They were discussing matters a week later at old Fort Scott, where two little companies of the Fortieth kept watch and ward over the women and children of their many comrades in the field. Barely mid-June now, yet how all plans and projects for the summer had been changed. Guarded by Chrome's "infantry," as his unhorsed troopers were jocularly described, most of the wounded were being carried by short stages into Pawnee Station, where a field hospital had been established. Truman and Sanders were with these, but Winthrop, assuming command of all the cavalry that was available at the forks, had gone on in pursuit of Red Dog's renegade band. With him were Cranston and Davies; with him, too, were Hay and Hastings. Only one officer of the Eleventh remained at Scott, the captain of "A" Troop, in arrest awaiting trial. It was a time of sore anxiety to wives and children, to some two or three sweethearts who had happened there, and they showed it plainly. It was a time of strange suspense and trouble to Captain Devers, but he hid it well. Few men could better have portrayed the chafing, indignant soldier, robbed of the right to lead his men to battle, than did Devers when his comrades took the field. Hastings as first lieutenant went in command of "A" Troop, but Devers had importuned head-quarters with letters and telegrams imploring to be permitted to accompany the column. He asked for only temporary release from arrest. He courted—he demanded the fullest investigation of his every act. He longed to meet his accusers—his defamers, rather, and overthrow them before a jury of his peers, but, as the court could not proceed now until the campaign was over, why hold him chafing here? It was all capital, it was even touching, but it "did not work." The general himself was far away in the distant Big Horn; his adjutant-general could not act, and the lieutenant-general in Chicago would not. Then, as Devers had been in close arrest much over seven days, he demanded "extended limits," which were readily accorded him. When "A" Troop marched away its captain's only solace had been a long, closeted conference with Sergeant Haney, who, as a consequence, had to gallop many a mile to overtake the troop.

The news of Red Dog's escape and the bolt of the Ogallallas from McPhail's bailiwick created consternation at Scott. With the cavalry and all but one company of White's battalion gone from the agency there was ample opportunity, but it had not been foreseen. Then, three days later, by way of Pawnee, came the details of the fierce fighting on the Ska, of Truman's wound and Sanders's, of Chrome's catastrophe, the only humor in the situation being the contemplation of how Captain Canker must have sworn. Then came hurried letters, pencilled in the field, and Leonard himself took hers to Mrs. Cranston, and then went in search of Mrs. Davies, whom he found at Darling's quarters, though Darling was not there. The ladies were at luncheon, and the adjutant contented himself with sending Mira's missive in. There was a letter for Captain Devers in the well-known hand of Sergeant Haney. This was sent him by the orderly. There were others for others, which were duly delivered and brought at least momentary joy, but Mrs. Cranston's eyes were dancing with delight when Leonard met her half an hour later.

"I'm going to Mrs. Davies," she said. "I want to read her what the captain says of her husband's conduct all through that fight of Monday afternoon. He says he never saw anything calmer or braver in his life."

"Yes, I remember our chaplain's indulging in some prognostication to that end," said Leonard, gravely; "but, Mrs. Cranston, did you want to see Mrs. Davies?"

"Why, yes, assuredly."

"Well, she isn't home,—I think you'll find her at Mrs. Darling's."

But Mrs. Cranston's humor changed. She decided to wait and see her later. She did not care to go to Mrs. Darling's; neither, as it transpired, did she care to return home, at least not yet awhile. There were people capable of believing of Mrs. Cranston that she had no especial interest in Mrs. Davies, personally, and no genuine desire to communicate to her the tidings which Mrs. Davies, perhaps, could hardly appreciate. Mira had not once set foot within Mrs. Cranston's door since their return from the cantonment, and there had been next to no intercourse between them, and yet on this almost joyous afternoon Margaret had eagerly seized upon this pretext of leaving Agatha Loomis alone with Mr. Langston, who had returned that very day from some investigation at Kearney and Cheyenne, and, after half an hour with Mr. Leonard, had hastened to her door. He was still in the parlor when the lady of the house came smilingly in an hour later,—she had been visiting Mrs. Leonard the while,—but there was constraint in the air. The boys were out with their ponies. There was no one to entertain him during her absence but Miss Loomis, and Miss Loomis apparently must have failed, for Langston's face had grown ten years older, and the moment Mrs. Cranston left the room, on household cares intent, he must have taken his leave, for when she returned from an inspection of the larder in order to see if it would justify an invitation to stay and dine, the parlor was empty. Langston had gone back to Braska, Miss Loomis to her room. I regret to have to record it of Mrs. Cranston, but during the following week she made more than one effort to induce her friend and kinswoman to say what had happened to put so summary a stop to Mr. Langston's visits, and that she wrote some peppery things to her husband, the captain, in summing up her conclusions; she also looked some, and I fear said some, to Miss Loomis herself, for one day, going suddenly into Agatha's room, she surprised that young lady in the act of packing her trunk. There ensued a scene which neither cared in after-years to say much about. There were tears and reproaches on one side, if not both, but Agatha's determination could not be changed. She had made up her mind to leave Fort Scott, return to Chicago, and go she did,—but not without Mrs. Cranston.

In less than ten days there came a long letter from the captain. He and his troop were destined, he said, to long months of scouting in the distant Northwest. The general had told him as much. They might again have to go to the Yellowstone, and it would be November before he could hope to see the inside of a garrison. "So," said he, "stow away the goods and chattels, leave them with the quartermaster, pack your trunk, and take the boys and Agatha for another visit to the old folks at home,—who are most eager to welcome you." When the Fourth of July came, the Cranston boys, in the added glory of all their experiences at the cantonment, were once more the envied centre of youthful attention at Chicago.

"We will have no more fighting this summer," said he, "for the Indians have scattered," and "C" Troop did not; but there was abundant opportunity for usefulness and distinction for "the prodigy," as Cranston now generally referred in his home letters to Corporal Brannan, whose devoted mother was almost the first to visit Margaret on her arrival and overwhelm her with proffers of hospitality and with questions about her boy. "C" Troop was detailed as escort to the commanding general in a long tour he made to the Yellowstone Park, and the prodigy's letters to that fond mother became more and more a cause for rejoicing. Already had she learned to thrill with pride over the accounts of his bravery and good conduct in the affairs at the agency and the fighting on the Ska, but that, said she, was only as she knew he would behave. From babyhood her boy had been conspicuous among his fellows for absolute fearlessness and desperate courage, and her memory was charged with a wealth of corroborative detail which that of his fellows seemed to have lost. Those who were confidently appealed to were polite and sympathetic, as became them when responding to a social magnate of such prominence and influence, but they looked far from confident and said satirical things when once away from her presence; but then, no one knows how a boy is going to turn out. A few weeks and the general himself would be home, and then, fresh from the contemplation of the soldierly prowess and graces of her son, what could he do less than have him commissioned a colonel or something and ordered in on the staff, and then what store of fatted calves would not be slaughtered in honor of this her son who was lost and was found, and who had returned to her bringing his sheaves with him? If mother-dreams could but come true all men would live and die immaculate, ennobled, magnificently brave, steadfast, and commanding. And far away among the fastnesses of the Yellowstone, living in close communion with nature, in a glorious round of days, full of high health, courage, and hope, with ambition fired, purpose strengthened, with freedom from care or temptation, small wonder was it if Corporal Brannan's letters warranted all her expectations. But those were the halcyon days of cavalry life, not the typical. Our truest heroes are those who bear with equanimity the heat and burden of the long, monotonous round of garrison life with its petty tyrannies, exactions, exasperations, and bear them without a break or murmur. It is a poor, poor soldier who cannot wax enthusiastic on a full stomach—and a good horse—when serving in the field.

But while "C" Troop was doing escort duty, and its captain's wife and little ones were safe at home, "A" Troop, long handicapped by the frailties of its commander and notorious for bad drill, was now striving to win a new name under the lead of Bachelor Hastings and its grim Benedick second lieutenant, whose fair young bride could hardly be said to be safe at Scott, restored to the sympathetic circle of which Mesdames Stone, Flight, and Darling were the guiding stars. Old Pegleg seldom left his piazza now except to go to bed or dinner, and did not much care what was said or done around him so long as he was left in peace. The post surgeon had bolstered him up again, after a few days in bed, so that he could sign papers, and while he retained the nominal command of the garrison, Leonard was its virtual and actual head, for when July came only one detachment of the Fortieth remained with the band as guard.

But that band was a host in itself, and why should women weep and mope and mourn—with music and the dance so easily accessible? Mrs. Leonard's letters to Mrs. Cranston became vividly interesting just about this time. The hops were resumed, as well as the drives with friends in town. Mr. Langston came no longer, but the bank and the Cattle Club poured forth their homage. Messrs. Burtis, Courtenay, and Fowler were out twice a week at least. Then Mr. Willett's beautiful team reappeared, and presently Mr. Willett himself, and he had brought still another step from the distant sea-shore. It is only the first step that counts, and Mira had taken that. Mrs. Leonard thought she was learning another. She danced as beautifully, dressed as divinely, smiled as bewitchingly, and talked as inanely as ever. Mr. Leonard disapproved of Mr. Willett, but that could not keep him off the post. When mid-July came Willett was there almost every day. Twice he remained overnight, sleeping at the sutler's. The chaplain had been to talk with Mr. Leonard, and had tried to talk with Mira, but she fled from him in tears. What he said to her was dreadful!—dreadful! and she should tell Mr. Davies about it just as soon as he returned. "I," said the chaplain, gravely, "shall not wait till then. I shall have to write and tell him now."

Meantime Captain Devers occupied his quarters in gloomy state and twice each day patrolled the garrison limits with the air of an injured man. At other times he was writing long letters and reading those which came to him by every mail, but none came now from the faithful henchman Haney, far away on the Indian trail with Tintop's pursuing column. Red Dog was known to be with a remnant of his band somewhere in the wild Bad Lands to the north of the Ska, and the last heard from the colonel was that he, with six troops of the Eleventh, was scouring the southern limit of those dismal features of our frontier landscape, looking for Red Dog not far to the north of Antelope Springs. Devers had been truculent in his demand for speedy trial up to the third week in July,—up to the twentieth of the month in fact,—but that day brought telegraphic sensation. Tintop had found and struck Red Dog's camp at dawn on the sixteenth, guided thither by Thunder Hawk himself, had struck hard and heavily, scattering not only Red Dog's people to the hills but destroying their village and burning another that from its foul condition seemed to have been standing there all winter. Red Dog himself was killed, fighting like a tiger, and "A" Troop under Hastings and Davies had won the distinction of heading the charge, doing most of the work, and losing more in killed and wounded than the others combined. Hastings was shot through the arm and crippled. Corporal Boyd, one of Devers's pets, was killed, so were two troopers, and Sergeant Haney had received what was reported to be a mortal wound. Leaving a small guard with his invalids and invoking aid from Major White's infantry battalion, now garrisoning the stockade where the new post was to be built, Tintop had gone on into the hills to continue the work of breaking up the bands, Davies commanding "A" Troop, and not until the thirtieth was he heard from again.

But meantime Lieutenant Archer, of the general's staff, who had accompanied the cavalry column, was staying with the wounded, and had removed them from the smoking, malodorous neighborhood of the ruined villages, and could be found, he wrote, with his charges at Antelope Springs. This was news at which Leonard's eyes flashed. It was tidings at which Devers turned very pale. The latter begged for authority to go at his own expense and at once, and without a guard, though it involved five days of buckboard driving or saddle work from Pawnee Station, to join his wounded men. "Debarred," said he, "from the right to battle with my men, I pray that I may at least be permitted to minister to their needs,—they who have so gloriously maintained the honor and credit of their troop." But the adjutant-general at department head-quarters smiled sarcastically and said that this, with others of Devers's letters and telegrams, deserved to be framed. August came, and Devers again clamored to be brought to trial or relieved from arrest, and two evenings later, as he sat in gloomy state upon his piazza, he was amazed to see the adjutant turn grimly into the gate and calmly stand attention before him.

"Captain Devers," said he, "I am directed by the post commander to read to you this despatch:

"'Notify Captain Devers that his letters have been received, and that the court for his trial will convene not later than the fifteenth instant.