"Don't shoot. I'm Ned Lannion—just in from the ranch. Have you heard anything of Hal, sir?"
"Of Hal?" gasped Folsom, dropping his pistol in dismay. "In God's name, what's wrong?"
"God only knows, sir. Mrs. Hal's nigh crazy. He's been gone two days."
CHAPTER XXIII.
Five days later the women and children from Warrior Gap, most of them bereaved, all of them unnerved by the experiences of that awful day, arrived at old Fort Frayne, escorted by a strong command of infantry and all that was left of the cavalry troop at the stockade. A sad procession it was as it slowly forded the Platte and ascended the winding road to the post, where sorrowing, sympathetic army women met and ministered to them. With them, too, came such of the wounded as could be moved, and at the head of the little squad of horse rode Lieutenant Dean, whom the post commander and several officers greeted almost effusively.
Yet almost the first question was, "Did you see any Indians?"
"Not one," answered Dean. "They seem to have drawn away from the Big Horn road entirely. Why do you ask?" he added anxiously.
"There were signal fires out at Eagle Butte last night, and I've just had a letter from old Folsom at the ranch on the Laramie. He begs us to send a guard at once, and I haven't a horseman. There's been the devil to pay at young Folsom's place."
Dean's face went a shade paler. "What's happened?" he asked.