“Never.  Nor have we the faintest trace of him since the break up of the old Morales gang at Fronteras.  They went all to pieces after their encounter with you and ‘C’ troop.  What a chain of disasters!  Lost their leaders and three of their best men, lost their rendezvous at Moreno’s, lost horses and mules,—­for what our men didn’t get the Apaches did,—­and won absolutely nothing except the twenty-four-hour possession of a safe they hadn’t time to open.  Whereas I got my commission and my wife; Feeny, honorable wounds and mention and the chevrons of a first sergeant; Costigan got his sergeant’s stripes and the medal of honor, Murphy his sergeantcy, Walsh and Latham medals and corporalships; and the only fellow who didn’t get a blessed thing but scars was the commanding lieutenant,—­your worthy self,—­thanks to wiseacres at Washington who say Indian fighting isn’t war.”

“Didn’t I get a letter of thanks from the department commander?” grins Drummond.  “What else could I expect?”

“What else?” is Wing’s impulsive rejoinder.  Then, as though mindful of some admonition, quieting at once and speaking in tone less suggestive.  “Well, in your case I suppose you can be content with nothing, but bless me if I could.”  Then, suddenly rising and respectfully touching his weather-beaten hat, he salutes a stoutly-built, soldierly-looking man in rough scouting dress, whose only badge of rank is the tarnished shoulder-strap with the silver leaf on the shabbiest old fatigue-coat to be found in the battalion, most of whose members, however, wear no coat at all.

“Hullo, Wing!—­didn’t mean to disturb your siesta,—­Drummond here?” says the commander in his off-hand way, and at sound of the well-known voice Drummond, too, is on his feet in a twinkling.

“Seen the papers that came in to-day?” queries the colonel, obliterating from his sentences all verbal superfluities.

“Not yet, sir; any news?”

“Hell to pay in Chicago, so far as heard from.  The railway strike has taken firm hold there.  Police and militia both seem unable to do anything against the mob, and the authorities are stampeded.  Your home, isn’t it?”

“It was once, sir, but that was many a long year ago.”

“W-e-ell,” says the colonel, reflectively, stroking his grizzled beard, “it’s my belief there is worse to come.  It isn’t the striking railway hands that will do the mischief, but every time there’s a strike all the thieves and thugs and blackguards in the community turn out.  That’s what happened in Pittsburg,—­that’s what’s the matter in Chicago.  It looks to me as though the plea for regular troops would have to be granted.”

“Think we can get there, sir?” asks Wing, eagerly.

“Can’t say.  We’re supposed to have our hands full covering this section of Nebraska, though I haven’t heard of a hostile Sioux this summer.  Besides, they have full regiments of infantry at Omaha and along the lakes.  Doesn’t Mrs. Wing say anything about the trouble?”