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"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."

CHAPTER XXIII
A WELCOME PERIL

"For such light duty as he may be able to perform," read the order that had brought Sandy Ray to Minneconjou. First it was the Canteen, and under the young officer's zealous management that fiercely assailed and finally abolished institution had been a credit to the post and a comfort to the men. It was not the duty Ray best loved, by any means, but, being debarred by his wound from active exercise, compelled as yet to ride slowly and with caution, he had thankfully accepted and thoroughly performed it. Then had come his serious trouble, and then, when, had he known the stories in circulation, he should have remained to face them, he was ordered away, leaving, like Sir Peter Teazle, his character behind him.

He was ordered to a difficult, probably dangerous and possibly perilous duty, and, knowing this, he could not for an instant delay or demur. It wasn't in the blood of the Rays to shirk. Far better might it have been for Sandy had someone, either friend or foe, suggested that his being selected, when he belonged to neither regiment represented in the garrison, was in itself intimation that the stories at his expense were believed, and if that were true he should be sent to Coventry – not to command. There were young fellows in both the cavalry and infantry at Minneconjou who would eagerly have welcomed the detail, with its chance of swelling an efficiency record. Under any other circumstances there might have been protest, there would have been growling. Now there were only silence and significant looks. Even at the Club (Minneconjou had set its seal against the time-honored, but misleading, appellation "Mess"), where her name could not be mentioned, even in a whisper, the order was accepted without comment. There was a woman in the case!

Ordinarily, under circumstances demanding the detail of a guard for such purposes, post commanders would send a company under a captain, or half a company under a subaltern; but Stone hated to lose a unit from his regimental line. He had sent to the wood camp a sergeant with a dozen picked men – one or two from each of his infantry companies. Now he sent a lieutenant and thirty of the rank and file, selected at random, to the aid of the agent. Of this thirty a sergeant, two corporals and twelve men were taken from the squadron, for it might be necessary to send out mounted men to make arrests, said the agent, and the agency police were sullen over recent happenings. Sandy was notified by a call from the post adjutant about 11:30, just as he was softly locking up for the night. He listened in silence, made no comment, asked no questions, completed his few preparations, bade Priscilla keep it all from his mother until after he was gone, for rest and sleep were most essential, and at dawn, with dark-rimmed eyes and solemn face, he stole to the half-open doorway, beyond which the night lamp dimly glowed; listened; entered one moment and softly kissed the dear hand that lay so wearily upon the coverlet; looked fondly at the gentle, careworn face, and then, with firm, set lips, turned stealthily away. Priscilla was up and had hot coffee ready for him below stairs, and possibly admonition, but this she spared him. Oh, if Priscilla had but known what Aunt Marion had seen at the rear gate two nights before, what might she not have said to both! for Priscilla, too, had had her vigil, had both seen and heard and knew more than Aunt Marion even thought she knew.

"It is barely ten miles," said Sandy. "Couriers will be riding to and fro. Then there's the telephone by way of town, unless the wires are cut. Let me hear of mother night and morning, Pris. Now, I've got to go."

She stood at the window of his room an hour later, watching the little command as it wound away among the dips and waves of the southward prairie, until finally lost to sight. This was a new phase to the situation. Priscilla had never pictured the modern redman save as she had heard him described at church sociables, peace society meetings and the occasional addresses of inspired "Friends of the Indian," who came soliciting the sympathies – and subscriptions – of the congregation. The few specimens that had met her gaze about town, the station and the fords were, she felt sure, and justly sure, but frowsy representatives of a magnificent race. It was only when the agent, himself a godly man, had come and told his recent troubles, after evening service, that Priscilla began to realize how, despite his innate nobility of character and exalted ideals and eloquence, the average ward of the nation was not built on the lofty plane of Logan, Osceola and Chief Joseph. He was quite capable of extravagant demands of his own and of raising the devil when he didn't get what he wanted.

There were other eyes, and anxious eyes, along the bluffs and the southward windows of officers' row. There were women and children, even at that early hour, clustered at the little mound beyond the west gate, whence the last peep could be had at the "byes" as they breasted and crossed Two-Mile Ridge. There were garrison lads on their ponies, little Jim among them, who rode forth with the detachment as far as the railway, and were now racing back. There were even watchers in the upper windows at Skid's, for the word had gone from lip to lip that the Indians were in a fury and meant business this time. But there was darkness, there was silence, there were only drawn blinds and lowered shades and apparent indifference at Major Dwight's. Possibly Jimmy was the only one who had heard. Possibly Inez did not know; mayhap she did not care.

The boy's face was hot and flushed that afternoon, and he lay down a while, an unusual thing with him, but he had been up very early and out very long and riding in the breeze. All this might tend to make him drowsy. He had come as usual to tell his father all about Mr. Ray's march and the boy escort. A prime favorite and something of a hero was Sandy Ray among the boys about the post, and Jimmy did not know just why daddy seemed so uninterested. Perhaps he, too, was tired. After breakfast Jim had gone to see Aunt Marion, and returned disappointed, and, after an inning or two of ball, which he played but languidly, had come home for a snooze, and found daddy talking gravely with gentlemen from town who had been to see him before, and had queer-looking papers for him to sign, not a bit like the innumerable rolls, returns and company things he had to attend to when captain of a troop. Jim awakened only with difficulty and only when called. He had promised to lunch with Harold Winn, and went, slowly and heavily, but came back soon with a hot headache, and was again sleeping when the phaeton drove round for mamma and Félicie, and he did not know that this time mamma came not to see daddy before starting. He did not know that Miss Sanford came not to read. He did not know just what to make of things when he found daddy bending over him at sunset, with anxiety in his face, and young Dr. Wallen was helping undress and get him regularly to bed.

Mamma and Félicie had come home before the usual time, and Jim never knew that, or what happened later, until very long after. But something, it seems, had occurred during the drive to greatly agitate mamma, and that evening her condition demanded the ministrations of both the physician and her maid. That night something further occurred that led to much more agitation and weeping and upbraiding and reproaches and accusations and all manner of things his father evidently wished him not to hear, for he firmly closed the door between their rooms. The doctor came a third time, and in the morning, burning with fever and caring little whither he went, Jimmy was only vaguely conscious that he was being gently borne down the stairway and into the open air, and thought he was flying until again stowed away between sheets that seemed so fresh and cool, and once he thought daddy was standing over him, dressed again in his uniform, and he was sure Aunt Marion had bent to kiss him, and then that every now and then Miss 'Cilla placed a slim, cool hand upon his forehead and removed some icy bandage that seemed almost to sizzle when it touched his skin. From time to time something was fed him from a tiny spoon, and all the time he was getting hotter and duller, and the lightest cover was insupportable, and he wished to toss it off – toss everything off – toss himself off the little white bed; and then, mercifully, Jim knew nothing at all but dreams for many a day until he and Minneconjou came once more slowly to their senses, for Minneconjou had been every bit as flighty, as far out of its head, as Jimmy Dwight, and it had not typhoid to excuse it, either.

The day following Jimmy's seizure, Major Dwight appeared in public again for the first time since his strange attack. He had ever been of spare habit, but now he was gaunt as a greyhound, and his uniform hung flabbily about his wasted form. He looked two shades grayer and ten years older. His eyes were dull and deep-set. His face was ashen. He was not fit to be up and about, said the doctors, but could not be kept at home. Mrs. Dwight was in semi-hysterical condition, requiring frequent sedatives and unlimited Félicie. There had been – yes, in answer to direct question, the physicians had to own – there had been a scene between the aging husband and the youthful wife and, though the details were fairly well known to these gentlemen, they were almost as fairly kept inviolate. But for the voluble, the invaluable Félicie, Minneconjou might have been kept guessing for ten days longer. Dwight spent his waking hours mostly at the Rays', wistfully watching the doctor and pleading to be admitted to the bedside of the burning little patient, a thing they could not permit, for Dwight was still too weak to exercise the needed self-control. It seemed as though he had forgotten the existence of Inez, his wife, the existence of Foster, the existence of Sandy Ray and everybody and anybody beyond Jimmy and those who were ministering to him. Mrs. Ray, once again moving, though languidly, about her household duties (for Priscilla was utterly engrossed with the boy) had made the major as comfortable as he would permit in the little library below stairs, where he had an easy chair in which he could recline, and books, desk, writing material, but no one to read to him; and, as it turned out, he would do nothing but move restlessly about, listen for every sound from the upper floor where Jim lay in Sandy's bed, and waylay the doctors or anybody who might have tidings. Once or twice, there or at home, he had to see the colonel, the adjutant or his own second in command, Captain Hurst, but the lawyers came no more. All proceedings were called off for the time being. Everything in his mind hinged on the fate of Jimmy, and, one thing worth the noting, Madame and the phaeton went no more abroad.

But if he had apparently forgotten, Félicie had not, the incidents of that stormy meeting, the episode that led to it and the consequences to be expected. Félicie felt that the public should be enlightened and public opinion properly aroused as to the major's domestic misrule. It was high time all Minneconjou was made to know this monster and "the hideous accusations he make against this angel, and this angel's the most devoted myself that to you speak." From the torrent of her tirade, occasionally, drops of information seemed to accord with the rumors dribbling about the garrison. Minneconjou knew that the well-named and impenetrable post commander was in possession of facts he could impart to nobody; that he had been questioning and cross-questioning corporal and men, the latter recent occupants of sentry posts Nos. 3 and 4; that these gentry had been ordered by him to hold no converse with anybody; that he had again called up two of the three men incarcerated at the time of the assault upon Captain Foster, and it was now definitely known that these two had both served under Foster in the – th Cavalry, although both now protested they always considered him a model officer and a perfect gentleman. To offset this was the statement of Sergeant Hess, of the Sixty-first, who said he had once served at the same post with them, though not in the cavalry, and knew they bore bad characters and would bear watching. Then he was sent for, and then it transpired that No. 3 of the suspected trio had gone with the guard to the agency, and he, said Hess, had been the worst of the lot. His name to-day was Skelton, but in those days they knew him as Scully. Had it not been that a dozen other men were out the night of that assault, this might have clinched the case against them. It was enough, at least, to keep them under surveillance.

But other stories, readily confirmed by Félicie, were to the effect that Dwight had accused his wife of deliberate falsehood in denying that she had met Mr. Ray at Naples; of deliberate intent to make him believe Jimmy a liar when adhering to his story that Mr. Ray had come and spoken to her (a dream! a vision! declared Félicie); of deliberately accusing him of rudeness, insolence, affront to Captain Foster and herself in refusing to deny he had seen them together in the parlor during church time ("a mere incident of the most innocent," said Félicie, "of which this infant terrible would have made a mountain"). Moreover, the monster had "accused Madame of all manner of misdoings with this most amiable the Captain Fawstair," and Félicie's humid eyes went heavenward at the retrospect; "and of lying to him, her husband, about, ah, ciel, that man!" And then to think that he should demand of Madame in her condition that she confess the truth about that midnight affair when her scream aroused the household! It was she, Félicie, who screamed. Madame could not sleep. She needed a composing draught. She, Félicie, had gone down to prepare it, had unbolted the back door, and was passing to and fro between the kitchen and the refrigerator in the addition without, and she could not find the cork-screw, and could not open the – Apollinaris, and Madame had become impatient, nervous, and had herself wandered down; and just as Félicie was returning they encountered at the doorway and, to her shame be it said, she screamed, so was she startled, "and Madame uttered too a cry, because I cry, but it was nothing, nothing!"

Nevertheless, Minneconjou was hearing of a slender form seen skulking along the back fence, hurrying away from Dwight's, and of items picked up at dawn near Dwight's back steps, and of a notebook sent to Lieutenant Ray, who had himself been out searching very early and very diligently. Then, something or other, picked up early that morning, had been sent to the colonel, for it came with his mail; and the adjutant and the orderly heard his exclamation, saw the consternation in his face, and the orderly told of it – told Kathleen at the doctor's; then had to tell other girls or take the consequences. Then there were these drives up the valley and the meetings at the cottonwoods. People who called to ask after the presumably lonely mistress of the house began asking after something Félicie had hoped no one had noticed.

For in upbraiding Inez, his wife, Major Dwight not once had mentioned her meetings near Minneconjou with Lieutenant Ray, who, as all this was going on at the post, stood facing a condition that called for the exercise of all his nerve and pluck and common sense. The Indian leaders, three days after his coming, had mustered their force and demanded the instant withdrawal of himself and his men, leaving all horses and arms and certain of their charges behind them.

CHAPTER XXIV
CRISIS

There had been frequent communication with the agency by courier and by telephone. Ray held the fort, he said, and though there had been some bluster and swagger on part of a few Indians, the agent seemed relieved, reassured. They no longer crowded, bullying, about his office. "They are obviously," wrote the agent (not Ray), "impressed by the firm stand I have taken, and now I shall proceed to arrest the ring-leaders in the recent trouble, employing the lieutenant and his troopers for the purpose, in order that the Indian police may see that I am entirely independent of them." Stone received this by mounted messenger about nine o'clock of a Wednesday night, and Mrs. Stone knew the moment his lips began to purse up, as she expressed it, and to work and twist, that he much disliked the letter. "I'll have to go over to the quartermaster's," said he, "and call up Ray by 'phone. This agency man will be making mischief for us, sure as – sure as the reds are making medicine." But the last words were muttered to himself, as he took his cap, and leave.

Stone had served many a year on the plains, and knew the Indian, and had his opinion as to the value of civil service in dealing with him. Stone had served two years in the South in the so-called reconstruction days, and in his mind there was marked similarity between a certain few of the Indian agents he had met and an uncertain number of the deputy marshals of the "carpet-bag" persuasion, then scattered broadcast over the States "lately in rebellion." If there was one thing more than another the deputy loved and gloried in, it was riding about his bailiwick, with a sergeant and party of dragoons at his back, impressing the people with the idea that he had the army of the United States at his beck and call. Now, here was a new man at the business over a thousand-odd Indians, many of whom had fought whole battalions of troopers time and again, and were not to be scared by a squad, and this new man reasoned that, because the Indians had been undemonstrative for two days, they were ready to surrender their leaders and be good. Stone knew better.

It took ten minutes to get the agency by way of town, and but ten seconds thereafter to get Ray. He and his guard were billeted about the main building. "What do you think of this idea of going out and arresting ring-leaders?" asked Stone. "You weren't sent there for any such purpose." And Ray answered: "He has gone to a pow-pow with Black Wolf's people, and was thinking better of it after a little talk we had."

"Well," said Stone, "how about the – the situation? Do you think they'll make trouble? Do you need more men?"

And Sandy answered "Not to-night, sir. Tell better in the morning."

Stone did not like the outlook, but what was he to do? The agent had called for no more troops, and, until he called, Stone was forbidden to send unless some dire emergency arose, and then he must accept all responsibility, as one or other side was sure to get the worst of it, and he the blame. He went over and told Mrs. Ray he had just been talking with Sandy, who was all serene, said he, and all reassuringly he answered her anxious questions. Then he asked for Jimmy, whose temperature was ominously high, and for Dwight, whose spirits were correspondingly low. Dwight came out from the den, haggard, unshaven, gaunt. Never before had he been known to lack quick interest when danger threatened a comrade. To-night he hardly noted what Stone said about the situation at the agency. He was thinking only of his boy, and Stone, vaguely disappointed, went in search of Hurst, the senior captain, and Hurst looked grave. He, too, had had his share in Indian experience, and liked not the indications.

"I don't fancy the agent's going to that pow-wow. He should have had the chief men come to him," said Hurst.

"They wouldn't – said they feared the soldiers might shoot," said Stone, in explanation.

"Anybody with him, sir?"

"Ray says he insisted on an orderly, so one man went with him, to hold his horse while he talked. Skelton was chosen. He speaks a little Sioux."

"Man we had a while ago on account of the Foster matter?" asked Hurst, with uplifted eyebrows.

"Same. He's at home among the Indians, and some of them like him. Guess he's seen 'em before."

At 11:30, when Stone would have called again to speak with the agency, it transpired that Central always went to bed at eleven – there was not enough night business to warrant the expense of keeping open. At 7 A. M., when again he would have spoken, Central had not come. It was eight before news could be had from the agency, and then it came in a roundabout way, for the line was down or cut or something was wrong far over toward the Minneconjou reservation. At 8:10 the trumpets of the cavalry were ringing, "To Horse!" the bugles of the foot, "To Arms!" At 8:30 the squadron was trotting, with dripping flanks, up the southward slope beyond the Minneconjou, a gaunt skeleton, with pallid cheek and blazing eye, leading swiftly on.

Give the devil his due, the first man to warn the fort that there was "hell to pay at the agency" was Skidmore himself. He had kicked the truth, he said, out of a skulking half-breed, who drifted in to beg for a drink soon after seven. They hated each other, did Stone and Skid, but here was common cause. The trouble began at the pow-wow. The agent refused the Indians' demands; was threatened; "got scared," said the frowsy, guttural harbinger of ill, and swore he'd arrest the speakers in the morning, and they arrested him right there. In some way word of his peril reached the agent's wife, and she rushed to the lieutenant, who mounted, galloped, and got there just in time to rescue Skelton, who had pluckily stood by the lone white man, whom some mad-brained warrior, madder than the rest, had struck in fury; Skelton in turn had felled the Indian assailant, and, despite the efforts of the chief, who knew it meant defeat in the end, the lives of the two would have been forfeit but for the rush of Ray and a few troopers to the spot. It was the lieutenant's first charge in nearly a year, but he forgot his wound. He managed, thanks in no small measure to the resonant orders of old Wolf himself, to get the two back to the buildings, more dead than alive. He tried to send word to the fort of the new peril, but the wary Indians were on the lookout and drove back his riders, while a furious council was being held at the scene of the strife. From all over the reservation warriors young and old came flocking to Black Wolf's lodge, and the elders were overwhelmed. In spite of warning, entreaty and protest from chiefs who knew whereof they spoke, the turbulent spirits had their way. Brethren had been beaten and insulted in Skidmore's old place. Brethren had been beaten and abused at the new. Brethren had been swindled and abused by that very young chief of the soldiers now at the agency, and some of his men; and, finally, Strikes-the-Bear, son of a chief, a chief to be, had this night been struck down by the soldier the fool agent dared bring with him. Let the warriors rise in their wrath and strike for vengeance! If the little band of soldiers showed fight, and the chances were that many a brave would bite the dust before the buildings could be fired and the defenders driven out and killed, then offer terms. Against such hopeless odds the young white chief would easily yield. Get him and his men into the open; promise safe conduct to the fort, then let others surround and slowly butcher them, while they, the negotiators, took care of the agent, the assailant of Strikes-the-Bear, the employees and their families. Aye, promise to spare the lives of the lieutenant and his men; say that they might go back to their friends at the fort, but they must leave the agent; they must leave their comrade who struck the redman; they must leave their arms and their horses. Mad as it was, that was the ultimatum of the deputation at the door of the agency at five o'clock in the morning, and Sandy Ray answered, just as his father's son could be counted on to answer, and in just three comprehensive and significant words.

It led before long to a battle royal. It led first to barbaric council and speechmaking, then to a display of savage diplomacy, and finally to the spirited climax: savage science, skill, and cunning, with overwhelming numbers on the one hand, sheer pluck and determination on the other. The defenders were to fight, to be sure, behind wooden walls that hid them from sight of their swarming and surrounding foes, but that might be an element of danger just so soon as the Indians could get close enough to fire them. Anticipating precisely such a possibility, Ray had set his men to work beforehand. Sacks of meal, flour, and bacon, bales of blankets, tepee cloth, etc., had been piled breast-high and around all four walls of the storehouse within. All the available tubs and buckets and pails had been fresh filled with water and stowed inside. The horses were removed from the stable and turned into the corral. Each of the eight barred windows had its two or three marksmen. The women and children of the whites about the agency were all before dawn moved over into the main building, for when his messengers were driven back Ray well knew what to expect. Ray himself posted a keen and reliable man at the forage shed, and one or two others in certain of the outlying buildings, with kerosene-soaked tinder in abundance, and orders to fire them at his signal, then run for the storehouse; Ray would leave no structure close at hand to serve as "approach" or cover for the foe. So long as no wind arose to blow the flames upon his little stronghold, no harm would result to them, whereas the smoke would surely attract attention at the distant fort and speedily bring relief. Ten days earlier, before seeing his wards in war paint, the agent would have forbidden such wanton destruction of government property. (Ten days later, indeed, the Indian Bureau might call upon the War Department for reimbursement, and the department upon Ray, but the youngster took no thought for the morrow, only for his men and those helpless women and children). So long as the warriors kept their distance and contented themselves with long-range shooting, so long would Ray spare the torch, but just the moment they felt the courage of their numbers and charged, up should go the shingles. The find of a few small kegs of powder lent additional means to the speedy start of the fire when needed, and now, with his little fort well supplied and garrisoned, with the big fort only ten miles away, with thirty or more stout men to stand by him, with only one man demoralized, – the agent, small blame to him, – and only one as yet disabled, Trooper Skelton, whom Ray had practically dragged from under the knives of the savages, that young soldier felt just about as serenely confident of the issue as he did of his men, and happier a hundred fold than he had been for nearly a year.

Moreover, his dauntless front and contemptuous answer had had its effect on the Indians. "The young chief must be sure the soldiers are coming," reasoned the elders, so before taking the fateful plunge it were wise to take a look. Young warriors dashed away northeastward over the rolling divides, and others galloped after to intermediate bluffs and ridges, but it was well-nigh an hour before the signals came whirling back. "No soldiers, no danger," and even then they temporized. In trailing war bonnet, his gleaming body bare to the waist, his feathered head held high, his nimble pony bedizened with tinsel and finery, a white "fool flag" waving at the tip of his lance, with two young braves in attendance, each with his little symbol of truce, Black Wolf came riding gallantly down from the distant southward bluffs, demanding further parley. Black Wolf had tidings worth the telling, he said. He had stood the white man's friend and endeavored to prevent hostilities, but since the affair of the previous night all that was hopeless, and now he must stand by his people. His young men, he shouted, at dawn had attacked the guard at the wood camp, and the scalps of every man, still warm and bloody, hung at the belts of his braves, even now galloping back to swell the ranks of their brothers. He urged the young white chief to make no such error as had the sub-chief, the sergeant, at the camp, who had fired upon his warriors when offered mercy. There was still time for the young chief to consider. He was surrounded, cut off from help and home. His brethren dare not quit the shelter of the fort to come to aid him. They would be annihilated on the open prairie, as was the "Long Hair" at the Little Horn a generation ago. This, then, should be the young chief's warning and his opportunity. Let him and his men, save one, depart in peace, leaving everything and everybody else as they were before the young chief came. Black Wolf would await the reply. In resonant periods, in ringing, sonorous tones, the speech of the orator-chief had been delivered, his deep, powerful voice fairly thundering over the valley, and echoing back from the crags of Warrior Bluff, a mile away to the west. A spirited, barbaric group it made, that magnificent savage with his bright-hued escort all gleaming in the slanting sunshine, full two hundred yards away. On every little eminence, on every side, were grouped listening bands of his braves. One could almost hear their guttural "Ughs" of approval. One could almost count their swarming array. Farther to the south, along the jagged line of the barricade ridge, score upon score of blanketed squaws and bareheaded children huddled in shrill, chattering groups, too distant to hear or to be heard, but readily seen to be wild with excitement. Out in front of the grimly closed and silent agency, with only the half-breed interpreter at his side, but in humorous recognition of the solemn state of the Indian embassy, with two sergeants in close attendance, Ray stood listening, and turned for explanation to the official go-between, impatiently heard him half through, then flung out his hand, palm foremost, in half circular sweep to the front and right – the old signal. "Be off," it said as plain as did the later words of the assistant. "Tell him to go where I told him before," said Ray. "If he wants the agent, or my soldiers, or my guns, or me, let him come and take them," winding up as he faced his antagonist, with the swift, significant gesture that the Sioux know so well: "Brave, that ends it!" and turned abruptly away.