then a dip in the cool waters, then smoking tins of
soldier coffee and sizzling slips of bacon. Then again the saddle and
the silent trail, with the moon looking down from the zenith on their
warlike array. Heavily armed was every man, each, even the lieutenant,
with carbine and brace of Colts, and on they rode through the still,
soft night air, chatting in low tones, no man knowing but every one
believing that the taciturn, blue-eyed young officer in the lead was
heading them for a lair of the Birdsall gang. It was too far south just
then for Sioux.

Another morn and they had crossed, during the dark hours, the broad
plains of the Laramie and were winding up among the hills. Another rest
and, spurring from the rear, there overtook them a bronzed,
weather-beaten frontiersman whom Mr. Loring greeted without show of
surprise, and when again they moved on it was he who rode at the
lieutenant's left, up, up a winding trail among the frowning heights,
until just as every man was wondering when on earth they could hope for
a bite, the noiseless signal halt was given, while the leaders
dismounted and peered over a shoulder of bluff ahead, held brief
consultation, then down the ravine to the left rode the stranger, and
back to his men came Loring, his eyes kindling.

"There is a camp half a mile ahead where I have to make an arrest," said
he quietly. "Keep close at my heels. We'll have to gallop when we get in
view. Draw pistol. Don't fire unless they do. They probably won't."

And they didn't. Half a dozen startled men, gambling about a blanket;
two or three sleeping off a drunk, and one hunted, haunted wretch
nervously pacing up and down among the pines, were no match for the dash
of a dozen blue jackets coming thundering into view. There was no
thought of fight. Those who could catch their horses threw themselves
astride bareback and shot for the heart of the hills; two or three
scrambled off afoot and were quickly run down, one a heavily-built,
haggard, hollow-eyed man shook from head to foot as the lieutenant
reined up his panting and excited horse and coolly said:

"You are my prisoner, Burleigh."

Nor was there attempt at rescue. Mounting his four captives on their
horses, their feet lashed to the stirrups, their hands bound, all the
abandoned arms, ammunition and provisions destroyed and the camp burned,
Loring led promptly away up the range toward the north until clear of
the timber, then down the westward slope