ing like clarion over the turmoil of
the fight,--echoing far across the still valley, the sound of a glorious
voice shouting the well-known words of command, "Left--front--into
line--_gallop_!" And Dana can hold in no longer. Almost sobbing, he
cries aloud,--

"Jack Truscott, by all that's glorious! I'd know the voice among a
million!"

Who in the --th would not? Who in the old regiment had not leaped at its
summons time and again? Who that was there will ever forget the
scene,--the welcome those wellnigh hopeless fellows give it now? Dana's
men break from their cover, and cheering madly, go dashing through the
timber towards their persecutors of the day before. Hunter's skirmishers
push eastward through the trees for one more crack at the besiegers.
Others--cheering too, yet spell-bound--cling to the spot, and go wild
with joy as the long blue line comes flashing into view across the
bluffs from the south, the just rising sun flaming at their crests and
tinting the wild war-bonnets of the foe, who go tumbling and scurrying
away before them; and their old adjutant comes thundering down the
slopes with ninety splendid troopers at his heels, sweeping the valley
of their late humiliation,--riding home to the rescue.

Fired by the sight, some of Wayne's men seize their saddles and throw
them on their excited steeds, but before they can mount Truscott's men
are whirling up and down the valley, driving the few remaining warriors
to the other side, and leaving some wounded ponies and two bedizened
braves prone upon the prairies. Quickly the leader comes darting through
the timber with hearty, yet laughing, greeting for Wayne, and a wave of
the hand to the cheering group. There is no time for compliments now.
Out go the skirmishers across the river bottom, through the trees, and
spinning away across the valley northward, whirling the Cheyennes before
them until they are driven to the bluffs. Then, as the "halt" is
sounded, and the vigilant line forms big semicircle to ward off further
attack, and the little pack-mules with their escort come ambling briskly
in from the south, Jack Truscott comes quietly back, lining his
broad-brimmed scouting-hat and wiping the sweat from his brow; and as
they throng about him--officers and men--almost the first question asked
is,--

"And where is Ray?"

"Safe, but badly wounded."

And then little by little the story was told. But for Ray no rescue
could have come. The regiment was miles