absorbing power for keeping posted on all that happened at the fort.

"Cla'n'den"--the woman never called my uncle by any other name--"he's
goin' to Santy Fee, an' you boys with him, 'cause--"

She paused and her shining eyes grew dull as they had a way of doing in
her thoughtful or prophetic moments.

"He knows what for--him an' Jondo. One of 'em's storekeeper an' t'other
a plainsman, but they tote together always--an' they totin' now. You
can't see what, but they totin', they totin', just the same. Now run out
to the store. Things is stirrin'. Things is stirrin'."

I bolted my cakes, sodden with maple syrup, drank my mug of milk, and
hurried out toward the storehouse.

Fort Leavenworth in the middle '40's was sometimes an indolent place,
and sometimes a very busy one, depending upon the activity of the
Western frontier. On this raw April morning everything was fairly ajerk
with life and motion. And I knew from child-experience that a body of
soldiers must be coming up the river soon. Horses were rushed to-day
where yesterday they had been leisurely led. Orders were shouted now
that had been half sung a week ago. Military discipline took the place
of fatigue attitudes. There was a banging of doors, a swinging of
brooms, a clatter of tin, and a clanging of iron things. And everywhere
went that slapping wind. And every shallow place in the ground held a
chilly puddle. The government buildings always seemed big and bare and
cold to me. And this morning they seemed drearier than ever, beaten upon
by the fitful swish of the rain.