Early came a lancer, bearing the swallow-forked guidon, his steed blown and wet. The soldiers gathered about him.

Foremost of the riders was a man not a soldier; at least, he looked more like a handsome, gentlemanly desperado. He sat easy and lithe and broad-shouldered; from under his wide-brimmed black hat, fell down upon the shoulders long, curling light hair. Belted about his waist was a pair of ivory-handled revolvers, one at either thigh. He wore shiny, flexible boots reaching to the knee; tight-fitting white doe-skin riding-breeches; a fine blue-flannel shirt open at the throat, and trimmed down the front with red; around his throat was loosely knotted a blue silk handkerchief; upon his hands were well-fringed gauntlet gloves. His skin was fair, with just a touch of sun-brown; a long blonde moustache drooped along either side of a firm clean chin; his nose was a bold hawk nose, and as piercing as the eyes of a hawk were his eyes of steely blue. Altogether, he seemed a man to be reckoned with.

“Well, Bill,” addressed the general, buoyantly, “I didn’t mean to desert you fellows, but I needed exercise.”

“I see,” nodded Bill, gravely. His keen, steely eyes noted the buffalo tongue; they read every detail of Ned’s face and figure; and swiftly sweeping the horizon they returned to him.

“Killed a big bull and found a small boy,” continued the general. “Ned, this gentleman is Mr. James B. Hickok, better known as Wild Bill. He’s a valuable friend to have.”

Mr. Hickok reined forward his horse, and offered Ned his hand.

“How do you do?” he spoke, politely. His voice was soft, but vibrant, and Ned liked him. “Count me at your service.”

Ned was certain that Mr. Hickok was not making fun of him; and, abashed, he shook hands. Whereupon Mr. Hickok gracefully reined his horse back to the general.

All the soldiers had arrived. “By their blanket-rolls and haversacks, they must be on a scout,” thought Ned, “and not merely on a hunt.” Among the last to arrive was another young officer—a captain, said the double bars of his shoulder-straps.

“All right, Hamilton. Now that you’ve shown us you’re safe, we’ll go on,” called the general, still in joking frame of mind. That he had distanced all his company and had an adventure pleased him immensely.

With quick gesture he waved his hand, and accompanied by Mr. Hickok trotted to the fore. Captain Hamilton escorted at one side of the column, as two by two the soldiery strung out. Behind the general rode the lance-corporal, and Bugler Odell, Ned holding tightly to him. Now and then Bugler Odell let information drift over Ned’s shoulder.

“That be Wild Bill,” he said, speaking guardedly. “’Tis the name he likes best. He’s chief scout for the general, and peace-keeper all ’round, for he’s boss o’ Riley, I tell ye. Six-foot two he stands in his socks; ye can span his waist with your hands. Quickest shot with the pistol I ever saw; chain lightnin’ can’t beat him. But you wouldn’t think he was such a tarrer, to speak with him. And when he’s mad he doesn’t talk much louder or say much more; yet you bet wan word and wan look from him be plinty to make the worst badman on the trail calm down and say, ‘Certainly, Bill. Excuse me, Mr. Hickok.’ He served in the Kansas troubles before the War, when the free-soil men and the slavery men were makin’ the border a red-hot place. He was a Union scout out here durin’ the War, too, and fought at the battle o’ Pea Ridge down in Arkansas. Wan time, in Sixty-wan, alone in a room he was attacked by ten border-ruffians, hand to hand, and when it was over they were all dead and he was ’most dead with eleven buckshot in him and thirteen other wounds.”

“Is he a soldier now?” queried Ned, awed.

“Nope; not what you might call a reg’lar soldier. He’s a border-man—a frontiersman. Some might call him a disperado, behind his back; and some a gambler; but anyway, he’s got the bravery and the nerve, and his word is good as gold, and that’s the kind o’ men needed out in this country.”

They rode on, while Ned pondered over the character of the terrible Wild Bill Hickok. He had appeared as such a mildly speaking, gentlemanly individual, that Bugler Odell’s description did not seem to fit.

“The Sivinth Cavalry be gettin’ its share o’ good men,” resumed Bugler Odell, confidentially. “Yon captain—he’s a foine wan, and a great joker. Captain Hamilton, I mean. Sure, he’s a lieutenant-colonel, from the War; but he ranks as captain o’ Reg’lars, by appointment to the Sivinth. His grandfather was a big man by the name o’ Alexander Hamilton. Ah, the Sivinth be officered entirely by generals and colonels and majors; and titles be so thick they make your head swim. I’m only plain sergeant, but some o’ the enlisted men be generals, by courtesy, as ye’ll find out.”

“Right you are,” agreed the lance-corporal. “The War left many a man with soldierin’ as his only job.”

Wild Bill was an accurate scout, for as the sun was setting they all sighted directly ahead, high upon a table-land backed by hills, an irregular group of buildings, the windows flashing above the level dun expanse below. Between were trees, marking a stream.

“There’s Riley,” announced Bugler Odell, pointing. “Below is the Smoky Hill Fork o’ the Republican, and the line o’ cottonwoods runnin’ to north’ard be the Republican itself. The post sits in the elbow o’ the two, where they join and make the Kaw or Kansas.”

As they approached Ned gazed curiously. The post made quite a showing, and everybody in the column seemed glad to be getting back. Now the flag-staff of the post, with the colors still floating, showed clearly. The general stirred restlessly in his saddle, as if eager to shorten the distance. The dogs, which had been ranging far and wide, galloped further ahead, and further, anon halting to look hopefully behind them and see that the column were surely coming on.

Suddenly across the rosy-purple glow making lovely the flat landscape, wafted high and sweet the notes of a bugle at the post. All the column listened—or appeared to listen.

“’Tis retreat; boom goes the avenin’ gun and down comes the flag,” explained Bugler Odell, as if Ned did not know.

But Ned did know, and he nodded to himself; for this was one of the army calls taught him by his father.

The long notes died amidst a dull “Boom!” by the evening gun; and Ned saw the flag slide down the tall pole.

“Faith, we’ll be locked out,” chuckled Odell, as a joke. “The general won’t like that; he’s wantin’ to be home with his wife.”

“Sound the trot,” bade the general, curtly, without turning head.

Bugler Odell did so; and through the clattering column rang the brisk voice of young Captain Hamilton: “Trot—march!” Away they trotted, all, canteens jingling, carbines jolting, saddles creaking, horses grunting. Close before was the sparse timber of the Republican River, flowing from the north; this river they evidently must cross, as the post was upon the other side.

“Give them Garryowen, Hamilton,” called the general. And he added, aside: “Then they’ll have supper hot.”

Captain Hamilton nodded at Bugler Odell; and now as the column was splashing into the ford Odell blew a lively lilt. It was one of the merriest, most stirring tunes that Ned ever had heard, and he resolved to learn it. It put life into the whole column.

“That’s a new wan to ye, I’ll wager,” remarked Odell, having paused as for breath. “’Tis an Irish song that the general likes, and it’s the march o’ the Sivinth Cavalry.”

The post was above the opposite bank. It stood forth clear in the crisp air, and among the buildings Ned could see figures scurrying to and fro. Some of them were women. Away sped the dogs, floundering through the shallows, and scrambling up the ascent, racing for supper. Next out scrambled the horses, climbing the steep, beaten trail that led from the river-bed to the flat plateau above; and at trot the returning column soon rode into the army post of old Fort Riley.

Bleak it was; composed of bare but substantial barracks and officers’ quarters, two stories high, of whitish stone laid in plaster. These buildings, lined with verandas, faced inward, forming a broken square. Outside the square were several other buildings, of stone and boards—being, as Ned was soon told, the store-houses and stables.

As soon as the column halted, the general nimbly dismounted, and leaving his horse for his orderly and the dismissal of the column for Captain Hamilton, he made straight for two women who were standing expectantly awaiting him, and overwhelmed by the barking dogs.

One he kissed gladly, while to the other he gave his free hand.

“Here we are, Libbie,” Ned heard him say. “Ready for Lizzie’s best. I’ve brought her a buffalo tongue—a big one. And a recruit, too.” With his arm about the woman’s shoulders he beckoned to Ned. “Oh, Ned! Come here.”

Ned went slowly forward. He was ashamed of his rags.

The woman whom the general was treating so affectionately was small and dark-eyed and sweet; the other woman was a pretty girl, plump and roguish and very curly-headed, with a profusion of dancing golden hair. She was smiling across at Captain Hamilton, who now had dismissed the column.

“Ned, one of these ladies is my wife Mrs. Custer, and the other is our guest, Miss Diana,” informed the general, a twinkle in his blue eyes. “You can guess which is which. I picked Ned up on the prairie, at the same time I got the buffalo—and when the buffalo was about to get him,” he explained, to the twain. “He wants to be a soldier, and I think we’ll make a bugler of him. What do you think?”

“Oh, you poor boy!” exclaimed the dark-eyed little woman, holding to Ned both her hands, while Miss Diana smiled brightly upon him. “Is he lost, Autie?”

“Same old story,” answered the general, soberly. “A waif from another Indian raid. I’ll tell you about it. But he’ll stay with us, and we’re going to find his sister for him. She’s all that’s left—somewhere out among the tribes.”

“Oh!” gasped both women.

“He can come right along with us, can’t he?” queried Mrs. Custer. “He must be hungry and he ought to have some clothes.”

“N-no, he’d better stay with Odell,” decided the general. “I’ll have the quartermaster outfit him. He must mess with the other men. He’s to be enlisted as a bugler.”

Old Fort Riley proved a bustling place. It had been located in the fall of 1852, and rebuilt in 1855 to afford protection to the settlers who were passing westward up along the Kansas River Valley. Before it was christened in honor of General Bennet C. Riley it had been called Camp Center, because it was supposed to be the geographical center of the United States. Now it was rapidly filling up with the recruits for the new Seventh United States Cavalry. Many other people also were flocking through by ox-team, mule and horse. The rails of the westward creeping Kansas Pacific branch of the Union Pacific Railroad had approached, to continue on and on, to Denver.

The post was upon a broad table-land high above the rivers, without a tree or a shrub, where the wind always blew. The Republican River, flowing down from the northward, and the Smoky Hill, flowing in from the westward, joined currents; and below the fort rolled eastward the noble Kansas River, in a beautiful valley dotted with settlers’ farms and threaded by the new Kansas Pacific Railroad. Westward from the fort could be seen other farms, along the Smoky Hill, and the town of Junction City.

Despite the bareness and the windiness (which were nothing strange to Ned, who had lived on the Colorado plains) Fort Riley had its charms. The air was fresh, the view was wide, and with the many soldiers and the frequent arrivals by stage and by horse or wagon, things were constantly happening.

In fact, wherever the general chanced to be, something was bound to happen. He made matters lively—especially when he was off duty. He and Mrs. Custer were great chums; and, next to her, he liked horses and dogs—but which the better, it was hard to say. He had a complete pack of dogs: fox hounds (the old one called Rover) from Texas, where he had been stationed after the war; a pair of deer-hounds, one of whom was named Byron; Fannie a fox terrier; stag-hound puppies, Maida and Blucher; and a bow-legged white bull-dog named Turk, who was the deadly rival of Byron. He had three horses, splendid ones, named for army friends; Jack Rucker was a thoroughbred mare from Texas; Phil Sheridan was a blooded colt from Virginia; and Custis Lee, a pacing horse, very fast, was ridden usually by Mrs. Custer.

The post headquarters, where lived the general and family, was the best of the double two-story stone houses about the parade-ground. It frequently echoed with song and laughter and merry cries, and the general’s hunting-horn. The household was composed of the general and Mrs. Custer, Lizzie the faithful black cook, who had been with the general in the South through the War, and a little negro boy who wanted to be a jockey. Then of course there were the dogs. In the other half of the house lived Major Alfred Gibbs and family. Major Gibbs was a portly, carefully-dressed man, who had been a soldier since 1846. He ranked next to General Custer.

In his house the general was the same rollicking, active spirit that he was when ahorse; on duty at the post or afield, and mingling with the soldiers, he acted the strict officer. He might joke with the other officers, but all the men understood that he was the chief, and that he would brook no intrusion upon his military dignity. Thus, although they called him (out of his hearing) the “old man,” and “old Jack” (because of the initials G. A. C., for George Armstrong Custer, on his baggage), they saluted promptly, and obeyed instantly, and tried no jokes on him!

Through the long winter officers, recruits and horses were arriving almost daily at Fort Riley, to bring up the Seventh Cavalry roll. Ned grew to know them all. The yellow-haired, boyish General Custer remained in command; for although he ranked as lieutenant-colonel, his superior officer of the regiment, Colonel Andrew Jackson Smith, a major-general and a veteran, who dated back to 1838, was kept on duty elsewhere. Therefore “old Jack” held the reins at the post—and the soldiers were speedily brought to know it.

Of the younger officers Ned liked especially his Captain, Louis M. Hamilton—who was also a lieutenant-colonel; First Lieutenant Tom Custer, the general’s light-hearted younger brother, a lieutenant-colonel who had enlisted in the war at sixteen and wore two medals for enemy’s flags captured; Captain Myles Keogh, who had served the Pope as well as in the Army of the Potomac; Lieutenant Myles Moylan the adjutant; and the young second lieutenants who were called “shave-tails” and “tad-poles” and “plebes.”

Wild Bill, the frontiersman scout, was at the post frequently, passing up and down, by horse or stage, along the trail west. He was as particular in his dress as was old Major Gibbs; everything that he wore was of the finest material, from the ruffle-pleated soft white shirt and broad-cloth in Junction City to the blue flannel shirt and riding-breeches on the trail. No matter how dressed, he was always the same quiet, courteous personage—but he never was seen without the two ivory-handled revolvers ready at his hips. Report said that he could shoot to the centre without sighting; and could shoot backward over his shoulder or under his arm, with an equal deadliness.

All the winter the soldiers were steadily drilled, and put under constant discipline. “Whipped into shape,” said Bugler Odell. Some men complained, and some deserted; but the better men realized that the strict training was necessary.

Bugles were ringing from early till late. Two buglers were attached to each company. Ned found himself assigned to the company of Captain Hamilton, and he was glad of that. Now he wore the bugler’s uniform, which had narrow double strips of yellow down the trousers, and yellow braid across the chest. It really was a uniform equal to that of any officer; but——

“All stripes and no authority,” with a laugh declared Odell, who was chief bugler. “That’s what they say o’ the trumpeter.”

The winter passed without any Indian fights, but with the Seventh Cavalry getting ready. The railroad trains arrived, and excursionists were more plentiful than ever: some wanted to hunt buffalo and some wanted to see Indians, and some wanted to look for land. Rumors reported that the Cheyennes and the Sioux and the Arapahos to the westward were not keeping their promises; and that this spring they would oppose the further advance of the railroad through their hunting grounds. The settlers of western Kansas were becoming alarmed again. The Seventh Cavalry must protect them, and the Smoky Hill stage and emigrant route to Denver, and the railroad survey.

Soon was it known that as quick as the spring opened the Seventh Cavalry would take the field. By this time Ned, under the teaching of Chief Bugler Odell, was a thorough trumpeter. Reveille, sick call, mess call, stables, boots and saddles, the assembly, drill, fire, trot, charge, tattoo, taps—he knew them all. He had learned “The Girl I Left Behind Me”; and he had learned “Garryowen”——

That inspiring tune to which had charged the Custer Third Brigade in the War, and which was now adopted by the Seventh Cavalry.

So, having been by Odell pronounced a “credit to the regiment,” Ned felt himself a soldier and ready with the other soldiers.