Before dark the ambulances got away, Dr. Weeks and the lieutenant going with them on horseback. Cutting short a post-prandial cigar, Mr. Holmes left the surgeon to sip his coffee in solitude when a glance at his watch showed him that the hour of nine was approaching. Quickly he strode over toward "Bedlam," and sprang up the low flight of steps to the veranda. To his surprise, the hall-door was closed; he turned the knob, but there was no yielding. Looking in through the side-lights, he could see that a lamp was burning on the second floor, but that the hall-lantern below had either been forgotten or its light extinguished. Retracing his steps, he decided to go to the quartermaster and ask if he could have the key, but before he had taken thirty strides up the parade he remembered that Hatton had told him that the hall-door was never locked and rarely closed. This struck him as odd, and he stopped to think it over in connection with what he had just observed. Standing there just beyond the southern end of the big, faded white rookery, invisible himself in the darkness, he looked up at the lights in the rooms occupied by the Forrest family, and wondered how the self-possessed and handsome young lady, now occasionally alluded to as the "Queen of Bedlam," had borne the day. The garrison was unusually still; not a sound of mirth, music, or laughter came from the barracks of the men; not a whisper from the quarters of the officers around the parade. Somewhere, perhaps a mile away, out beyond the rushing Laramie, a dog or a coyote was yelping, but all within the old fort was still as death. Suddenly, from the northern end of the veranda, there came the sound of a latch or lock quickly turned, a light footfall on the creaking wooden floor, the swish and swirl of silken skirts, coming toward him rapidly. He gazed with all his eyes, but could not discern the advancing figure; so, struck by a sudden impulse, he sprang to the veranda, up the southern steps, and almost collided with a woman's form, scurrying past him in the darkness.
"I beg pardon, Miss For——" he began to say; but without a word, with sudden leap the slender shape whisked out of reach of voice or hand and vanished into the southern hall-way.
X.
Before the sounding of tattoo that night, the stage came in from Cheyenne. It had been warned by fleeing ranchmen of the presence of the Sioux at Eagle's Nest, and had turned back to the strong defences at "Phillips's," on the Chug, remaining there in security until the driver had satisfied himself that the coast was clear. No passengers came down with him, but he brought the mail; and, as none had been received for two days, and the wires were still down, the major commanding turned out and tramped to the combined stage-station and post-office the moment he was notified of the arrival. Here, while the letters and papers were being distributed, he was accommodated with a chair in Mrs. Griffin's little parlor, and his own personal mail was handed in to him as rapidly as the swift fingers of the postmistress could sort the various missives. Outside, the stage-driver was surrounded by a little crowd of soldiers, scouts, and teamsters, and held forth with frontier descriptive power on the adventures of the night previous. He could "swar" the Sioux had burned a "Black Hills outfit" not far below Eagle's Nest, for he had come far enough this side of the Chug to see the glare in the skies, and had passed the charred remnants just before sundown this very evening. He had heard along the road that there were anywhere from two to five hundred Indians on the raid; and Miller, listening to the eager talk and comparing the estimate of the ranch-people with the experiences of his own campaigning, readily made up his mind that there were probably four or five score of young warriors in the party,—too many, with their magazine rifles, revolvers, and abundant ammunition, for Terry to successfully "tackle" with his little detachment. The major rejoiced that the captain was sensible enough to discontinue the pursuit at the Niobrara crossing. Beyond that there were numerous ridges, winding ravines, even a shallow cañon or two,—the very places for ambuscade; and it would be an easy matter for a small party of the Sioux to drop back and give the pursuers a bloody welcome. No! Terry had done admirably so long as there was a chance of square fighting, and his subsequent moves, barring the one dash down-stream after a "fooling party" while the main body slipped across the ford, had been dictated by sound judgment. He deplored the crippled and depleted condition of his little command, however. Here was Blunt, one of his best cavalry officers, seriously wounded and in high fever; here was McLean, another admirable young soldier, he knew not how seriously wounded; and, with old Bruce laid up with rheumatism, he had not a company officer for duty at the post. The adjutant and quartermaster, the doctor and his own energetic self were the only ones he could count on for the next twenty-four hours, as belonging to the garrison proper. The infantry battalion that had camped down on the flats so short a time before was already beyond his jurisdiction, in march toward Fetterman up the Platte. It was with great relief, therefore, he read that six troops of the —th Cavalry had reached Cheyenne, and were under orders to march to Laramie as soon as supplied with ammunition and equipments for sharp field-service.
Presently he heard the suave tones of Dr. Bayard accosting Mrs. Griffin with anxious inquiries for his letters, and courteous apologies for intruding upon her during "business hours," but he had been without letters or papers so long now, had just heard of the arrival of the stage, Mr. Holmes was visiting him, and would she kindly put any mail there might be for Mr. Holmes in his box? Mrs. Griffin was quite as susceptible to courteous and high-bred and flattering manners as any of her sex, and to her thinking no man in all the army compared with the post surgeon in elegance of deportment. At his bidding she would willingly have left the distribution of the mail to almost any hands and come forth from behind the glass partition to indulge in a chat with him. She would gladly have invited him to step into the little parlor, but the major was already there poring over his letters, and she could not neglect her official duties in the august presence of the post commander. But Mrs. Griffin was all smiles as she handed out the doctor's partially-completed packet, and then, in a low tone, informed him that Major Miller was in the little parlor behind the office, if he saw fit to wait there, and Dr. Bayard, who could not abide being jostled by his fellow-men or even being seen among what he considered the common herd, eagerly availed himself of her offer. Miller looked up and greeted him with a pleasant nod, and immediately read to him the news of the coming of the cavalry battalion from Cheyenne, then bade him pull up a chair and read his letters by the bright "astral" burning on the centre-table. Outside in the hall and corridor in front of the dusty glass partition the crowd had rapidly increased. Not one in a dozen in the gathering had the faintest expectation of getting a letter, but there was no harm in asking and much mental solace, apparently, in cultivating the appearance of a man of the world or a woman of society who was in the daily habit of receiving and responding to a dozen. And so teamsters, laundresses, scouts, "Indian-bound" Black Hillers, and one or two sauntering soldiers were swarming about the porch and hall-way, and jamming in a compact mass in front of the little window whereat the postmistress behind her vitreous barrier was still at work. It was a good-natured, chaffing, laughing crowd, but still one very independent and self-satisfied, after the manner of the frontier, where every man in a mixed gathering is as good as his neighbor, and every woman is as good as she chooses to hold herself. It had made a passage for the commanding officer and afterward for the post surgeon, but that was before it had attained its present proportions. Now when Mr. Roswell Holmes paused at the outskirts with Corporal Zook by his side, some of the loungers looked around with their hands in their pockets; some of the cowboys who had earned their dollars on his ranch nodded cheerily at sight of their employer; but this was the United States post-office, these were sovereign citizens, and every man or woman of them, except the half-dozen enlisted men whose mail was always taken to barracks, had just as much right there as the capitalist from Chicago,—and knew it. So did Mr. Holmes. He returned the greetings as cheerily as they were given; made no attempt to push through, and probably would have remained contentedly until the crowd dispersed and let him in, had not the notes of the infantry bugle sounding first call for tattoo summoned Zook and the other soldiers to make their way to barracks.
"I'm a thousand times obliged to you, Corporal Zook, for all you've told me, and I assure you I'm as proud of the lieutenant as you are. Now, I may not be here when the troop gets back to-morrow,—I may have to go back to see if all is well at the ranch; but after their ride they'll all be thirsty, and when I'm very thirsty there's nothing I like better than a glass of cool lager. There is plenty of it on ice at the trader's, and,—you do the entertaining for me, will you?" And the corporal found his palm invaded by a fold of crisp greenbacks.
"If it's for the troop, sir, I can't say no," answered Zook, with dancing eyes. Pay-day was some weeks off after all, and he knew how "the fellers" would relish the trader's beer. "Now, if you would like to sit down, why not go around to the other side and away from this crowd? There are empty benches at the stage-office. I must run, sir; so good-night, and many thanks."
The office-window had just been thrown open and the distribution was just begun. It would be some time before his turn would come. Holmes knew perfectly well that, only for the fun of the thing, some of those teamsters and scouts would form a "queue," and, with unimpeachable gravity, march up to the window and inquire if there was anything for Red-Handed Bill, or Rip-Roaring Mike, or the Hon. G. Bullwhacker, of Laramie Plains. He wanted time to think a bit before he returned to the doctor's house, anyhow. He had drawn from Corporal Zook a detailed account of McLean's spirited and soldierly conduct in the fight; learned that it was he who killed the second warrior in what was practically a hand-to-hand struggle, and that his wounds were painful and severe, despite his effort to overcome and hide them when the pursuit began. Hatton's remarks had been echoing time and again through his memory. It would indeed be comfort to McLean to hear how shocked and painfully stricken was Nellie Bayard at the news of the fight and his probable death. If it proved half the comfort to McLean that it was sorrow to his elderly rival, thought Holmes with a deep sigh, "he'll soon be well, and 'twill be high time for me to vanish."
Pacing slowly up the road, he turned an angle of the old wooden building, and found himself alone in a broad, square enclosure. The stars were shining brightly overhead, but there was no moon and the darkness in this nook among the storehouses and offices was simply intense. The only light came through the slats of the shutter at a side-window back of the post-office. Merely glancing at it as he passed, Holmes walked on with bowed head and hands clasped behind him, thinking deeply over the situation. Had he come too late to win that sweet, youthful, guileless heart, or had he come only just in time to see it given to another? Had he, in the light of what he had seen and heard, any right to speak of matters that had gravely distressed him? Was it his bounden duty to disclose certain suspicions, display certain proofs? Or was it more than all his, the man's, part to stay and help to sweep aside the web that was unquestionably weaving about that brave-faced, clear-eyed, soldierly young subaltern? Despite Bayard's detractions; despite Mrs. Miller's whispered confession that there was a thief in their midst; despite the fact that his wallet was stolen from the overcoat-pocket when no one, to his knowledge, but McLean himself had been there; despite the discovery on the floor—in front of his bureau—of a handkerchief embroidered with McLean's initials; despite the fact that it was known that he had been placed heavily in debt by the stoppage of his pay,—Mr. Roswell Holmes could not find it in his heart to believe that the young soldier could be guilty of theft. He would not believe it of him, even as a rival.
Then there was another thing. Who was the silken-skirted woman he met in the darkness but an hour or so before,—the woman whom he had attempted to accost, but who slipped past him like a will-o'-the-wisp—in silence? How was it that the door to Hatton's hall was closed and locked, when Hatton told him it was always open? Why was it that the light in that lower hall was extinguished, and by whom was it done? Had he not gone thither almost immediately after recovering from the surprise of his encounter on the veranda, and found the hospital attendant grumblingly relighting it? The man had heard some queer, swishing sound, he explained, as he sat by Mr. Blunt's bedside, and "something that sounded like drawers being opened in the room below." He stepped out in the hall, he said, just in time to hear the lock of the front door hastily turned, and somebody go stealthily and quickly out on the veranda, "swishing" all the way. The ladies had been over along the upper gallery two or three times, to bring cool drinks to Mr. Blunt's door and inquire how he was getting on,—Mrs. Post and the young lady, Miss Forrest, he meant,—but they wouldn't want anything in Mr. McLean's rooms down-stairs. The man looked curiously up at Mr. Holmes as he told his tale. Holmes was puzzled too, but bade him keep quiet. Some one of the servants, perhaps, who wanted a match, he suggested; but the little soldier shook his head. Servants didn't wear dresses that "swished" like that.