to which appeal is so reluctantly made in time of peace.  At Fort——­, a lonely post on the plains, the orders had that morning been issued for twenty men under Lieutenant Halsey to parade at 4 P.M., with overcoats, two days’ rations, and ball cartridges; also for Assistant Surgeon Kesler to report for duty with the party.  Orders as to destination were communicated direct to the lieutenant from the post commander, and on the minute the little column moved, taking the road to the station.  The regiment from which it came had been in active service among the Indians on the frontier for a long time, and the officers and men were tried and seasoned fighters.  Lieutenant Halsey had been well known at the West Point balls as the “leader of the german.”  From the last of these balls he had gone straight to the field and three years had given him an enviable reputation for sang froid and determined bravery.  He looked every inch the soldier as he walked along the trail, his cloak thrown back and his sword tucked under his arm.  The doctor, who carried a Modoc bullet in some inaccessible part of his scarred body, growled good-naturedly at the need of walking, and the men, enveloped in their army-blue overcoats, marched easily by fours.  Reaching the station, the lieutenant called the agent aside and with him inspected, on a siding, a long platform on which benches had been placed and secured.  Then he took his seat in the station and quietly waited, occasionally twisting his long blond mustache.  The doctor took a cigar with the agent, and the men walked about or sat on the edge of the platform.  One of them, who obtained a surreptitious glance at his silent commander, told his companions that there was trouble ahead for somebody.

“That’s just the way the leftenant looked, boys,” said he, “when we was laying for them Apaches that raided Jones’s Ranch and killed the women and little children.”

In a short time the officer looked at his watch, formed his men, and directed them to take their places on the seats of the car.  They had hardly done so, when the whistle of the approaching train was heard.  When it came up, the conductor, who had his instructions from Sinclair, had the engine detached and backed on the siding for the soldiers’ which thus came between it and the foremost baggage-car, when the train was again made up.  As arranged, it was announced that the troops were to be taken a certain distance to join a scouting party, and the curiosity of the passengers was but slightly excited.  The soldiers sat quietly in their seats, their repeating rifles held between their knees, and the officer in front.  Sinclair joined the latter, and had a few words with him as the train moved on.  A little later, when the stars were shining brightly overhead, they passed into the express-car, and sent for the conductor and other trainmen, and for Foster.  In a few words Sinclair explained the position of affairs.  His statement was received with perfect coolness, and the men only asked what they were to do.