positive orders on one hand and Blakely's urgent pleadings on the
other.

Over at "C" Troop's quarters was the lieutenant's saddle, ready packed
with blanket, greatcoat, and bulging saddle-bags. Over in "C" Troop's
stables was Deltchay--the lieutenant's bronco charger, ready fed and
groomed, wondering why he was kept in when the other horses were out
at graze. With the saddle kit were the troop carbine and revolver,
Blakely's personal arms being now but stockless tubes of seared and
blistered steel. Back of "C" Troop's quarters lolled a half-breed
Mexican packer, with a brace of mules, one girt with saddle, the other
in shrouding aparejo--diamond-hitched, both borrowed from the post
trader with whom Blakely's note of hand was good as a government four
per cent.--all ready to follow the lieutenant to the field whither
right and duty called him. There, too, was Nixon, the new "striker,"
new clad as was his master, and full panoplied for the field, yet
bemoaning the loss of soldier treasures whose value was never fully
realized until they were irrevocably gone. Six o'clock, six-thirty,
six-forty-five and even seven sped by and still there came no summons
to join the soldier master. There had come instead, when Nixon urged
that he be permitted to lead forth both his own troop horse and
Deltchay, the brief, but significant reply: "Shut yer gab, Nixon.
There's no horse goes till the captain says so!"

At seven o'clock, at last, the post commander came forth from his
doorway; saw across the glaring level of the parade the form of Mr.
Blakely impatiently pacing the veranda at the adjutant's office, and,
instead of going thither, as was his wont, Captain Cutler turned the
other way and strode swiftly to the hospital, where Graham met him at
the bedside of Trooper patient Patrick Mullins. "How is he?" queried
Cutler.

"Sleeping--thank God--and not to be wakened," was the Scotchman's
answer. "He had a bad time of it during the fire."

"What am I to tell Blakely?" demanded Cutler, seeking strength for his
faltering hand. "You're bound to help me now, Graham."

"Let him go and you _may_ make it worse," said the doctor, with a
clamp of his grizzled jaws. "Hold him here and you're sure to."

"Can't you, as post surgeon, tell him he isn't fit to ride?"

"Not when he rides the first half of the night and puts out a nasty
fire the last. Can't you, as post commander, tell him you forbid his
going till you hear from Byrne and inve