“Well, captain,” answers his adjutant, injudiciously, “I think you don’t give Hayne credit for coming back on the jump the moment we were ordered out.  It was no fault of his he could not reach us.  He took chances I wouldn’t take.”

“Oh, yes! you kids all swear by Hayne because he’s a good fellow and sings a jolly song and plays the piano—­and poker.  One of these days he’ll swamp you all, sure as shooting.  He’s in debt now, and it’ll fetch him before you know it.  What he needs is to be under a captain who could discipline him a little.  By Jove, I’d do it!” And Rayner’s teeth emphasize the assertion.

The young adjutant thinks it advisable to say nothing that may provoke further vehemence.  All the same, he remembers Rayner’s bitterness of manner, and has abundant cause to.

When the next morning breaks, chill and pallid, a change has come in the aspect of affairs.  During the earliest hour of the dawn the red light of a light-draught river-boat startled the outlying pickets down-stream, and the Far West, answering the muffled hail from shore, responded, through the medium of a mate’s stentorian tones, “News that’ll rout you fellows out.”  The sun is hardly peeping over the jagged outline of the eastern hills when, with Rayner’s entire battalion aboard, she is steaming again down-stream, with orders to land at the mouth of the Sweet Root.  There the four companies will disembark in readiness to join the rest of the regiment.

All day long again the wagon-train twists and wriggles through an ashen section of Les Mauvaises Terres.  It is a tedious, trying march for Hull’s little command of troopers,—­all that is now left to guard the train.  The captain is constantly out on the exposed flank, eagerly scanning the rough country to the south, and expectant any moment of an attack from that direction.  He and his men, as well as the horses, mules, and teamsters, are fairly tired out when at nightfall they park the wagons in a big semicircle, with the broad river forming a shining chord to the arc of white canvas.  All the live-stock are safely herded within the enclosure; a few reliable soldiers are posted well out to the south and east, to guard against surprise, and the veteran Sergeant Clancy is put in command of the sentries.  The captain gives strict injunctions as to the importance of these duties; for he is far from easy in his mind over the situation.  The Riflers, he knows, are over in the valley of the Sweet Root.  The steamer with Rayner’s men is tied up at the bank some five miles below, around the bend.  The ——­th are far off to the northward across the Elk, as ordered, and must be expecting on the morrow to make for the old Indian “ferry” opposite Battle Butte.  The main body of the Sioux are reported farther down stream, but he feels it in his bones that there are numbers of them within signal, and he wishes with all his heart the ——­th were here.  Still, the general was sure he would stir up war-parties on the other shore.  Individually, he has had very little luck in scouting during the summer, and he cannot help wishing he were with the rest of the crowd instead of here, train-guarding.