about the brows, temples, and moustache was most becoming to his
peculiar style. One prominent mark had he which the descriptive book
of his company referred to simply as "sabre-scar on right jaw," but it
deserved mention more extended, for the whitish streak ran like a
groove from just below the ear-tip to the angle of the square,
resolute chin. It looked as though in some desperate fray a mad sweep
had been made with vengeful blade straight for the jugular, and, just
missing that, had laid open the jaw for full four inches. "But," said
Feeny, "what could he have been doing, and in what position could he
have been, sitting or standing, to get a sabre-stroke like that? Where
was his guard? A Bowie-knife, now ----" and there the suggestion ended.

But it was the scarred side of Bland's soldierly face that young
Lieutenant Drummond was so closely studying as they rode out into the
starlit Arizona night. He, too, had heard the camp chat about this
apparently frank, open-hearted trooper, and had found himself more
than once speculating as to his real past, not the past of his
imagination or of his easy off-hand description. By this time, in
perfect silence save for the occasional clink of canteen, the gurgle
of imprisoned water, or, once in a while, the click of iron-shod hoof,
the troop was marching in shadowy column of twos well out beyond the
_falda_ and over the almost dead level of the plain. Far ahead the
beacon still blazed brightly and beckoned them on. It was time for
precaution.

"Sergeant," said Drummond, "send a corporal and four men forward. Let
them spread out across the front and keep three or four hundred yards
ahead of us. Better take those with the freshest horses, as I want
them to scout thoroughly and to be on the alert for the faintest
sound. Any of our men who know this valley well?"