There was wrath mingled with the rejoicing that thrilled all through the garrison that afternoon. Scattering far and wide, the ring-leaders, the more prominent braves engaged in the revolt at the agency, were seeking the refuge of kindred bands, leaving the old men and many Indian households to explain the situation and secure eventually the peace always so readily accorded. Placing a guard over the unconsumed property, and sending most of the cavalry in pursuit of the renegades, Stone telegraphed brief statement to department headquarters, lauding Ray and his plucky detachment as they deserved, and Dwight and the squadron as well, for their swift and skillful dash to the rescue. By sunset the few dead, the several wounded and many homeless women and children had been conveyed to the fort, Silver Hill turning out in force, and the Argenta and rival stables contributing rigs in abundance. Major Dwight was again beneath the same roof with little Jim, the father well-nigh as helpless as the fever-stricken boy, for, the excitement over, his duty done and splendidly done, and he himself shocked and shaken by the fall of his horse, shot down almost at the last moment of the charge, Dwight was brought back in the ambulance and assisted again to his reclining chair in the den. Home he quietly refused to go. Mrs. Dwight, as was proper and decorous, so soon as she could rally, under the ministrations of FÉlicie, from the prostration that befell as a result of seeing her adored, though deluded, husband riding off to battle without ever a word or kiss to his suffering one, lost little time in coming to implore her Oswald to return to his own room and her arms. But Dr. Waring gravely told her it was then impossible, and persuaded her, deluged in tears, to leave him in peace. Her parents, he said, would soon be with her. They had been telegraphed for, and were to start at once. Every provision should be made for their comfort and hers, and, he added, for her future; but she must understand that for the time being Major Dwight begged to be permitted to give his entire attention to his son, whose case was desperate.

So Inez, veiled and leaning heavily on the arm of FÉlicie, went sobbing homeward through the dusk of the closing and solemn day, followed by many curious eyes, and was once more within doors before Sandy Ray had been restored to his mother's arms. Not until the last of his "forlorn hope" had been gathered up and shipped back to Minneconjou would Sandy consent to be driven thither himself, to find almost every door at the post open to welcome him except his own, where there were now three or four more denizens than there were beds. Stone himself was on hand to say that Mrs. Stone had one of their spare rooms all prepared for him, and this, too, in spite of the fact that Stone had stowed away, where none could see, a certain letter that, unexplained, might yet render Sandy Ray ineligible to residence under any roof at Minneconjou for all time to come.

But, unbeknowst to the colonel, the matter of Sandy's billet had been settled beforehand. Lieutenant Purdy, of the Sixty-first, a near neighbor, had met the "conquering hero" almost halfway, with the information that his room was ready for him; his mother had already been in to see and to approve, and there he must make himself at home, close to his own quarters; and possibly Stone was grateful.

There were several things in connection with the day's work for which he could give no thanks whatever, and one of these was the news that finally came from the wood camp. Black Wolf's thunderous harangue of the early morning was not all an empty lie. Only the poor remains of the sergeant, seven of his little guard, and several of the workmen, each body surrounded by empty cartridge shells, mute witnesses of their desperate battle for life, were left of those who had so cheerily marched away; and, Blenke being safe lodged within the post, there were still three absent unaccounted for. Blenke himself seemed crushed by the tragic fate of these comrades whom he had vainly risked his life to save. There was great sympathy expressed for Blenke throughout the depleted garrison that night. There was talk of his daring essay all over the post. There was whispering of it even in the dim-lighted wards of the hospital, where lay the wounded and the scorched and seared. Possibly it was the torment of his burns that made Skelton toss, mutter, and finally blaspheme outright, but blaspheme he did at each successive mention of Blenke, and, presently, with frightful, spiteful vehemence and virulence. The steward in charge thought him delirious, and Skelton said perhaps he was. 'Twould make a cat laugh and a man stark mad to have to listen to such infernal rot, and this, as in duty bound the steward told to Wallen at his earliest appearance, whereat that wise young practitioner looked long at Skelton and—wiser still before he came away.

With all the official turmoil that grew and throve at Minneconjou in the week that followed, this narrative has nothing to do. The general came and went, and lots of troops and dozens of officers. Even Wister, far to the west, was called upon for its contingent for field service in rounding up the renegades, and Stanley Foster's troop, Stanley and all, came over the Sagamore by special delivery, so to speak, and detrained at Fort Siding, whence a detail sped to the fort for such supplies as were needed, and the troopers marched at dawn, a wearied-looking captain at their head. There was much to do in the field; there was much ado at the fort. This last, which barely escaped becoming official, had to do mainly with these, our dramatis personÆ, and may now briefly be recorded, and then our story is done.

The center of human interest, of local interest, at least, was for a memorable week shifted from the major's quarters to those where lay our little Jimmie, tossing night and day in fever that threatened to burn out everything but itself, tended night and day by gentle hands, by devoted women, by one especially whose pluck and patience never gave out, and whose physical powers proved indomitable—Priscilla Sanford. There were days in which they could not induce the father to remain below. His whole being seemed centered in that desperate fight for life, wherein he, a soldier of many a heady fight, could wield no weapon for the cause for which he would instantly have laid down life itself could it but insure that of his only son. There came one awful day in which, as he bent over the stricken form, his lips moving in piteous prayer to Heaven, his eyes imploringly fixed upon the flushed and fevered little face, suddenly a gleam of recognition seemed to flash from the now dilating eyes, and as he and Priscilla leaned eagerly forward, in shuddering terror the writhing form shrank from his touch, the sobbing cry, startling in its utter amaze, incredulity—its imploring appeal burst from the burning lips, "Don't strike me, daddy; please don't! Indeed, indeed I didn't lie!" And with a groan of anguish unspeakable Oswald Dwight dropped upon his knees and, sobbing aloud, buried his face in his quivering hands. It was Priscilla who finally raised him to his feet, and Waring led him, exhausted, from the room. From that hour, in which it seemed as though Heaven itself had directed the final lesson should be given, and through him, the patient victim of human fallibility, the boy began to mend; and one day Waring and Wallen, coming forth together, stopped and solemnly shook hands at the head of the stairs and left the chastened father and that dauntless nurse silently communing in the presence of the fluttering, yet reawakened, life the one had so nearly imperiled, the other had so indomitably battled to save.

And all this while there were other lives and other fates and other fortunes almost as desperately entangled and endangered. The general had summoned Stone to follow him afield. It was hard work finding those scattered wards of the nation, those lambs of the flock fled afar from the agency, and Stone left with the fate of his three wood guards still undetermined, for the soldiers had searched in vain. He left, too, with most of his men, while Major Layton, ordered up from Niobrara, took temporary command of the post, Dwight being, as yet, unfit for duty of any kind. Stone was a week away, scouting through the Sagamore and over toward the Belle Fourche, and brought back with him some four-score "reds" of various ages and sexes, and two well-nigh starved and exhausted men, two of French's devoted band, who, they said, had been sent out the night before the attack to build and fire a beacon on the summit of a tall, sharp, pine-crested height a mile away from camp. French thought the signal might bring help from the post. They never reached that crest. They heard the Indians shouting to each other in pursuit. They made their way farther into the hills and lived on what they had in their haversacks, hiding by day, for the hills seemed full of redskins. They were taken to hospital to recuperate, and meantime, while Stone's battalion settled down again into quarters, and business at Skidmore's resumed its normal aspect, and the guard and prisoners their abnormal number, Major Layton returned to Niobrara after imparting to Colonel Stone a story he had succeeded in tracing back to three sentries, a story he could neither stifle nor throttle, and that he left with Colonel Stone to deal with as best he might; and Stone, thinking again, as he had thought a thousand times before, of that letter in feminine hand, and in his private desk, felt his heart go down to his boots. In brief, the story was that twice during the week a young and slender officer had issued from the rear gate of Lieutenant Purdy's quarters, made his way in the black shadows of the fence-line to the rear gate of Major Dwight's, where once, at least No. 4 could swear, it was nearly an hour before he reappeared.

Stone took council that very evening with Waring, the senior surgeon. Waring had just come from Rays', saying little Jim, though dreadfully weak and emaciated, was surely convalescing—that Dwight, with all his joy, seemed humbler than a little child. "I believe, by gad, that in his present frame of mind he'd forgive her, that incomprehensible little wretch of a wife of his, no matter what she'd done, if she'd come and ask him now."

Whereupon Stone abruptly said, "By —— he sha'n't! Come in here," and he closed the study door behind them. Within twenty minutes thereafter Dr. Waring had mastered the contents of three precious papers. First, Major Layton's memorandum of the sentry's statements; second, a little note that said, "at the usual place and time" and informing somebody of the writer's intention of quitting "Minneconjou—and him—forever"; third, a note explanatory of the second, and this note was type-written and without signature:

The inclosed was found in a notebook belonging to Lieutenant Sanford Ray, which had been dropped last night at the rear entrance to the quarters of Major Dwight. The major will know who wrote the inclosed, and should know for whom it was written.

Two nights thereafter, toward one o'clock, Major Dwight, with the post adjutant and Dr. Waring in attendance, knocked for admission at his own front door and knocked repeatedly before FÉlicie could be induced to appear with the to-be-expected plea that Madame had but just composed herself after nights of sleepless weeping, and surely she could not now be disturbed. Dwight demanded instant admission and, finding parley useless, FÉlicie unbarred the door and unloosed her tongue. "Shut up, you Jezebel!" said the doctor impolitely. "Sit down there and be quiet." Dwight was already mounting the stair, and presently could be heard demanding admission to his wife's room. There was whimpering appeal in the response, but the door was speedily unlocked, and the voice of Inez could be heard in tones suggestive of unspeakable shock and grief and sense of indignity and injustice. Presently Dwight came down again. "Unbolt that dining-room door—and the back!" said he curtly to the trembling maid, and when she would have demurred, seized her not too gently by the arm, almost as he had seized little Jim, and propelled her ahead of him into the dining-room. It was significant that the adjutant remained at the front door. It was more significant that when the rear door finally swung open there stood a silent sergeant of the guard, while the waning moon glinted upon the bayonets of certain soldiers on the level below. FÉlicie shrank at the announcement, yet could hardly have been unprepared for it: "Someone opened from within a moment ago, sir, and darted back at sight of the cap and buttons."

"Bring two men and come in," was the brief answer, and then with lighted candles and a lantern a search began, a search for many minutes utterly without result, though another sergeant came and the officer of the day, and all this time FÉlicie was begging to be restored to Madame, who would assuredly again be prostrated and in need of her, and Dwight said, "Let her go," whereat, as was noted, she darted first to her own room, not to Madame's, and presently the search began again on the second floor; and, to the amaze of the domestics aloft, soon invaded the very garret itself, where first there was found the print of stocking feet on a dusty plank, just as from under a box in the kitchen a pair of shoes were pulled forth never worn by any authorized inmate of those quarters. Then more lanterns went up the back stairs and more prodding followed in the loft, and presently the watchers below heard stifled sounds of excitement and scurry, and then, wild-eyed and striving to be strictly professional, Sergeant Jennison descended and said: "We've got him, sir. He's chokin' like."

And presently again, limp, half-suffocated, smeared with dust and dirt, in shirt sleeves and trousers coated with cobwebs and lint, there was lowered to the second floor and shoved out on the landing at the head of the stairs an almost unrecognizable creature, still struggling for breath. "No man that wasn't made of rubber instead of flesh and bones could have doubled himself in where he was," said the corporal to the silent group, and, indeed, it looked as though he were doubling up again, for the knees gave way, the head fell forward, and but for restraining arms down would he have gone. The sergeant propped him up again. The doctor plied a wet sponge, and FÉlicie, at the door of her mistress' chamber, gasped in amaze: "Mon Dieu! the miscreant who has terrified Madame!" Whereat the dull eyes of the miscreant began slowly to burn, and then to blaze; and, finally, as a faint color showed in his sallow cheek, and the officer of the day, his official captor, bluntly demanded explanation of his being in this house and at this time of night, and both he and Waring and the adjutant, too, as it later appeared, had all swiftly decided that the one explanation, the only one, conceivable would be burglarious intent, to the utter amaze of every man present, to the dismay of FÉlicie, who screamed aloud, the head went suddenly up and back—oh, how well those who knew the Rays knew that gesture!—the dark eyes flashed in hate and rage, and the "miscreant's" voice rang out in defiance, triumph, almost exultation:

"What explanation? I'd have you know I'm the only man in this post who has legal right in that room. Ask the lady herself."

Dwight's jaw was drooping. Slowly he turned to where FÉlicie, after one short, half-stifled scream, stood staring wildly upon the prisoner, her hands clasped to her frizzled head. "Ask—this—woman, you mean?" he faltered, in the midst of almost breathless silence.

"That woman? No! Ask my wife, who lies in that room!"

Then, before any man could lay hand on and stop him, Dwight had sprung forward and struck the miscreant down.

Next morning the guard report bore the name, as a prisoner under sentry in hospital, of Private Blenke, of Company "C," and next night did Private Skelton, another patient, a precious tale unfold.

It was true that Skelton had once served in the old —th Cavalry, and, in common with many a man in his troop, had detested his first lieutenant, Foster. It was true that there were now in the garrison of Fort Minneconjou—two in the infantry and one in the cavalry—three men who had an ancient grudge against that officer. It was true that the sight of his hated face, hovering ever about the major's wife, had revived all the old rancor. Two of the number had sworn that if ever a time came when they could wreak their revenge upon him they would do it. He had robbed one man of his sweetheart and two of their liberty, and had driven these two into desertion. Skelton had once been rather well-to-do, but drink and this trouble had ruined him. He had known Blenke as much as a year, had been a "super" in a traveling show company of which Blenke was a member. Blenke was a gymnast and trapeze performer of some note, and not a bad actor in dialect and minor roles. The company stranded. They were hundreds of miles from "home," without money, hope, or credit. Skelton steered Blenke to a recruiting office, and, once arrived at Minneconjou, Blenke became ambitious. He knew nothing of the regular army before; now he was determined to become an officer. Skelton alone knew anything of Blenke's past, and Skelton promised not to "split." The coming of Mrs. Dwight brought a remarkable change in Blenke, and when Captain Foster followed her and hung about her all day long, Skelton saw there was something much amiss. Blenke seemed going crazy through watching that lady and that man. Blenke had some clothes of Lieutenant Ray's that he kept hidden at Skidmore's, and Skelton felt sure that when the story went round about Lieutenant Ray's being seen at night, prowling back of the major's quarters, that Blenke was the real culprit. They were talking one day—Skelton and his former chums—of the chance they'd have now of waylaying the captain, and Blenke twitted them of not daring, even if they had the chance. They vowed then that if he would only show them a way, he could count on their doing it, and they did. Blenke had a plan matured, when suddenly the captain left, after the row with Lieutenant Ray, and then Blenke seemed just to take fire. He sent for them and unfolded another. The Captain's train was five hours late and he knew a way to lure him out on the road. He hated him, too, he said, and "we were beginning to see why. He was so dead gone on the lady himself." He fixed the whole business, got a note to the captain, he said, the captain couldn't tell from her own writing, and it fetched him out just as was planned, and the rest was pretty much as the captain told it. Skelton at first didn't much care that an officer got credit for it all; Blenke had seen to that. Blenke seemed to hate Lieutenant Ray—though he was forever copying him—most as much as he hated Foster; but when Skelton got to the agency, got to know Ray, got knocked down at the pow-wow and rescued by Ray, got shot and left to roast to death at the agency, and was again rescued by Ray, Skelton made up his mind that he'd sooner go to Leavenworth for life, if he lived, or to hell if he didn't, than permit Mr. Ray to suffer another day in suspicion. It was Blenke who wore his dress at night and copied his very limp. It was Blenke that kept prowling about the major's, lallygagging with that French maid. It was high time Blenke himself was in limbo, and now they'd got him, they'd be wise to keep an eye on him.

And so, with the case—the two cases—against Sandy Ray abruptly closed, the colonel, the surgeon and the adjutant, who had heard the confession, seemed also to think; for the sentry at the bedside of the mournful-eyed invalid received orders to bayonet him if he attempted to budge.

And all in vain, for, with the dawn of a bleak to-morrow, Private Blenke, no one could begin to say how, had slipped by his possibly drowsing guard and escaped. The prairie, the Minneconjou valley, the trains, were fruitlessly searched. The agile prisoner had fled from the wrath to come.