Quitting the quartermaster's depot one summer night at twelve, the little detachment rode silently out across the southward prairie, swung round to the east when the dim lights of town were a mile behind, took the trot over the hard, bounding turf, and at dawn were heading straight for the breaks of the Laramie. Halting for rest and coffee when the sun was an hour high, they again pushed on until noon, when they unsaddled in a grove of leafy cottonwoods in a little fork of the Medicine Bow, watered the weary horses and gave them a hearty feed and themselves as hearty a dinner, and then picketing and hoppling their steeds, who were glad enough to roll and sprawl in the sand, all hands managed to get some hours of sound sleep before the sun was sinking to the edge of the Sweetwater Range. Then came the careful grooming of their mounts, then a dip in the cool waters, then smoking tins of soldier coffee and sizzling slips of bacon. Then again the saddle and the silent trail, with the moon looking down from the zenith on their warlike array. Heavily armed was every man, each, even the lieutenant, with carbine and brace of Colts, and on they rode through the still, soft night air, chatting in low tones, no man knowing but every one believing that the taciturn, blue-eyed young officer in the lead was heading them for a lair of the Birdsall gang. It was too far south just then for Sioux. Another morn and they had crossed, during the dark hours, the broad plains of the Laramie and were winding up among the hills. Another rest and, spurring from the rear, there overtook them a bronzed, weather-beaten frontiersman whom Mr. Loring greeted without show of surprise, and when again they moved on it was he who rode at the lieutenant's left, up, up a winding trail among the frowning heights, until just as every man was wondering when on earth they could hope for a bite, the noiseless signal halt was given, while the leaders dismounted and peered over a shoulder of bluff ahead, held brief consultation, then down the ravine to the left rode the stranger, and back to his men came Loring, his eyes kindling. "There is a camp half a mile ahead where I have to make an arrest," said he quietly. "Keep close at my heels. We'll have to gallop when we get in view. Draw pistol. Don't fire unless they do. They probably won't." And they didn't. Half a dozen startled men, gambling about a blanket; two or three sleeping off a drunk, and one hunted, haunted wretch nervously pacing up and down among the pines, were no match for the dash of a dozen blue jackets coming thundering into view. There was no thought of fight. Those who could catch their horses threw themselves astride bareback and shot for the heart of the hills; two or three scrambled off afoot and were quickly run down, one a heavily-built, haggard, hollow-eyed man shook from head to foot as the lieutenant reined up his panting and excited horse and coolly said: "You are my prisoner, Burleigh."