at the lodge of Stabbers's uncle, old "Spotted
Horse," where that superannuated but still sagacious chief was squatted
on his blanket and ostentatiously puffing a long Indian pipe, Webb
demanded to know what young men remained in the village. Over a hundred
strong, old men, squaws and children, they thronged about him, silent,
big-eyed and attentive, Schreiber interpreting as best he could,
resorting to the well-known sign language when the crafty Sioux
professed ignorance of the meaning of his words:--

"No young men. All gone," was the positive declaration of the venerable
head of the bailiwick, when compelled at last to answer. But Schreiber
had studied the pony herd and knew better. Moreover, not more than six
of their ponies had been led along with the war party that set forth in
the early hours of the moonlit morning. Others, both men and mounts,
unavoidably left behind, would surely be sent forward at the first
possible opportunity, and, much as Webb might wish to turn back to
capture the party, well as he might know that other bands were in revolt
and Stabber gone to help them, he was powerless under his orders to
interfere until by some openly hostile act these laggards of the little
band invited his reprisal. The rule of the road, as prescribed by the
civil authorities, to which the soldier had sworn obedience, being
practically, "Don't defend until you are hit. Don't shoot until you are
shot."

Webb came cantering back assured that these frowsy, malodorous lodges
concealed, perhaps, half a score of fighting men who were a menace to
the neighborhood and who could be counted on to make it more than
interesting for any couriers that might have to be sent between the fort
and the forces at the front. Calling Schreiber to his side, as, with
long easy stride their trained mounts went loping swiftly homeward, he
gave instructions the veteran heard with kindling eyes. Then, parting
from him at the corrals, the commander rode on and dismounted at his
quarters just as the trumpeters were forming on the broad, grassy level
of the parade.

Even without a band young Field had managed to make his guard mount a
pretty and attractive ceremony. Frayne was a big post and needed a daily
guard of twenty-four men, with the usual quota of non-commissioned
officers. Cowboys, herders, miners, prospectors, rustlers (those pirates
of the plains) and occasional bands of Indians, Sioux or Arapahoe, were
forever hovering about its bo