w and loved him little,--the prejudice of Mrs. Bridger,
who knew and loved him not at all,--and the jealous pique of Mrs. Plume,
who had known and loved him, possibly, too well.

There was little duty doing at Sandy at the time whereof we write. Men
rose at dawn and sent the horses forth to graze all day in the
foothills under heavy guard. It was too hot for drills, with the
mercury sizzling at the hundred mark. Indian prisoners did the
"police" work about the post; and men and women dozed and wilted in
the shade until the late afternoon recall. Then Sandy woke up and
energetically stabled, drilled, paraded under arms at sunset, mounted
guard immediately thereafter, dined in spotless white; then rode,
drove, flirted, danced, gossiped, made mirth, melody, or monotonous
plaint till nearly midnight; then slept until the dawn of another day.

Indians there were in the wilds of the Mogollon to the southeast, and,
sometimes at rare intervals straying from the big reservation up the
valley, they scared the scattered settlers of the Agua Fria and the
Hassayampa; but Sandy rarely knew of them except as prisoners. Not a
hostile shot had been fired in the surrounding mountains for at least
six months, so nobody felt the least alarm, and many only languid
interest, when the white-coated officers reported the result of sunset
roll-call and inspection, and, saluting Major Plume, the captain of
"C" Troop announced in tones he meant should be heard along the row:
"Mr. Blakely, sir, is absent!"

CHAPTER II

SCOT VERSUS SAXON

Three women were seated at the moment on the front veranda of the
major's quarters--Mrs. Plume, Miss Janet Wren, the captain's sister,
and little Mrs. Bridger. The first named had been intently watching
the officers as, after the dismissal of their companies at the
barracks, they severally joined the post commander, who had been
standing on the barren level of the parade, well out toward the
flagstaff, his adjutant beside him. To her the abrupt announcement
caused no surprise. She had seen that Mr. Blakely was not with his
troop. The jeweled hands slightly twitched, but her voice had the
requisite and conventional drawl as she turned to Miss Wren: "Chasing
some new butterfly, I suppose, and got lost. A--what time did--Angela
return?"

"Hours ago, I fancy. She was dressed when I returned from hospital.
Sergeant Leary seems worse to-day."

"That was nearly six," dreamily persisted Mrs. Plume. "I happ