the law, had been chosen inquisitor-general, with powers to call for all
the news that was stowed away in that secretive "knowledge-box" on the
shoulders of the Engineer. Gate City had resolved and "'lowed" that a
man reputed to know so much should be held up and compelled to part with
at least a little. Jimmy Peters, the landlord's boy, scouting out to
Folsom's, came back on the run, breathless from three-quarters of a mile
of panting through that rare atmosphere, to say that he had just seen a
couple of officers ride away to the fort, and old man Folsom with "the
Engineer feller" were coming out the front gate. They'd be along in a
few minutes. So in their eagerness some of the loungers strolled out in
front and gazed westward up the long, broad, hard-beaten street on
which, in many a spot, the bunch grass of the prairie still lingered. It
was a lovely summer night, warm, starlit, but the baby moon had early
sunk to rest, and the darkness was intense. Yet the first men to come
forth could have sworn they saw two horsemen, dim and shadowy, go loping
across the broad thoroughfare from north to south, at the first cross
street. There was nothing remarkable in horsemen being abroad at that
hour; horses were tethered now in front of the hotel. What _was_ strange
was that they passed within a mile of Peter's bar and didn't stop for a
drink. Men who are capable of that neglect of opportunity and the
attendant privilege of "setting em up" for all hands, could be nothing
less than objects of suspicion. Two minutes later and somebody said,
"Shut up!" a frontierism for "hush," and all ears were turned expectant.
No, there was no sound of brisk, springy footsteps on the elastic wooden
walk. Already men had noted that quick, alert, soldierly gait of the new
officer. But "shut up" was repeated when audible murmurs were made.
"There's more fellows a-horseback up yonder. Who in 'ell's out
to-night?" queried the citizen with the keenest ears. "Jimmy, boy, run
up there and scout--I'll give you a dime."

And Jimmy, nothing loath, was off, swift and noiseless as an arrow. It
was time for Loring and "old man Folsom" to be getting there if they
were coming, and the boy was athrill with excitement and interest.

Bending low, as he knew the Indians went on scout, springing along the
plank walk he shot like a flitting specter up the street, stooping lower
and glaring to left and right at the first crossing, but seeing nobody.
A noiseless run