of your ability to act as
guide to my troops. I admire your pluck, and I should be glad to have
you come here and live until you get tired of it; and in order to make
it lawful for you to stay here, I will give you a position as
forage-master."

"I am very much obliged to you, sir, but that is a berth I don't want,"
answered George. "I want to help put down those raiders."

"But just think of the responsibility that would rest upon you,"
protested the colonel. "A single blunder on your part might cripple me
fearfully."

"You need have no fears on that score," said Mr. Gilbert. "George is
good wherever you put him. He is acquainted with Fletcher, who is the
most active of all the raiders who trouble us; he knows where he hangs
out, and he is the only one on this side of the river who does. When it
comes to trailing, he is at home there too. Can you look at a trail and
tell how old it is and how many men or horses made it?"

No, the colonel couldn't do that. He always looked to his scouts for
information on those points.

"George can do it," said Mr. Gilbert. "He has served his time under one
of the best trailers in the country; and that is Zeke, his herdsman."

After a little more conversation the colonel, although not without many
misgivings, accepted the offer of George's services; and he never had
occasion to regret it. During the very first expedition that was sent
out of the fort after he reported there for duty he showed what he was
made of, and gave the colonel reason for placing almost unlimited
confidence in his judgment. Acting as Bob Owens's counsellor, he enabled
the latter to perform an exploit that made him the lion of the post.

Having dressed himself, George passed through the colonel's office and
out through the hall to the parade. In the outer door was seated a man
who was bent half double, with his elbows resting on his knees and his
face buried in his hands. Hearing the sound of the boy's footsteps, he
raised his head, revealing a countenance so haggard and sorrowful that
George was startled at the sight of it. The man moved aside to allow him
room to pass, and then covered his face with his hands again, and as
George walked out he was sure he heard him utter a suppressed moan. The
man was not a soldier, for he was dressed in citizen's clothes. He
looked like a rancheman; and as George was a rancheman himself, he
naturally felt some sympathy for the unknown sufferer. After hesitating
a moment