d hung about the new arrivals in
adulation. The burly man was evidently a personage of importance, and
his shoulder straps indicated that he was a major of the general staff.
The other, who followed somewhat diffidently, was a young lieutenant of
infantry, whose trim frock-coat snugly fitted his slender figure.

"Ah, sit down here, Mr.--Mr. Loomis," said the major patronizingly. "So
you are going up to the Big Horn. Well, sir, I hope we shall hear good
accounts of you. There's a splendid field for officers of the right
sort--there--and opportunities for distinction--every day."

At sound of the staff officer's voice there roused up from the opposite
section, where he had been dozing over a paper, a man of middle age,
slim, athletic, with heavy mustache and imperial, just beginning to turn
gray, with deep-set eyes under bushy brows, and a keen, shrewd face,
rather deeply lined. There was a look of dissipation there, a shade of
shabbiness about his clothes, a rakish cut to the entire personality
that had caused Folsom to glance distrustfully at him more than once the
previous afternoon, and to meet with coldness the tentatives permissible
in fellow travelers. The stranger's morning had been lonesome. Now he
held his newspaper where it would partly shield his face, yet permit his
watching the officers across the aisle. And something in his stealthy
scrutiny attracted Pappoose.

"Yes," continued the major, "I have seen a great deal of that country,
and Mr. Dean, of whom you spoke, was attached to the troop escorting our
commission. He is hardly--I regret to have to say it--er--what you
imagine. We were, to put it mildly, much disappointed in his conduct the
day of our meeting with the Sioux."

A swift, surprised glance passed between the girls, a pained look shot
into the lieutenant's face, but before the major could go on the man
across the aisle arose and bent over him with extended hand.

"Ah, Burleigh, I thought I knew the voice." But the hand was not
grasped. The major was drawing back, his face growing yellow-white with
some strange dismay.

"You don't seem sure of my identity. Let me refresh your memory,
Burleigh. I am Captain Newhall. I see you need a drink, major--I'll take
one with you."

CHAPTER IX.

For nearly a week after the home-coming of his beloved daughter John
Folsom was too happy in her presence to give much thought to other
matters. By the end of that week, however, the honest old Weste