The bugles were sounding "retreat" as the young officer rode up to the door of Colonel Quinlan's quarters and reported for duty.
"Good-evening, Major," called the Colonel, with a quizzical smile and a sharp emphasis on the word major.
"Major!" exclaimed Curtis; "what do you mean—"
"Not a wholesale slaughter of your superiors. Oh no! You are Major by the grace of the Secretary of Indian Affairs. Colonel Hackett, of the War Department, writes me that you have been detailed as Indian agent at Fort Smith. You'll find your notification in your mail, no doubt."
Curtis touched his hat in mock courtesy. "Thanks, Mr. Secretary; your kindness overwhelms me."
"Didn't think the reform administration could get along without you, did you?" asked the Colonel, with some humor. He was standing at his gate. "Come in, and we'll talk it over. You seem a little breathless."
"It does double me up, I confess. But I can't consistently back out after the stand I've made."
"Back out! Well, not if I can prevent it. Haven't you hammered it into us for two years that the army was the proper instrument for dealing with these redskins? No, sir, you can't turn tail now. Take your medicine like a man."
"But how did they drop onto me? Did you suggest it?"
The Colonel became grave. "No, my boy, I did not. But I think I know who did. You remember the two literary chaps who camped with us on our trial march two years ago?"