"At the usual place and about the usual hour" the pretty phaeton, with its fair charioteer and her black-browed companion, drew up that afternoon under such shade as the cottonwoods afforded and waited for the coming of a rider who, starting some time ahead, was now some time behind. Nor did he seem to hasten when finally he came suddenly into view at the mouth of that well-remembered ravine, and rode straight but slowly to the rendezvous. She, the charioteer, exquisitely gowned as we saw her parting from her invalid husband, watched him with dilating eyes, alighted as he neared the grove, walked a dozen yards or so to meet him and by his side as he led his mount to a point beyond earshot of the carriage. "You may trust that woman, Mrs. Dwight," said he, "but I do not. I have come at last and against my judgment to hear——"

"Mrs. Dwight!" she began, with pouting reproach. "Are we at the hop room, Sandy, or are we,"—and the dark eyes slowly lifted,—"are we back again at Nagasaki?"

"We are never that!" was the quick reply, as he bent and knotted the reins about a sapling at the brink; then, suddenly facing her: "I said I should not meet you here again. I have come for this last time solely at your urging. Never until this week have I shrunk from my mother. Never after this day shall I do it again. You say I have wronged you—hurt you—inexpressibly, and you wish to tell me why. Go ahead!"

With that he pulled his hatbrim well down to his eyebrows, folded his arms, crossed one spurred heel over the tan-booted mate and leaned against a sturdy cottonwood. There was just a spice of the theatrical about it all, but he was young, sore-hearted and hurt. It left no support for her, unless she leaned on him, which nothing in his attitude seemed to invite. Inez had no use for folded arms. To her they should be either outstretched or enfolding.

"You are harsh and cold and bitter, Sandy. You make it so much harder for me to begin," she whimpered, pathetically, prettily, like a spoiled child sure of ultimate triumph. "Why did you never answer my letter from San Francisco?"

"I never got it."

"Then even that early he had begun to doubt me and to fear—you," and again the lovely eyes were making play. "And now he hates me, because he himself was a brute to his boy. He upbraids me for that, and—and for Mr. Foster."

"God! I should think he might!"

"Sandy, Sandy!" she cried, stepping impetuously a pace nearer. "Do you, too—do you dare think me so base—me, when at Naples I would not even let you stay—you whom I longed to speak with? Ah, how unjust!—how mean! how cruel! And now, when I am almost friendless, you who professed so much—you are the first to turn from me." Indeed, he was turning, and his face was growing very white again—his eyes were gazing anywhere but at her, and she saw it, and with both her firm little hands seized his left arm as though to turn him back. "Sandy, you shall hear me, for I'm desperate, starving, and that man, he—he tells me I lied to him; and I did, I did lie—for you! He talks to me of a—settlement—of sending me home. Why, I have no home! I have no father. My own was buried years ago. I have no mother, for she has no thought but for him—who has disgraced us all and robbed Major Dwight of thousands and dared to threaten me—me, because the major would not send more. Oh, you shall listen! It's for the last time, Sandy, and you shall know the truth! Oh, how can you so humiliate a woman who—who——Look at me, Sandy, look, oh, my soldier boy, and see for yourself! They robbed me of you, my heart's darling! They stole every letter. They never let me see you, and they——Oh, you think this the old worn-out story of the cruel parent and the suffering child, but I will convince you!" And now her hands quit their hold upon his arm and tore at the bosom of her dainty gown—tore it open to the filmy lace and ribbon underneath—tore off the driving glove from her right hand, hurling it to the ground, and then the slim, nervous little fingers went burrowing within. "You dare doubt I love you!" she cried, and now her eyes were ablaze, her rich, red lips were parted, her breath came panting through the pearly gate, her young bosom was heaving like a troubled sea. "I told you I had burned your letters—such as I had. They burned them for me, but they could not burn your picture—I did that—I, with my mad kisses, Sandy!" And from its warm nest she drew it, the very one he had given her in Manila, the brave, boyish face in its tiny frame of gold, moist and blurred as though indeed her lips, her tears, had worn it dim. "You will not look?" though one quick glance he shot, then, with the blood surging through his veins, he turned again and covered his eyes with his arm. "Then hear—this—and this," and long, passionately, repeatedly she kissed the senseless, unresponsive counterfeit, and then, letting it hang by its slender chain, once more seized his arm and burst into a passion of tears. Then suddenly, fiercely, she thrust him aside, turned, started swiftly away, took but four tottering steps and, finally, almost as she did the day of the drive, toppled headlong.

When FÉlicie thought it time to take another decorous look, Mr. Ray was kneeling by that fair, prostrate form, lifting the lovely head upon his knee, one arm about her neck, the other drawing her to his breast, and he was raining kiss after kiss upon the sweeping, long-lashed eyelids, upon the pallid cheek, upon the exquisite mouth, and presently a slender arm stole languidly about his neck and drew and held his lips to hers.

It was nearly five that evening when the pretty phaeton whirled homeward through the west gate. It was nearly nine when Lieutenant Ray came slowly up-hill from the stables and, climbing the short flight to the rear doorway, found his mother and Priscilla awaiting him in the dining-room. He had eaten nothing since a late breakfast, and an appetizing supper was in readiness. He looked very pale, very tired, and to the fond and anxious eyes uplifted hopefully at first, very ill—too ill, perhaps, to note how ill she looked, the loving and tender and faithful one, who long hours had been waiting, watching, listening for his step, praying for his safe return, hoping for the promised confidence. She knew when the phaeton came, though she said naught of it to her niece. Nearly a mile of the valley road could be seen from Sandy's window, where she hovered much of the time until the sun went down. Now she quickly rose and went to him, and with her soft hands on his temples kissed his forehead, for he bowed his head, and for the first time in his life his lips dared not even touch her cheek. "I—I'm about used up, mother," he faltered. "I—can I have some tea? Then I'll get a warm bath, please, and go to bed. Has—anyone been here for me—inquired for me?"

The sudden upward look, the anxiety in his tone, might well have warned her, but there was something she had to know, something that ever since evening gunfire had been preying on her mind. No. 4's story had spread by this time all over the post, growing, probably, with each repetition. There had been a tragic scene of some kind at Major Dwight's shortly after midnight. Jimmy had prepared her for that much. No. 4 had heard screams; then lights went flitting to and fro, and there was sound of scuffling and running about, and the guard had almost arrested someone who came dashing from the rear gate and was lost in the darkness and the yards below. No, nobody had come to ask for Sandy! It seemed strange that so very few of the officers had even passed that way. Everybody had business at the office, the Club, the barracks, the guard-house; even at Dwight's there had been a sort of impromptu conference, but nobody had been there to disturb them in any way—no officers, at least; but Sandy read the impending truth in his mother's eyes. She was talking nervously, with hardly a pause, as though she wished him to know all she knew before he could speak, and, even as Priscilla moved noiselessly about, brewing his tea and arranging his supper, Marion, the mother, talked rapidly, wretchedly on.

Yes, there was something. The notebook had been found and brought home. She would get it for him. It was right there in her desk. Priscilla handed it, and he almost snatched it from her, swiftly turning the leaves; then, seizing it by the back, shook it vehemently. A few scraps and clippings fluttered to the floor, but not the paper he needed.

"Who brought it? How did it come?" he demanded, a world of trouble, almost terror, in his eyes.

"Major Dwight's man," she answered, her blue eyes almost imploringly fixed upon his face.

"Dwight's man! But how, how, mother? Was there no word? Was it wrapped, or——?"

"Just as you see it, Sandy. He merely said it had been picked up and left at the house. He brought it here when he heard it was yours."

The tea stood untasted before him. He had not even taken his seat. Pale to his lips, and with hands that trembled almost as did her own, Sandy stood facing his mother, and Priscilla stepped quietly from the room.

"Did he say who found it—and where?" he asked.

"He finally said it was—picked up at Major Dwight's," was her answer, and imploringly still the blue eyes searched his face, and for an instant lighted with hope.

"But I never set foot at Major Dwight's—I've never been inside his gates since I called there with you. The nearest I've been was the front gate, and then, this couldn't have been with me."

"Why, Sandy?"

"Because it was in the breast pocket of my khaki—the thing I wore when we said good-night; but it seemed to grow chilly—or I did. I changed to the blue coat before going out at twelve. Lucky, too, for I had to go out front and help with some poor devils brought in from Skid's. I saw your light when coming home over the parade and wondered if the row had kept you awake."

"You—came in the front way, Sandy?" And the blue eyes seemed to implore him to stop, to reflect, to remember.

"Why, certainly, mother. I was afraid you'd hear me trying the front door or hobbling round on the planks. What brought——Why, mother!"

With her heart almost stilled, with her hands on her breast, with a blanched face and stricken eyes, Marion slowly found her feet, then rested one hand upon the table before she could steady herself to speak:

"Sandy, think! Do you mean you were not—there when the sentry No. 4 called; that you did not come hurrying home and stop there—at the back gate?"

"Mother, dear, what can you mean? When I met you at the door I had just come round from the front, from over near the guard-house. The officer of the guard had his hands full and——Priscilla, quick!"

And Priscilla came at speed, and, after one swift look as they lifted the drooping form to a sofa, whispered: "The doctor! Run!"

And though running was beyond him, Sandy limped in frantic haste, for the mother's heart and health had seemed failing her for weeks, and this was most alarming. Even at ten o'clock she had not fully regained consciousness, but was mending, and by that time both doctors had come to her, and Mrs. Stone was at her bedside, while Priscilla, calm, grave and self-poised, was answering the many anxious, sorrowful inquiries, for no woman at Minneconjou was loved and honored more than Marion Ray, who, believing the evidence of her own senses sufficient to confirm an ever-growing, dreadful suspicion, had gone down under the blow.

There had been, as was said, some kind of conference during the late afternoon. The colonel, the post surgeon, two or three wise-heads among the field and senior line officers and that indispensable adjutant. There had come quite late an aide-de-camp of the department commander, who had been at Wister and at some investigation over at the Minneconjou agency, who had something to say concerning the state of mind in which he found Captain Foster, which was bad; the state of mind in which he found the redmen—which was worse; and finally the state of things on both sides of the stream at Minneconjou—which was worst of all. Foster's rancor against Ray was venomous as ever, and he claimed to have new evidence, the mention of which made both Stone and the surgeon look grave. The agent's worry as to his turbulent charges was doubled by new events, and he demanded immediate aid. The post guard reports and the ranch-keeper's defiance told all too vividly how the devil had triumphed at Minneconjou. The colonel, the chaplain, the commissioned force, were helpless against the Act of Congress that had taken away their best hold on the men and turned the men over to the enemy. The situation, so far as Skid and his saloon and satellites were concerned, was past praying for. But there were "some things, thank God," said Stone, in which he could still strike for the good name of his garrison. Foster's new evidence should be investigated, said he, and as for the agent, he should have his guard, and a strong one, forthwith.

"How did you leave Mrs. Ray, doctor?" he asked his medical man and next-door neighbor on the left, as Waring came tramping home soon after taps.

"Resting quietly, colonel. She will do very well to-morrow."

Stone had come down to the gate to meet him. One glance he threw to the right and left, then lowered his voice.

"Any reason why Sandy shouldn't go in command of a guard to the agency in the morning?"

"No reason why he shouldn't, sir, and—several why he should."