Many a dark night Hartigan rode home from the Fort after the evening's fun was over leaving it entirely to his horse to select the road, after the manner of the wise horseman. In mid-August there had been one of the typical Black Hill storms. After a month of drought, it had rained inches in a few hours. The little Rapid Fork of the Cheyenne was a broad flood which carried off most of its bridges, including that on the trail to the Fort. The rain had ceased the day before, but the flood had subsided very little by Saturday night as Hartigan mounted Blazing Star and set out for the fortnightly affair at Fort Ryan.
The sky was still blocked with clouds and at eight o'clock it was black dark, so Hartigan left the selection of the trail, as a matter of course, to Blazing Star. From the time of leaving the last light in Cedar Mountain till they drew up under the first lantern at Fort Ryan, Hartigan never saw the horse he was riding, much less the road he was riding on: nor had he touched the reins or given by word or pressure of knee any signal of guidance. The night was too black for his senses, but he knew he was committing his way to senses that were of a keener order than his own, and he rode as a child might—without thought of fear. He could feel it when they were going down into the canyon of the Rapid Fork, and at the bottom of the slight descent he heard the rush of waters, and noted that Blazing Star lowered his head and snorted softly more than once. He heard the tap of the hoofs on the timber of the bridge, and then they ascended and came in a little while to the lantern at the door of the gymnasium in the barracks.
"Hello, Hartigan! Where in the world did you come from?" was the cordial greeting of Colonel Waller.
"Where could I come from but Cedar Mountain?"
"The deuce you did."
"Why not?"
"How did you cross the creek?"
"By the bridge."
"Oh, no, you didn't."
"I surely did," said the Preacher.