corporal, finally a sergeant, and did many daring deeds. An atavism from
"the old border riders" of Scotland shone through the boy, and he took
on quickly. He could act the others off the stage and sing them out of
the theatre in his chosen profession.

There was fighting all day long around Fort Robinson, Nebraska--a
bushwhacking with Dull-Knife's band of the Northern Cheyennes, the
Spartans of the plains. It was January; the snow lay deep on the ground,
and the cold was knife-like as it thrust at the fingers and toes of the
Orphan Troop. Sergeant Johnson with a squad of twenty men, after having
been in the saddle all night, was in at the post drawing rations for the
troop. As they were packing them up for transport, a detachment of F
Troop came galloping by, led by the sergeant's friend, Corporal
Thornton. They pulled up.

"Come on, Carter--go with us. I have just heard that some troops have
got a bunch of Injuns corralled out in the hills. They can't get 'em
down. Let's go help 'em. It's a chance for the fight of your life. Come
on."

Carter hesitated for a moment. He had drawn the rations for his troop,
which was in sore need of them. It might mean a court-martial and the
loss of his chevrons--but a fight! Carter struck his spurred heels,
saying, "Come on, boys; get your horses; we will go."

The line of cavalry was half lost in the flying snow as it cantered away
over the white flats. The dry powder crunched under the thudding hoofs,
the carbines banged about, the overcoat capes blew and twisted in the
rushing air, the horses grunted and threw up their heads as the spurs
went into their bellies, while the men's faces were serious with the