on at once. And
now, worn, weary, but determined, the little command is just in sight of
the deep ravine known to frontiersmen for years as Black Canyon. It was
through here that Stanley and his battalion had marched a fortnight
since. It was along this very trail that Phil and his party, pressing
eagerly on to join the regiment, rode down into its dark depths and were
ambushed at the Springs. From all indications, said the courier, they
must have unsaddled for a brief rest, probably just at nightfall; but
the Indians had left little to aid them in forming an opinion. Utterly
unnerved by the sight, his two associates had turned back to rejoin
Stanley's column, while he, the third, had decided to make for the
railway. Unless those men, too, had been cut off, the regiment by this
time knew of the tragic fate of some of their comrades, but the colonel
was mercifully spared all dread that one of the victims was his only
son.

Nine were in the party when they started. Nine bodies were lying there
when the couriers reached the Springs, and now nine are lying here
to-night when, just after moonrise, Romney Lee dismounts and bends sadly
over them, one after another. The prairie wolves have been here first,
adding mutilation to the butchery of their human prototypes. There is
little chance, in this pallid light and with these poor remnants, to
make identification a possibility. All vestiges of uniform, arms, and
equipment have been carried away, and such underclothing as remains has
been torn to shreds by the herd of snarling, snapping brutes which is
driven off only by the rush of the foremost troopers, and is now
dispersed all over the canyon and far up the heights beyond the outposts,
yelping indignant protest.

There can be no doubt as to the number slain. All the nine are here, and
Mr. Lee solemnly pencils the despatch that is to go back to the railway
so soon as a messenger and his horse can get a few hours' needed rest.
Before daybreak the man is away, meeting on his lonely ride other
comrades hurrying to the front, to whom he briefly gives confirmation of
the first report. Before the setting of the second sun he has reached
his journey's end, and the telegraph is flashing the mournful details to
the distant East, and so, when the "Servia" slowly glides from her
moorings and turns her prow towards the sparkling sea, Nannie McKay is
sobbing her heart out alone in her little white state-room, crushing
with her kisses, ba