“A strange land for a honey-moon certainly,—­yet where and when was there a happier?  Do you remember how the Apaches jumped the Verde buck-board the very week after we were married?”

“And you spent half of the honey-moon scouting the Tonto Basin?  I should say so!  What with a courtship in a robbers’ cave, a marriage in a cavalry camp, and a wedding tour in saddle, you had a unique experience, Wing, but—­you deserved her.”  And Drummond turns and grips his comrade’s hand.

Wing is silent a moment.  His eyes are wistfully searching the elder’s half-averted face.

“Jim, you told me awhile ago of your sister’s approaching marriage.  Are you not going on?”

“Yes.  It will be early in October.  She’s blissfully happy is Puss, and he’s a very substantial, solid sort of a fellow.  I’m well content, at last, that her future is assured.”

“And you are a free agent, practically.  Isn’t it time we heard of your own happiness,—­your own vine and fig-tree, old man?”

“Time’s gone by, I reckon,” laughs Drummond, yet not merrily.  “I’ve had too much to think of,—­too much responsibility, and probably have lost my chance.”

Wing looks as though he wanted mightily to say something, but conquers his impulse.

“October is a long way off,” he finally remarks, “and I thought you might find earlier opportunity of going East.  Now that Ned has entire charge of the business in Arizona the old gentleman takes life easier.  The winter in Cuba did him a lot of good, and Fan writes that he seems so happy now, having his two girls and his little grandson under the same roof with his sister and her children.  What a reunion after all these years!”

“Where are they living in Chicago?”

“You would know better than I, for—­think of it!—­I have never been east of the Missouri since my babyhood,” answers Wing.  “Fan writes that her aunt has a lovely house on what they call the North Side,—­near the great water-works at the lake front.”

“I know the neighborhood well,” says Drummond.  “Chicago is as familiar to me as San Francisco was to you.  Only—­I have no roof to call my own anywhere, and as soon as Puss is married shall not have a relative or friend on earth who is not much more deeply interested in somebody else.”  And the senior lieutenant is lying on his back now, blinking up at the rapidly scudding clouds.  Presently he pulls the broad brim of his campaign hat down over his eyes.  “What do you hear from your mother, Wing?”

“Nothing new.  Bless the dear old lady!  You should have seen her happiness in Harvey.  She could hardly bear to let the little fellow out of her arms, and how she cried and clung to him when we parted at the Oakland wharf!  Poor little mother!  She has never given up the hope of seeing that scapegrace of an uncle of mine again.”

“Has she ever heard how he tried to murder his nephew?” queries Drummond, grimly.