So she slept, and he, sitting silently opposite her, dreamed—­the old dream that comes to most good men and true once in their lives.  He scarcely moved until the dawn lightened with opal the dreary plain, bringing back the horizon and day, when he woke from his dream with a sigh, and then a laugh.  Then he listened for the sound of distant hoofs, and hearing them, crept noiselessly from the coach.  A compact body of horsemen were bearing down upon it.  He rose quickly to meet them, and throwing up his hand, brought them to a halt at some distance from the coach.  They spread out, resolving themselves into a dozen troopers and a smart young cadet-like officer.

“If you are seeking Miss Cantire,” he said in a quiet, businesslike tone, “she is quite safe in the coach and asleep.  She knows nothing yet of what has happened, and believes it is you who have taken everything away for security against an Indian attack.  She has had a pretty rough night—­what with her fatigue and her alarm at the wolves—­and I thought it best to keep the truth from her as long as possible, and I would advise you to break it to her gently.”  He then briefly told the story of their experiences, omitting only his own personal encounter with the Indian.  A new pride, which was perhaps the result of his vigil, prevented him.

The young officer glanced at him with as much courtesy as might be afforded to a civilian intruding upon active military operations.  “I am sure Major Cantire will be greatly obliged to you when he knows it,” he said politely, “and as we intend to harness up and take the coach back to Sage Wood Station immediately, you will have an opportunity of telling him.”

“I am not going back by the coach to Sage Wood,” said Boyle quietly.  “I have already lost twelve hours of my time—­as well as my trunk—­on this picnic, and I reckon the least Major Cantire can do is to let me take one of your horses to the next station in time to catch the down coach.  I can do it, if I set out at once.”

Boyle heard his name, with the familiar prefix of “Dicky,” given to the officer by a commissary sergeant, whom he recognized as having met at the Agency, and the words “Chicago drummer” added, while a perceptible smile went throughout the group.  “Very well, sir,” said the officer, with a familiarity a shade less respectful than his previous formal manner.  “You can take the horse, as I believe the Indians have already made free with your samples.  Give him a mount, sergeant.”

The two men walked towards the coach.  Boyle lingered a moment at the window to show him the figure of Miss Cantire still peacefully slumbering among her pile of cushions, and then turned quietly away.  A moment later he was galloping on one of the troopers’ horses across the empty plain.

Miss Cantire awoke presently to the sound of a familiar voice and the sight of figures that she knew.  But the young officer’s first words of explanation—­a guarded account of the pursuit of the Indians and the recapture of the arms, suppressing the killing of Foster and the mail agent—­brought a change to her brightened face and a wrinkle to her pretty brow.