.  But the arrows that came whistling speedily were firebrands.  The besiegers gained in force with every moment.  Poor old Folsom, slowly regaining senses as he lay bound and helpless down by the stream, whither his captors had borne him, heard the jeers and shouts of triumph with which the Indians within the corral were rapidly making their fire darts, when suddenly there rose on the morning air a sound that stilled all others, a sound to which the Indians listened in superstitious awe, a sound that stopped the hands that sought to burn out the besieged and paralyzed just long enough all inspiration of attack.  Some of the Indians, indeed, dropped their arms, others sprang to the ponies as though to take to flight.  It was the voice of Lizette, chanting the death song of the Sioux.

An hour later, once more in force, the band was gathered for its rush upon the ranch.  Jake, gallant fellow, lay bleeding at his post.  Hope of every kind was well-nigh dead.  The silence without was only portent of the storm so soon to burst.  Pappoose, grasping her brother’s rifle, crouched facing the narrow entrance to the cellar.  Jessie clung to the baby, for Mrs. Hal, only dimly conscious, was moaning by her husband’s side, while Lizette in silence was kneeling, watching them with strange glitter in her eyes.  Suddenly she started, and with hand to ear, listened intently.  Then she sprang to an air port and crouched there, quivering.  Then again the ground began to tremble under the distant thunder of pony feet, louder and louder every second.  Again came the rush of the Indian braves, but with it no exultant yell, only cries of warning, and as this sound swept over and beyond their walls, there followed another, the distant, deep-throated trooper cheer, the crack of carbine, the rising thunder of the cavalry gallop, and then the voice of Ned Lannion rang jubilantly over the dull clamor.

“Up!  Up, everybody!  Thank God, it’s Dean and the boys!”

Long years after, in the camps and stockades and the growing towns of the far West that almost marvelous rescue was the theme of many an hour’s talk.  The number of men who took part in it, the number of hardy fellows who personally guided the troops or else stood shoulder to shoulder with Ned Lannion at the last triumphant moment, increased so rapidly with the growing moons that in time the only wonder was that anything was left of the Sioux.  Official records, however, limited the number of officers and men engaged to a select few, consisting entirely of Lieutenant Loring, United States Engineers, Lieutenant Loomis, ­th Infantry, a few men from scattered troops, “pickups” at Frayne and Emory, with Lieutenant Marshall Dean and fifty rank and file of Company “C.”

Loring, it will be remembered, had taken a small detachment from Emory and gone into the hills in search of Burleigh.  Loomis, fretting at the fort, was later electrified by a most grudgingly given order to march to the Laramie and render such aid as might be required by the engineer officer of the department.  Dean, with only fifteen men all told, had dashed from Frayne straight for the ranch, and, marching all night, had come in sight of the valley just as it was lighted afar to the eastward by the glare of the burning buildings.  “We thought it was all over,” said he, as he lay there weak and languid, a few days later, for the wound reopened in the rush of the fight, “but we rode on to the Laramie, and there, God be thanked! fell in with Loomis here and “C” Troop, heading for the fire.  No words can tell you our joy when we found the ranch still standing and some forty Sioux getting ready for the final dash.  That running fight, past the old home, and down the valley where we stirred up Loring’s besiegers and sent them whirling too ­why, I’d give a fortune, if I had it, to live it over again!”

But Loring, after all, had the most thrilling story to tell ­of how he wormed a clew to Burleigh’s hiding place out of a captured outlaw and beat up the party in a nook of the hills, nabbed the major asleep, but was warned that all the Birdsall “outfit” would rally to the rescue, and so sent a courier to Emory for “C” Troop, and, making wide detour to avoid the gang, ran slap into the Sioux in the act of firing Folsom’s ranch.  Then he had to take to the rocks in the fight that followed, and had a desperate siege of a few hours, even Burleigh having to handle a gun and fight for his life.  “I spotted him for a coward that day we stumbled on Red Cloud’s band up by the Big Horn.  You remember it, Dean, I thought him a villain when I learned how he was trying to undermine you.  Time proved him a thief and a scoundrel, but, peace to his ashes, he died like a gentleman after all, with two Indian bullets through him, and just as rescue came.  He had time to make full confession, and it was all pretty much as I suspected.  The note Dean picked up at Reno, that so stampeded him, told how a blackmailing scoundrel was on his way to Emory to expose him unless headed off by further huge payments.  It was the fellow who called himself Newhall.”

“The fellow who gave the tip to Birdsall’s people?” said old Folsom at this juncture, raising a bandaged head from his daughter’s lap.  “Who was he, really?”

“Burleigh knew all the time and I suspected the moment I heard Miss Folsom’s description, and was certain the instant I laid eyes on him.  He was a rascally captain cashiered at Yuma the year before, and I was judge advocate of the court.”

“And Mrs. Fletcher?” asked Pappoose, extending one hand to Jess, while the other smoothed the gray curls on her fathers forehead.

“Mrs. Fletcher was his deserted wife, one of- those women who have known better days.”

The ranch is still there, or was twenty years ago, but even then the Sioux were said to raise more hair in the neighborhood than Folsom did cattle.  The old trader had been gathered to his fathers, and Mrs. Hal to hers, for she broke down utterly after the events of ’68.  Neither Pappoose nor Jessie cared to revisit the spot for some time, yet, oddly enough, both have done so more than once.  The first time its chronicler ever saw it was in company with a stalwart young captain of horse and his dark-eyed, beautiful wife nine years after the siege.  Hal met us, a shy, silent fellow, despite his inches.  “Among other things,” said he, “Lieutenant and Mrs. Loomis are coming next week.  I wish you might all be here to meet them.”

“I know,” said Mrs. Dean, “we are to meet at Cheyenne.  But, Hal, where’s your wife?”

He looked shyer still.  “She don’t like to meet folks unless ­”

“There’s no unless about it,” said the lady with all her old decision as she sprang from the ambulance, and presently reappeared, leading by the hand, reluctant, yet not all unhappy, Lizette.  Some people said Hal Folsom had no business to marry an Indian girl before his wife was dead three years, but all who knew Lizette said he did perfectly right, at least Pappoose did, and that settled it.  As for Loring ­But that’s enough for one story.