cautions of the Engineer and belittle the danger. Not for a
moment would he admit that armed desperadoes had come at Nevins' back.
As for the key in his possession, with all respect to the statements of
Mr. Loring, the story of the unfortunate captain was just as plausible,
and that key should have been delivered to him, the commander at Fort
Emory, instead of being taken possession of by the Engineer. True,
Nevins had been dismissed in disgrace, and in a question of veracity
between the two men there was little doubt that Loring's would prevail.
But a very peppery, fidgety, unhappy old man was Colonel Stevens for
many days, prating about this independence of action of stripling
officers right under his nose. But the worst came on the day when the
little troop of cavalry at Fort Emory was still further depleted by the
detachment of a sergeant, two corporals and eight troopers, ordered to
report with pack-mule and ten-days' rations to Lieutenant Loring, of the
Engineers, and Colonel Stevens had not been consulted again. The senior
colonel in the department, he had seen his command cut down, company by
company, until only a bare squad, said he, remained to guard the most
important post in Wyoming. (Which it wasn't by any means, but he had
been led to think so.) And now young whipper-snappers just out of West
Point were running away with his men right under his nose!

But Loring's orders came to him direct from Omaha. He had need of every
precaution. He was now going on a mission that demanded the utmost
secrecy, and the colonel could no more conceal a movement than a sieve
could hold water.

Quitting the quartermaster's depot one summer night at twelve, the
little detachment rode silently out across the southward prairie, swung
round to the east when the dim lights of town were a mile behind, took
the trot over the hard, bounding turf, and at dawn were heading
straight for the breaks of the Laramie. Halting for rest and coffee when
the sun was an hour high, they again pushed on until noon, when they
unsaddled in a grove of leafy cottonwoods in a little fork of the
Medicine Bow, watered the weary horses and gave them a hearty feed and
themselves as hearty a dinner, and then picketing and hoppling their
steeds, who were glad enough to roll and sprawl in the sand, all hands
managed to get some hours of sound sleep before the sun was sinking to
the edge of the Sweetwater Range. Then came the careful grooming of
their mounts,