s of the
garrison proper and the banks of the larger stream there lay a level
"flat," patched here and there with underbrush, and streaked by a
winding tangle of hoof- and wheel-tracks that crossed and re-crossed
each other, yet led, one and all, to the distant bridge that spanned
the stream, and thence bore away northward like the tines of a
pitchfork, the one to the right going over the hills a three days'
march to the Indian agencies up along the "Wakpa Schicha," the other
leading more to the west around a rugged shoulder of bluff, and then
stretching away due north for the head-waters of the Niobrara and the
shelter of the jagged flanks of Rawhide Butte. Only in shadowy clusters
up and down the stream was there anywhere sign of timber. Foliage, of
course, there was none. Cottonwood and willow in favored nooks along
the Platte were just beginning to shoot forth their tiny pea-green
tendrils in answer to the caressing touch of the May-day sunshine.
April had been a month of storm and bluster and huge, wanton wastes of
snow, whirling and drifting down from the bleak range that veiled the
valley of the Laramie from the rays of the westering sun; and any one
who chose to stroll out from the fort and climb the gentle slope to the
bluffs on that side, and to stand by the rude scaffolding whereon were
bleaching the bones of some Dakota brave, could easily see the
gleaming, glistening sides of the grand old peak, fully forty miles
away,--all one sheen of frosty white that still defied the melting
rays. Somebody was up there this very afternoon,--two somebodies. Their
figures were blacked in silhouette against the sky close by the Indian
scaffolding; but even at the distance one could see they were not
Indian mourners. That was not a blanket which the tall, slender shape
had just thrown about the slighter form. Mrs. Miller, the major's wife,
who happened to be crossing the parade at the moment, knew very well
that it was an officer's cape, and that Randall McLean had carefully
wrapped it about Nellie Bayard lest the keen wind from the west,
blowing freely over the ridges, should chill the young girl after her
long spin across the prairie and up the heights.

A good-hearted woman was Mrs. Miller, and very much did she like the
doctor's sweet and pretty daughter, very much better than she fancied
the doctor himself, although, had she been pressed for a reason for her
distrust of the senior medical attendant of the garrison, Mrs