to bed at "F" Troop's barracks there would be no
more cakes and ale, no more of the major's good grub and rye. If he went
down to look after the gallant steed he loved--saw to it that Kilmaine
was rubbed down, bedded, given abundant hay and later water--sure then,
with clear conscience, he could accept the major's "bid," and call again
on his bedward way and toast the major to his Irish heart's and
stomach's content. Full of pluck and fight and enthusiasm, and only
quarter full, he would insist, of rye, was Kennedy as he strode
whistling down the well-remembered road to the flats, for he, with
Captain Truscott's famous troop, had served some months at Frayne before
launching forth to Indian story land in the shadows of the Big Horn
range. Kennedy, in fact, essayed to sing when once out of earshot of the
guard-house, and singing, he strolled on past the fork of the winding
road where he should have turned to his right, and in the fulness of his
heart went striding southward down the slope, past the once familiar
haunt the store, now dark and deserted, past the big house of the post
trader, past the trader's roomy stables and corral, and so wended his
moonlit way along the Rawlins trail, never noting until he had chanted
over half a mile and most of the songs he knew, that Frayne was well
behind him and the rise to the Medicine Bow in front. Then Kennedy
began to laugh and call himself names, and then, as he turned about to
retrace his steps by a short cut over the bottom, he was presently
surprised, but in no wise disconcerted, to find himself face to face
with a painted Sioux. There by the path side, cropping the dewy grass,
was the trained pony. Here, lounging by the trail, the thick black
braids of his hair interlaced with beads, the quill gorget heaving at
his massive throat; the heavy blanket slung negligently, gracefully
about his stalwart form; his nether limbs and feet in embroidered
buckskin, his long-lashed quirt in hand; here stood, almost confronting
him, as fine a specimen of the warrior of the Plains as it had ever been
Trooper Kennedy's lot to see, and see them he had--many a time and oft.

In that incomparable tale, "My Lord the Elephant," the great Mulvaney
comes opportunely upon a bottle of whiskey and a goblet of water. "The
first and second dhrink I didn't taste," said he, "bein' dhry, but the
fourth and fifth took hould, an' I began to think scornful of
elephants." At no time stood Kennedy in awe of