I'd try to earn a little of the reputation that you're winning, old
boy, and no man knows better how much you deserve it than

"Your friend and classmate, HANK L."

"P. S.--Loring took ten of the troop into the Black Hills to beat
up Burleigh, but he said if they struck Indian sign he meant to
make for Folsom's ranch. Now, if we could only meet there!"

The sun was well down at the west. The day's march had been long and
tedious, as only cavalry marches are when long wagon trains have to be
escorted. Dean had not yet fully recovered strength, but anxiety lent
him energy.

"If Mr. Folsom says there is need of cavalry guard at the Laramie, it is
because he dreads an other Indian visit, colonel. I have nine men in
good shape. Our horses are fresh, or will be after a few hours' rest.
May I push on to-night?"

And to the young soldier's surprise the elder placed a trembling hand
upon his shoulder and looked him earnestly in the eyes. "Dean, my boy,
it's my belief you cannot start too soon. Do you know who Lizette is?"

"I've heard the story," said Marshall briefly. "She must have been
hovering about there for some time."

"Yes, and now her people know it, and it will rekindle their hatred. The
moment I heard of this I sent old Bat to watch the crossing at La Bonte.
Not an hour ago this came in by the hand of his boy," and the colonel
held out a scrap of paper. It a rude pictograph, a rough sketch,
map-like, of a winding river--another and smaller one separated from the
first by a chain of mountains. The larger one was decorated by a
flag-pole with stars and stripes at the top and a figure with musket and
bayonet at the bottom. The smaller one by a little house, with smoke
issuing from the chimney, and a woman beside it. Above all, its head
over the mountains pointing toward the house, its tail extending north
of the bigger stream, was a comet--the "totem" or sign of the Ogallalla
lover of Lizette. The story was told at a glance. Burning Star was
already south of the Platte and lurking in the mountains near Folsom's
ranch.

That night, toward ten o'clock, an anxious council was held. Halbert
Folsom, fevered by his severe wound, was lying half-unconscious on his
bed, his unhappy wife wandering aimlessly about at times, wringing her
hands and weeping, evidently unbalanced by the terrors that had beset
her of late and the tidings of that awful Indian revenge along the Big
Horn. Silent, helpful,