at last it dies away, the Riflers are panting over the hard-won position
and shaking hands with some few silent cavalrymen. They have carried the
ridge, captured the migrating village, squaws, ponies, travois, and
pappooses; their "long Toms" have sent many a stalwart warrior to the
mythical hunting-grounds, and the peppery colonel's triumph is complete.

But Lawrence Hayne, with all the light gone from his brave young face,
stands mutely looking down, upon the stiffening frame of his father's
old friend, and his, who lies shot through the heart.




I.


In the Pullman car of the westward-bound express, half-way across the
continent, two passengers were gazing listlessly out over the wintry
landscape. It was a bitter morning in February. North and south the
treeless prairie rolled away in successive ridge and depression. The
snow lay deep in the dry ravines and streaked the sea-like surface with
jagged lines of foam between which lay broad spaces clean-swept by the
gale. Heavy masses of cloud, dark and forbidding, draped the sky from
zenith to horizon, and the air was thick with spiteful gusts and spits
of snow, crackling against the window-panes, making fierce dashes every
time a car door was hurriedly opened, and driving about the platforms
like a myriad swarm of fleecy and aggressive gnats raging for battle.
Every now and then, responsive to some wilder blast, a blinding white
cloud came whirling from the depths of the nearest gully and breaking
like spray over the snow fence along the line. Not a sign of life was