fiends and kicking up a dust like a wind storm. We had nothing
but six-shooters, no good for long range. The owner of the horses
admitted that it was useless to try to save the herd now, and if our
scalps were worth saving it was high time to make ourselves scarce.

"Cantonment was a government post about twenty-five miles away, so we
rode for it. Our horses were good Spanish stock, and the Indians'
little bench-legged ponies were no match for them. But not satisfied
with the wagon and herd falling into their hands, they followed us
until we were within sight of the post. As hard luck would have it,
the cavalry stationed at this post were off on some escort duty, and
the infantry were useless in this case. When the cavalry returned a
few days later, they tried to round up those Indians, and the Indian
agent used his influence, but the horses were so divided up and
scattered that they were never recovered."

"And did the man lose his horses entirely?" asked Flood, who had
anteed up his last bean and joined us.

"He did. There was, I remember, a tin horn lawyer up about Dodge who
thought he could recover their value, as these were agency Indians and
the government owed them money. But all I got for three months' wages
due me was the horse I got away on."

McCann had been frozen out during Roundtree's yarn, and had joined the
crowd of story-tellers on the other side of the fire. Forrest was
feeling quite gala, and took a special delight in taunting the
vanquished as they dropped out.

"Is McCann there?" inquired he, well knowing he was. "I just wanted to
ask, would it be any trouble to poach that egg for my breakfast and
serve it with a bit of toast; I'm feeling a little bit dainty. You'll
poach it for me, won't you, please?"

McCann never moved a muscle as he replied, "Will you please go to
hell?"

The story-telling continued for some time, and while Fox Quarternight
was regaling us with the history of a little black mare that a
neighbor of theirs in Kentucky owned, a dispute arose in the card game
regarding the rules of discard and draw.

"I'm too old a girl," said The Rebel, angrily, to Forrest, "to allow a
pullet like you to teach me this game. When it's my deal, I'll discard
just when I please, and it's none of your business so long as I keep
within the rules of the game;" which sounded final, and the game
continued.

Quarternight picked up the broken thread of his narrative, and the
first warning we had