The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 19, 1895, Page 18

THE N FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, MAY 19, 1895. R BY (APT. CHAS.KING.- CHAPTER XIIL Clear and sparkling Christmas morn- ing dawned on old Fort Frayne. The clouds that obscured the moon at mid- night sent fluttgring earthward a fresh fall of snow and spread a spotless coverlet over the Valley of the Platte, softening rude outlines, capping with glistening white roof and chimney, tree and tower, and mercifully obliterating the unsightly streaks that led across the frozen river, and the deep red blotches that smeared the post at No.6. Two discoveries had been made by the officer of the guard in his search after the removal of Graice, struggling and cursing to the prison-room on the second floor, where Leale himself directed him placed ead of among the garrison pris- oners in the general room. One was that the sentry had received from some source of whisky after being placed on post, for, half emptied was found in a woodpile back of the officers’ quarters. The other was that he had more than once meandefed from the beaten path to the rear gateway leading to the Farrars’ quar- ters, as though some powerful attraction drew and held him thither. Even before the tragedy which had shocked the garrison at taps busy tongues had everywhere Leen telling of Thorp’s furious denunciation of Graice and of the statement as to his claim to being the son of an officer, Members of the guard had iced the y that seemed to possess Graice after that episode. He slunk away from his as though unable to face them after having passively received such a scoring. He had twice been refused by the sergeant permis: to leave the guard- house, as it was surmised he had liquor hidden somewhere and was craving its fiery comfort and stimulant now. So strong was his conviction on this head that the sergeant had searched him before 1 ting Graice de with his relief at 10:15. But Graice knew too much to conceal a flask about his person. Looking only for liquor, the sergeant unluckily had failed to notice the en knife that was secreted within the b; t of his overcoat, and that knife had done bloody and disastrous work. evident to all that he must have ing heavily after taking his post, for he was reeling when led to the guard. house, and the mad imprecations on his lips were frightful to he: Up to the reveille Christmas morning not a word had come from Fenton's com- mand, but soon after stable call a courier came riding in with a note to Leale. *All right,” it cheerily read. “We found the whole band spoiling for a fight and ready to clean out half the country anyhow, but the cowboys kept at respectful distance until we got there. Then when they knew a fight wouldn’t be allowed they came charging down and demanded battle or the surrender of White Wolf and his three | pals. Two of the latter were half way to | Crazy Woman’s Fork by this time, and I do not officially know the other, so the whole village moves up under our wing and will camp on the low ground to th west of the fort. Then when the civil autherities come with warrants and the assurance that the two shall have fair play and a square trial, Big Road will surren- der the alleged murderers. Meantime no cowboy shall be allowed on the reserva- tion. We should be back by noon.” Signed, “Fenton.” And by noon back they came, the big squad of regulars, the motley village of Sioux, followed at very discreet distance by an equally motley array of cowboys and citizens, and all Christmas afternoon the industrious squaws were pitching the tepees on the westward flats, herding the ponies and cooking for their lords, while most of these latter were loafing about the post, glad of a chance to prowl around the quarters and storehouses, and beg for any- thing they saw or fancied. As for society at Frayne, it accepted the bliss of the situ- ation as readily as it had mourned the necessity that sent the command away, and except in one or two households, all thought was centered in the briefly inter- rupted preparations for the festivities of the coming night. ‘Wyoming winter days are short enough; yet this, almost the shortest of the year, ad already proved too long, too trying, to more than one comparative stranger within the gates of Fort Frayne. The story of Graice’s furious outbreak, of Crow Knife’s devotion and dangerous wound, had gone like wildfire over the once more crowded garrison, The former, as has been said, was safely locked 1n the smaller prison-room of the old guard- house, where for a time he had been heara savagely raging at his bars and kicking at the resounding woodwork. Crow Knife, borne on a blanket to the hospital, lay silent, patient, and hovering between’ life and death, the captain whom he loved and for whom he had periled his life sitting steadfast by his side. Night came on strangely still. The boom of the sunset gun and the evening chorus of the trumpets and the voices of the men at rolleall, all muffied by the fleecy fall of snow, yet there was premonition in the air, and old-timers glanced at the sky and at _the yellow sunset, gloomily vredicting ugly weather before the coming morn, Within the cheery messrooms, where the . troopers were wont to flock with bustle . knife and spoon among and chaff and good-natured soldierly noise. mingling with the clatter of plate an the cozy homes across the parade,where the families of the officers gathered at dinner, the gloom of Graice’s drunken crime, mingling with the shadows of wintery loaming, seemed to oppress every hcart,%:illing joyous laugh- ter, saddening soldier tones, quigs and jests, strangling every effort to throw off the weight that had’ settled on old and young, on one and all. Even among the more recklessand indifferent of the men Leale’s impartiality and justice had won respect that outlived their dread of hisstern and un&iclding discipline. Even those who had suifered at his hands could not but admire more than they hated him. Among nine-tenths of the troopers he was held in solid esteem, among very many in almost enthusiastic affection, but one and all they united in praise of his conduct on this trying occasion, and in deep, if not loud, denunciation of his brutalized assail- ant. As for the other, the more reputable if red-skinned savage, the soldiers had but one opinion. Crow Knife was the whitest Indian in Wyoming, and they meant it as compliment despite its unflattering possi- bilities. Graice himself had made no friends. A man with a grievance is never popular among soldiers, high or low, and Graice's sullen, surly ways had estranged even those in whom his mouthings against his superiors of every rank. from colonel to corporal, might possibly have responsive echo. That there should be talk of lgnching was characteristic of the time and neighborhood and. the associa- tions of frontier life, and that it would come to nothing in a military garrison its most strenuous advocates fully realized. And, all the same, despite the prevailing gloom, the preparations for the dance went on. Battle and murder and sudden'death, stifling merry | with their escorts, Mrs. from which we worldlings so earnestly pray deliverance, were matters that might mar, but could not down, the soldier %ove for social gayeties, Were it otherwise there would have been many a year in the his- tory of our little army wherein no music sounded save the dirge, and the only an- swer to the battle volley was its measured echo at the grave. Just as the bandsmen peal their most T)yous strains as they lead the funeral column on the homeward march, so must there be the merry sound of music and the dance in every garrison of the far frontiers or the wolf’s long how! and the savage war whoop, the battle cry and dying moan live unbanished from the tortured memory, and mind and matter both give way under the ceaseless strain. The morbid curiosity that brought shiver- ing little squads of children and delega- tions from gudsville and the stables, aye, from officers’ row, to peer in at the scene of the fierce and sudden affray, still sent its victims thither, and questioners were perpetually bothering Rorke and his as- sistants who witnessed the affray as they were putting the finishing touc{]es to the decoration snd lighting the lamps about the ballroom. “G'wan out o’ this, Finnigan,” said Rorke, flourishing his broom_atthe little group. “Go to your quarters, Collins. Divil knows there was no pursuadin’ on ye to come a-visitin’ here when wurrk was on hand; but now ye shmell the spread, an’ drame o’ crumbs ana heel-taps, ye're as privilent as poor relations at a wake. Ar- rah, go talk to me ould helmit over at the barracks yonder—me head’s tired. Shure T've tould yer last night's dark sthory tin toimes over, an’ there’ll be no more sthory to tell tiil we know whether it's loif she answered, gently. “Iloveto have him brought before me, as we remember him | then—my Royle—my brave boy!” 7 “’Dade, an’ he war worth remimberin’, ma’am. The handsome wild young rider— | free wid his money and free wid his fists. Many’s the toime I've had to sthand be- tune him and his little brother—him as is my shuperior officer this day. Oh, but it's a foine_officer he makes, does Masther Will! I never see him so sthrait an’ hand- some and martial on parade loik his father before him—him that’s gone to glory wid the love av ivery soldier thativer knew him, that I don’t remimber thim days whin Iwasa recruit an’ he was the colonel’s kid. Och, what days—what days!” and, lost in the enthusiasm of his remin: cences, Rorke failed to notice that Lien- tenant Farrar and Kitty had come gmezly in_and were standing but a little distance behind him. “Do ye remember, now, | ma’am, the Christmas Masther Will mounted his little pony, ahl dressed up to kill, an’ was to take the docther's daughter out ridin’, he wud, an’ tin minutes later we brought him home ahl drippin’ an’ tippin’ an’ ragin’ ahl along av Corcorin’s ould billy goat havin’ butted him into the ditch back o’ Company D’s quarthers, an’ him ready to kill me for bustin’ wid laughin’. Oh, he was a foine boy—" And here Will came fariously forward, and Rorke, horror-stricken, stiffened up to the salute. “I beg your pardon, Masther Will.” “Your reminiscences are ill timed, cor- poral, to say the least. If you've quite | finished, you'd better follow your men— unless—""and this he added with scathing sarcasm, and glancing at Kitty, who was convulsed with laughter— ‘‘unless, per- haps, Miss Ormsby desires you to further entertain her with anecdotes of my child- hood,” and here Kitty burst in: ; “I? Mercy, no! My constant effort is, | out of respect to you, to forget your youth, | not to recall it. ‘Surely, you're not going | to put on that horrid thing again?” she | exclaimed, as Will, who had laid aside his | overcoat and saber, now buckled on his weapon. i s “Are yon afraid I'll injure you with it?” said he, with deep sarcasm. “ LOOKED LIFE AND MY OWN SOUL IN THE FACE.” or death for Crow Knife—poor soul—at the hospital yonder, an’ a rope or_a pinitent- iary cell for that drunken divil in the guardhouse tower.” “What's he in the tower for?’ asked | Trooper Martin. “All by himself, is he? Too fine for the general room ?” “Too fine? Too wise, crazed as he was,” answered Rorke, as he thrust himself in the general prison room. ““Sure, he begged pitififl to be shut up by himself and not put like an onrighteous Daniel into that ain o’ lions—manin’ two Indians an’ a woild Irish prisoner or two, an’ they know- ing him to have his comrade’s blood not dhry on his bands.” “Yes, and if things go wrong with Crow,” said Martin, reflectively, “1 reckon Graice will wish fire would stand his friend again, as he was telling us ivdid in Mex- ico.” “Arrah, if foire were to visit him this night, it’s him wad visit the divil in short order,” said Rorke, looking out of the win- dow. “There’s purgathory’s own wind that'll be abroad presently, an’ a fire shtarted anywhere In the post wad foind thim carfridges in the gnardhouse before we cud say our prayers. G'wan o’ this, ve omadhauns,” said he, flourishing his room again at the crowd that gathered about him. “Schat down to Sudsville wid ye before your betters eome to foind ye disfigurin’ the landscape. Off wid ve, ye son av a soapdish,” he cried to a laun- dress’ child, “‘and tell yer mother she ruined my best shtable frock wid her bluin’ lasht week. Faith, it ran loike the legs in yer father’s breeches the 1Asht fight we were in. Bad scran to him for the worst cobbler in the cavalry. Out wid every mother’s son of ye,” he cried, diving them all out but Kraut and Martin. *‘Shutthat dure now, Kraut, and bar it wid the broad av yer back till I git the schrane before the enthrance.” But Martin still had other questions to ask, “They say the Indians of Crow’'s troop will be neither to hold nor bind if that's his death wound that Graice gave him. I'm told there’s mutterings about their having Graice out of the guardhouse to-night, tower or no tower.” Rorke turned and gazed out of the win- dow to where the lights were beginning to burn in the little building. “I” pity the man,” said he, “that thries to have him out whin Captain Leale’s there to watch him and says he shall sthay in.” “Will Crow Knife die, do you think, corporal?’’ asked Martin. *0i don’t know. The docther believes it, an’ for the besht reasons.’” The voices of ladies could be heard at the moment at the vestibule, and presently, arrar and_ Ellis, came hastening in; it seemed as though they had come purposely to have one look at the old colonel’s portrait before the athering of the rest of the party. A little ehind them, pale and with an expression that seemed to tell of the strain through which she had been passing, Helen Daun- ton came, Ieuninfi on the arm of Major Wayne, whom she led to one side, ‘as mother and daughter stood in front of the picture. **The light seems perfect,” said Mrs. Far- rar. “I'm sure I see your hand in all this, Rorke, and I want to thatk you not only for myself, but for your old colonel. It's many a Christmas we both of us have seen with the old regiment, and the first of them 5 was a girl bride and trumpemxf" L Rl “Indade, mPam,” answered Rorke, ““those were merry Christmases that come afther, whin you used to come to the min’s there a-ladin’ little Mashter Royle—plague on me tongue! Phwatam I sayin’ of?"’ ‘““Speak of him when you wi , Rorke,” \ *‘Oh, not a bit,” said Kitty. “Nor any- body else—unless you should happen to cut yourself.” ‘‘Gibe away, Miss Ormsby,” said the officer of the guard. *You cannot gibe me into laying aside my saber, as duty forbids me to agpear without it; even your wishes cannot be regarded.” “What? You officer of tne guard?"’ ex- claimed Kitty. “Ah,” with sudden change of manner, “‘then for one night the post is safe.”” Here she seized Rorke's broom and with a capital imitation came to the position of charge bayonets. “Who comes there?’’ she cried. “The enemy, a million strong! Halt, enemy, and tremble! Run for yourlives! Do you know who is officer of the guard? It is Masther Will.” And | then, turning from him in saucy imitation of his swagger and stride, with her broom at right shoulder, away she marched for the dressing-room. ‘‘She’s past patience,” saia poor Will to himself, justly wrathful at such ignomini- ous treatment at the hands of his love,and what made it worse was that numbers of people were rapidly arriving and that many had witnessed 'and enjoved Kitty's saucy mockery; but right in ‘the midst of these new arrivals came an orderly trum- | peter with a note which he lost no time in Xelivering to Mr. Farrar with the brief an- nouncement: “The officer of the day’s compliments, sir, and he_said the lieuten- ant should have it immediately.’’ Helen Daunton was among those who marked the swiftcoming of the messenger, and it was impossible for her to resist the impulse that drew her toward the young officer. Intuitively she knew that the message in some wise concerned her wretched husband, now the object of the wrath and curses of the whole” command. Breathless, she watched Farrar as he tore open the envelope and rapidly read the brief inclosure. “Crow Knife isdead. There is intense excitement among the men, especially the Indians, and threats of lynchin, ave been heard. Graice knows his peril, and may try to escape. Look well to your uard. Signed, Farwell, Officer of the ay.” “Escape from my guard,” Helen heard hin say. “Not if he were my own brother.” The next minute Will had caught up gis cap and overcoat and started for the loor. But already Kitty had begun to repent of her experiment, and to question whether she had not hazarded too much in thus provoking her devoted but none the less peppery lover. Peering from the dressing- Toom she saw him dart past Helen Daun- ton, and, giving very brief answer to some question asked, saw him pick up his cap and coat, and that was more than enough to bring her to terms. Unaware of the coming of the orderly, she looked upon Will’s preparation for aepnrture as proof positive that he was so angered against her as to have decided to quit the ballroom for good and all. In an instant she came flut- tering to his side, catching him only at the very doorway. ‘‘Where are you going, Mr. Farrar?” she demanded, "aggrieved and imploring, both. “You're engaged to me for the very first dance, sir. Surely, you're not going out?” “Iregret to have to ask for my release, Miss Ormsby,” answered Will, with infinite dignity, “but duty of unusual importance called me at once. My saber and I made sport for you a moment ago, and now we are going where both are needed,” and, bowing very low and looking very majes- tic, the officer of the guard turned and ab- ruptly left the room, leaving his late tor- mentor gazing after him with eyes that suddenly filled and lips that quivered sus- piciously. Ellis saw through it all at once and came to comfort her. Strange to say, the young officers were gathering but slowly to-night, and several of their number hl! not yet arrived. The musicians were in their places and already awaiting the signal of the manager, but Leale’s absence was remarked by many of those present, and when Fenton entered his face, usually so jovial, was clouded and anxious. Ormsby was with him, and his eyes seemed to seek and find Ellis at once. itty was just turning away as they came. She hed watched Will's tall figure disa Kear in the gloaming toward the guard- ouse, and now precipitated herself upon Uncle Fenton to demand an explanation of Will’s mysterious references to impor- tant duty, and once again, therefore, Ellis was alone. Ormsby stepped gumkly to her side She would have escaped to the dress- ing-room, but could not do so without pass- ing close beside him. She could -not be deaf to the mingling of reproach and ten- derness in the tone in which he spoke. “It would be advertising our- ifference were you to deny me a dauce or two, Miss Farrar, and 1 have come to remind you of your promise. You have not forgotten?” *‘I think all promises are at an end be- tween us,” was the cold, constrained re- ply. “I forget nothing. 1 remember only too well.”” “Ellis,” said he, with sudden impulse, “‘these are the last words we can have alone, for I have determined to go, and by the very mext train. I appeal no longer for your love. The girl wEo has not_learned to trust cannot learn to love, but I do ap- peal to fiour sense of justice—justice not to pass blind, eruel judgment on the inno- cent woman whose secret I am shielding at the cost of what is dearest tome in life.” But she was immovable. Like the sol- dier’s daughter she was, she looked him squarely in the eves as she answered : ‘‘Neither an innocent woman nor an in- nocent secret can need shielding at such a cost.” “Ellis,” he began, his voice trembling with passion, as he stepped close to her side, but she recoiled from him, and noting it and the entrance of new arrivals he strangled the impulse that swayed him, and after a moment’s silence continued, in a tone as cold as her own: “No. I seeitis useless. The last word is said. But we cannot forget the world is looking on to- night. You will give me—this dance ?”’ She inclined her head in assent, but | would not trust herself to speak. Even | now, when angered and full of jealous dis- trust, she cared for him far too well not to note the sudden change in tone, not to feel vague yet deep distress that he had taken her at her word; that he had deter- mined to leave her this very night; that | he would plead no more. CHAPTER XIV. An hour later and the long-expected Christmas ball was in full swing, but the late comers entered snow-covered and buf- feted, for, just as Corporal Rorke had pre- dicted, a howling blizzard was sweepin down from the gorges of the Rockies, an whirling deep the drifts about the walls of old Fort Frayne. Leale had come in about tattoo, grave and taciturn, his fine face shadowed by a sorrow whose traces all could see. He had come for no festive purpose, and was still in undress uniform, and after a brief, low-toned conference with his colonel, had turned at once in search of Helen Daunton, who, ever since the dance began, had hovered near the windows that looked out toward the guard- house, barely 100 yards away, yet now even with .ts brilllant light only dimly visible through the lashing storm. Twice had Mrs. Farrar essayed to draw her friend into the little circle Bi; which she was sur- rounded, but Helen had speedily shown she was unable to_ give her attention to what was being said or to take any part in the conversation. It was at the window Leale found her and gently but firmly drew her to one side and closed_the shade. “I have felt in every fiber,” said he, “how ou were waiting, watching, and agoniz- ing here for news from—irom him. There is no news, Helen, except—you know the man he stabbed—who gave his life for me— is dead.” “I know,” was the shuddering answer. “‘Has he heard? Does he realize?’ *Pos; 'bl}’ not. He seems to be sleefing. But he‘iril know it soon enough. Helen— do you know this—that to-morrow we must give himup?”’ “Give him up?” she asked, unable to comprehend his meaning, and looking with new dread into his compassionate face. “Yes, to the civil authorities. He has— I cannct choose words now—be has com- mitted murder and must be tried by a civil not a military court.”” “You must give him up,” she moaned. “Oh, what can we do—what can we do?"” and fearfully she glanced to where Mrs. Farrar was seated, chatting blithely, even joynuslg, now, with her garrison friends. “Yes,”” he answered, ‘“‘and well I know now why you gaze at her, I know all the miserable truth. Ormsby told me when e came to ask my counsel and my help. He has only left me a short time since. 1 was pledged to hel; gour husband, Helen, and I am doubly pledged to help that dear, dear woman’s son. I must protect Royle Farrar to the utmost of mg power; but, Helen, in this last half hour by the bedside of the brave fellow who gave his life for me I have looked life and my own soul in the face. 1 know what I must doand what I connot do. I am notstrongenough to play at friendship with the woman I love with all my soul. Ican only be your friend b§, serving you from far away. When what is coming to Royle Farrar has come I shall take leave of absence and go over the sea. It is good-by between us now. To-night I look my last upon the face of Royle Farrar's wife. What? You want me, Will?”” he suddenly turned and asked, for at this moment, throwing back the snow-matted hood of his over- coat, Farrar entered and came quickly to them, unseen by his mother. “Yes, sir. The news of Crow Knife’s death is all over the garrison and the men are fairly -mad over it. They won’t tr; lynching, but the sentries at the guard- house are doubled, front and rear. Graice is sleeping yet, or else shamming. Idon’t think he’s too _drunk not to realize what would happen if Crow Knife’s people got at him.” “‘Then your duty is doubled, lad,” was Leale’s low-toned answer, “to hold the prisoner and to protect him, too.” “I understand,” said Will, firmly. “The man who gets at him to-ni;;ht, sir, will have to go through hell first.’ And then he turned to find Kitty stand- ing, smiling in saucy triumph, at his elbow, leaning on the colonel’sarm. Stillangered against her and deeply impressed with the importance of the duties devolying upon him Farrar would have hastened by them Wwith only brief and ceremonious saluta- tion, when Fenton stopped them. ‘“Where did T understand that you were going, sir?” said the colonel with mock severity of manner. ‘I gave you permis- sion to remain here, sir, and you'd better jump at the chance. Here's my niece tell- ing me that you are engaged to dance with her, and "at this moment it seems you are about to leave the room. Off with that overcoat, or its your saber that will come ‘off, sir, in arrest. What! Slight a member of your colonel’s household! Lord bless me, sir, it’s tantamount to mutiny.” “But, colonel,” responded Farrar, im- petuously, “the officer of the day—"’ “Not another word, sir. Here is your officer of the day,” said he, indicating Kitty, “and you will report for duty in. stantly.” Irresolute, rejoicing and disappointed and perturbed all in one, Farrar stood one moment, hardly knowing what to do, when Kitty seized him by one arm and Leale, n_ghng his embarrassment, stepped to his side. ~ “I am going to the guardhouse, Will, and I \villglon after y%?n- duties there. Have your dance and return at your con- venience. The colonel will let you go after a while,” And then Miss Kitty resumed her sway. “I shan’t dance one step with you until you take that dreadful thing off,” said she, xpdicqtini his dangling saber, and utterly ignoring his protest that, as officer of the guard, it was part of his uniform and equipment. Her only response was that ke was to remember that he was then on duty with her. *Take off that sword, sir, and hurry about it, for there goes the band.” And so, unslinging the hflfi weapon, he handed it submissively to imperious queen, who promptly stowed it nw!:; under the wooder? settgs against the wall, and then, bowing to_her partner, in- dicated tohim that at ]gue he was at liberty to lead her to the dance. And now, smiling, joyous and once more thrilling with mischievous delight, as_she bore her sulky prize across the room, Kitty came suddenly upon the major standing, mooning and preoccupied, gazing, appar- ently, at txhaenportrait of Colonel Farrar, yet, as was equally apparent to the little knot of laughing lookers-on, seeing it not at all. Kitty was on the point of accosting and bringing him to himself, but, with eager whisper and gesticulations, Amory, Martin and others called her to them. ‘‘Don’t wake him,” they murmured. ‘Do let Aunt Lou have that comfort. See, she's coming to him now.”” And, as what Kitty most wanted at that moment was an opportunity to restore her interrupted dominion over her angered lover, and as he was blind and deaf at the moment to any- thing but the consideration of his own grievances, personal and official, Wayne was left to become the central object of in- | terest, while Kitty drew her deposed officer | of the guard to a distant corner. Wayne was a study. That he was strug- | gling to recall some important matter_was evident to all who had long known him and for the time being he was lost to all consciousness of surrounding sights and sounds, and had floated off into that dreamland of reminiscence in_which only he was thoroughly at home. One or two of the ladies who were at that moment rest- ing from the dance stood leaning on the arms of their attendant cavaliers and Wwatching with them the result of Lucre- tia’s timid, yet determined, approach. Almost tiptoeing, as though afraid that her noiseless footfall might rudely awaken him, she was stealing to his side, and pres- ently they saw her lay her hand upon his arm and peer trustingly up into his face. language entirely, and, ing for his glasgsesg finding them, distflg&dly he tried to fit their spring on Lucretia’s finger. Fenton, who had joined the group of on- lookers, could stand it no longer. Burst- ing into aroar of langhter, he came toward them, and, thus interrupted, poor Wayne dropped both hand and eyeglass, madly trying to fit his own ring inwiis own eye, and look through that, under the im- pression that it was a glass. H “What on earth are you people laughing at?” he inquired. “Laughing at? At your trying to make a spectacle-hook of Lucretia’s hand, you inspired old lunatic,” was Fenton’s un- feeling answer, and poor Lucretia, unable to stand the raillery at the moment, turned and fled to the dressing-room, leavin Wayne to confront his tormentors as bes! he might. £ But, while music and laughter reigned within the wooden walls of the assembly- room and many young hearts were able to cast aside for the time being the oppression that had settled upon the garrison earlier in the evening, and while in_some of the barracks there were sounds of merry-mak- ing and Christmas cheer, there was rag- ing in many a breast a storm as wild as that that whirled the snowdrift in blind- ing clouds all around and about the guard- house, where a score of seasoned troopers, silent, grim, and by no means in love with their task, were keeping watch and ward over their little batch of prisoners, espe- cially the cowering wretch who bad been stowed away in the upper room, an utterly friendless man. Over across the wind-swept parade, among the rows of wooden barracks, was one building where no laughter rang and about which,wary and vigilant,three or four non-commissioned officers hovered _inces- santly. Here were quartered Crow Knife’s few remaining comrades of the Indian troop. Here were gathered already a TR Y Z e “SILENCE, YOU HOUND!” Thinking only}of him and for him, she, too, then was almost unconscious of any observation, kindly and good-natured though it was. Unwilling to interrupt too suddenly the current of his m-~ditations, she hesitated before speaking. Then, half timidly, she gugg;?sted, “You like the picture, ma- Slowly his gaze came down from the flag-draped portrait, and through his eye- lasses s\hyne benignantly regarded her. fi‘inally his wandering wits returned and he roused himself to faltering answer to her repeated question. ‘It makes him look too old,” he said. “I can’t bear any- thing that looks old, don’t you know!” Then dimly conscious of something he might have put in far happier form he 3nickly strove to recall his words. “I—I on’t mean women, of course—I like old women. Youknow I vears ago.” ““You left me to guess it, then,” mur- mured she, vnfiuely grateful for even this admission and desirous of encouraging avowals even thus late and lukewarm. “Yes,” he went on, ‘‘you know it seems to me—wasn’t it that last night we danced together at Jefferson barracks? That was every day of twenty years ago.” “Ah, well,” answered Lucretia, “you know it is so very difficult to reckon from, because that was the 29th of February, and tl‘l‘nt coming only once in four years, ou— “Hah!” Wayne laughinglyfinterrupted, and then suddenly fell back again into his old mooning way. “And yet, you know, there was something I wanted to ask you that night, nmt I was so confoundedly ab- sent-minded—' _“Oh, very,” said she, “for you men- tioned that there was something you want- ed to ask me and I have—I've been won- dering what it could have been for twenty years.” “Do you know,” said he, delightfully, “so have I—so have L' And here he leaned beamingly over her and his eye- lasses fell off and dangled at the ena of heir cord. “Itwas only to-night,” he went on. “It came to me that it was something connected with this ring—m class ring, you know. It's odd I can’t think what it was. Why your hand is coyly trembling.”” Delightedly she up- raised it to meet the coming ring and then again he faltered. 5 5 “] remembered I was holding the right just like this, when somebody called to me that I’d better hurry—"" “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Indeed, liked you twenty you'd better hurry.” But he was still wan- dering in the past. “It seems me—oh, they’d sounded officers’ call, and that meant the devil to {ny somewhere, don’t you know?”’ But ucretia was wilting now, despondent as:m. and still he went on: ‘‘You know, Iiancied until the very next day that I'd left the ring here,’” and, suiting the action to the word, he slippu"l it on her finger, “and yet the very next day, when I was on scout, I found—1I found it here,”” and with that he ug:in replaced it on his own finger. Lucretia’s face was a sight to see. There was an instant of silence, and then, failing to see the expression of her face, looking into the dim recess of the pnm:i he again wandered off. ‘“Of course might have known I couldn’t have left it on your finger without even seeing— without even seeing if it would fit—with- out—" and here he lost the thread of his dozen of his kindred from Big Road’s transplanted village, forbidden by the fury of the storm to return to their tepees up the valley, banished by the surgeon from the confines of the hospital, where they would have fain set up their mournful death song to the distraction of the pa- tients, and refused by the colonel the creature comiorts they ‘had promptly and thriftily demanded, eéxcept on condition that they consume them in quiet and decorum” at the Indian barracks and deny themselves the luxury of their woe. Tomtom and howl were stilled, therefore, while the funeral-baked meats went from hand to mouth, and dis- appeared with marvelous rapidity, and, in- deed, but for its exciting effect upon the warriors, the colonel might as well have accorded them the right to lament after their own fashion, since the howling of the tempest would have drowned all human wail from within the wooden walls. But, while they had promised to hold no abo- riginal ceremony over Crow Knife'sdeath, and meant to keeg their word, they had re- fused to pledge themselves to attempt no vengeance on his slayer. Well they knew that, throughout the garrison, nine out of ten of the troopers would have cared not a sou had some one taken Graice from the guardhouse and strung him up to the old flagstaff without the benefit of clergy, but this would not have satisfied Indian ideas —hanging according to their creed bein, far too good for him. Two of the best an most trustworthy Indians were placed by TLeale, with the surgeon’s consent, as watch- ers by the bier of the soldier scout, but the others to a man were herded with- in the barracks and forbidden to attempt to set foot outside. Close at hand in the adjoining quarters the men of two troops were hela in readiness, under orders not to take off their belts, against any sud- den outbreak; but the few who first had talked of lgncIfing or other summary yvengeance had soon been hushed to si- lence. What was feared amongthe officers was that Graice had been told by some of the guard that the Indians were deter- mined to have his scalp, and that the soldiery so despised him that he could not rely upon them to defend him. Ser- fiennt Grafton was confident that Gracie oped in some way, by connivance, per- haps, of members of the guard, to slip out of the building and take refuge among the outlaws at the groggery across the stream. Having killed an Indian he had at least some little claim, according to their theory, to a frontiersman’s respect. Returning to the guardhouse, as he had promised Wiil, Malcolm Leale was in no wise surprised at Grafton's anxiety, and even less tolearn that Graice had begged to beallowed to have speech with his captain. It was a ghastly face that peered out from the dim interior of the little prison in answer to the officer's summons. At sound of footsteps on the creaking stairway Graice had apparently hidden in the depths of the room, and only slowly came for- ward at sound of the commanding voice he knew. Hangdog and drink-sodden as was his look, there was some lingering, some revival, perhaps, of the old defiant, isdainful manner he had shown to almost every man at Frayne. Respect his cap- tain'as even such as he was forced to do, look up to him now as possibly his only hope and salvation, there was yet to his clouded intellect some warrant for a shad- ow, at least, of a vague sentiment of supe- riority, Outcast, ingrate. drunkard, maor. | though he was, he, Private Tom born Royle Farrar, was legal owner his captain held fairest, earest, most précious in all the world. Teale's Jove for Heler Daunton was something the whole garrison bad seen, and seen with hearty sympathy. It would be something to teach this proud and honored officer that he, the despised and_criminal tough, was, aiter all, a man to be envied as the husband of the woman his captain could now only vainly and hopelessly love. It was his plan to bargain with him, to in- voke his aid, to tempt the honor of a soldier and a gentleman, but for a moment at sight of that stern, sad face, he stood abasied. % 7 “You wished to see me," said Leale, ‘‘and I will hear you now.” “T've got that to say I want no other man to know,” was the reply, after an interval of a few seconds, “ap& 1 want your;vprd of honor that you will hold it— sacred.” “I decline any promise whatever. What do you wish to say? “Well, what I haye to tell you inierests Yyou more than any man on earth, Captain ale. I'm in hell nere—I'm at your mercy, perhaps. My life is threatened by these hounds, because by accident that knife went into that blind fool’s vitals. It was only self-defense. I didn’'t mean to hurt him.” “No. I was the object, I clearly under- stand,” said Leale: “‘go on.” “Well, it's as man to man I want to speak. _You know I never meant to harm him. You can give me a chance for jus- tice, for life, and I—I can make it worth your while,”” “That'll do,” was the stern response. “No more on that head. What else have you to ask or say ?"’ ‘Listen one minute,”” pleaded the pris- oners “They’d kill me here if they could get me, quick enough—Indians or troop- ers, either. 1 must be helped aw: I know your secret—you love my wife. Help me out of this—here—this night, and neither she nor you will ever— “Silenfie, you hound! Slink back to your blanket where you belong. 1 thank God, my friend, your father never lived to know the depths of your disgrace! Not a word !” he forbade with uplifted hand, as the miserable fellow strove once more to make himself heard. ) “For the sake of the name to which you have brought shame you shall be protect- ed against Indian yengeance, but who shall defend you against yourself? I will hear no more from you. To-morrow you may see yoar colonel, if that will do you any good; but, if you have one atom of decency left tell no man [ivmfi that you are Royie Farrar,’” and with that, raging at heart, yet cold and stern, the officer, heedless of further frantic pleas, turned and left the spot. % But at the porch the captain turned him back. Wind and snow were driving across his path. The sentries are at the front and flank of the guardhouse, muffled to their very eyes, staggered against the force of the gale. It seemed cruelty to keep hon- est men on post & night so wild as that, for no other reason than to protect the life of a man so criminal. The members of the gnard who had resumed their lounge about the red-hot stove the moment the captain disappeared, once more sprang to attention as he re-entered and called the sergeant to him. “I am tempted to ask the officer of the day to relieve those sentries, and let No. 1 come up into the haliway,” said he. believe that with the watch we have on the Indians there is no possibility of an outbreak on their part.” “There isn’t sir’ was the sergeant’s prompt reply. ‘‘But every man in the gar- rison knows by this time that it was the captain that blackguard aimed to kill, and it 1s not the Indians alone that would do him if they could. I find that, wheneyer I have had to leave the guardhouse, some of the men have talked loud, for him to hear, swearing that he would be taken out and hanged at daybreak. Others want to tempt him to try to escape, so that they can pursue him over to town and hammer him into a jelly there. The tower is the only place where he can be unmolested, sir. I couldn’t guarantee his safety from some kind of assault, even if I had him right bere in the guardroom.’’ And just then a corporal came from the derer Graice, of all that little office. ‘‘Sergeant, it's 10:25. Shall I form my relief?”’ i The sergeant nodded assent. ‘‘I'll in- spect it in the guardroom,” said he, and, as Leale turned shortly away, intending to go in search of the officer of the day, and the sergeant opened the door to let him out, Graice could be heard on the upper flour savagely kicking again at his bars. “That man has more gall than any one I ever met, sir,” said Grafton. ‘‘He’s kic! ing because we refused to send to the ba: racks for his share of the Christmas cigars. “Did you search him before he was sent up there?”” asked Leale. ‘Hashe matches or tobacco ?’ “Nothing I could find, sir, but other and sharper men have been confined there, and I'm told that somewhere under the floor or inside the walls they’ve hidden things and he’s hand in glove with all the toughs of the garrison.” [To be continued.) Copyright, 1895. . PROOF IS POSITIVE THAT LYDIA E. 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