o compare views.
There stood the sergeant.

"Sir," said he, with a snap of the gloved left hand at the brown tube
nestling in the hollow of the shoulder, "Number Five reports that he has
heard galloping hoofbeats up the bench twice in the last half hour, and
thought he saw distant horsemen,--three;--couldn't say whether they were
Indians or cowboys."

"Very good, sergeant," was the major's brief answer. "Send for the
telegraph operator and my orderly."

The sergeant turned.

"One moment," called Ray,--"your pardon, Major--My first sergeant, too,
and--sergeant, have any sentries reported horses taken out from the
stables to-night?"

"Not one, sir," and, stanch and sturdy, the commander of the guard stood
ready to vouch for his men.

"That's all!"

A quick salute, a face to the right about and the sergeant was gone.
Webb turned and looked inquiringly at Ray.

"I asked, sir," was that officer's brief explanation, "because wherever
Field has gone he wore riding dress."

CHAPTER III

A NIGHT ENCOUNTER

Comforted by abundant food, refreshed and stimulated by more than two or
three enthusiastic toasts to the health of the major the men so loved,
Trooper Kennedy, like a born dragoon and son of the ould sod, bethought
him of the gallant bay that had borne him bravely and with hardly a halt
all the long way from Beecher to Frayne. The field telegraph had indeed
been stretched, but it afforded more fun for the Sioux than aid to the
outlying posts on the Powder and Little Horn, for it was down ten days
out of twelve. Plodder, lieutenant colonel of infantry commanding at
Beecher, had been badly worried by the ugly demonstrations of the
Indians for ten days past. He was forever seeing in mind's eye the
hideous details of the massacre at Fort Phil Kearny, a few miles further
on around the shoulder of the mountains, planned and carried out by Red
Cloud with such dreadful success in '67. Plodder had strong men at his
back, whom even hordes of painted Sioux could never stampede, but they
were few in number, and there were those ever present helpless,
dependent women and children. His call for aid was natural enough, and
his choice of Kennedy, daring, dashing lad who had learned to ride in
Galway, was the best that could be made. No peril could daunt the
light-hearted fellow, already proud wearer of the medal of honor; but,
duty done, it was Kennedy's creed that the soldier merited reward and
relaxation. If he went