from Fort Laramie to Fort Harwood, on the other side of the
mountains; but they had been deserted by their Indian guide, and having
been unable to find the entrance to the pass, were well-nigh worn out
with fatigue and vexation when they caught sight of Roaring Water Farm.

The officer and his men were received with a hearty welcome.

"There is food enough in the store, and we will make a shake-down for
you in this room," said Uncle Jeff, wringing the hand of the officer in
his usual style.

The latter introduced himself as Lieutenant Manley Broadstreet. He was
a fine-looking young fellow, scarcely older than I was; but he had
already seen a great deal of service in border warfare with the Indians,
as well as in Florida and Texas.

"You are welcome here, friends," said Uncle Jeff, who, as I have said,
was no respecter of persons, and made little distinction between the
lieutenant and his men.

At this Lieutenant Broadstreet demurred, and, as he glanced at Clarice,
inquired whether there was any building near in which the men could be
lodged.

"They are not very fit company for a young lady," he remarked aside.

He did not, however, object to the sergeant joining him; and the other
three men were accordingly ordered to take up their quarters at the hut,
with its motley inhabitants.

Their appearance, I confess, somewhat reminded me of Falstaff's "ragged
regiment." The three varied wonderfully in height. The tallest was not
only tall, but thin in the extreme, his ankles protruding below his
trousers, and his wrists beyond the sleeves of his jacket; he had lost
his military hat, and had substituted for it a high beaver, which he had
obtained from some Irish emigrant on the road. He was a German; and his
name, he told me, was Karl Klitz. The shortest of the party, Barnaby
Gillooly, was also by far the fattest; indeed, it seemed surprising
that, with his obese figure, he could undergo the fatigue he must
constantly have been called upon to endure. He seemed to be a jolly,
merry fellow notwithstanding, as he showed by breaking into a hearty
laugh as Klitz, stumbling over a log, fell with his long neck and
shoulders on the one side, and his heels kicking up in the air on the
other. The last man was evidently a son of Erin, from the few words he
uttered in a rich brogue, which had not deteriorated by long absence
from home and country. He certainly presented a more soldierly
appearance than did his two comrade