The landmark of Laramie Peak, of the Black Hills Range of the Rocky Mountains, remained in sight all day, slowly standing higher. The sun set behind it. Davy snoozed in the bottom of the ambulance. The captain had spoken truth, for shortly after sunrise they sighted the flag streaming over Fort Laramie. Old Fort Laramie was not so large a post as Fort Leavenworth; it was not so large as Fort Kearney, even. Davy was a little disappointed, for “Laramie” was a name in the mouth of almost every bull whacker in the Russell, Majors & Waddell trains out of Leavenworth, and the men were constantly going “out to Laramie” and back. The post stood on a bare plateau beside Laramie Creek about a mile up from the Platte; some of the buildings were white-washed adobe, some were logs, and some were of rough-sawed lumber. Back of the fort were hills, and beyond the hills, to the southwest, were mountains――Laramie Peak being the sentinel. It was the important division point on the Overland Trail to Salt Lake; maintained here in the Sioux Indian country to protect the trail and to be a distributing point for Government supplies. It was garrisoned by both cavalry and infantry; on the outskirts were cabins of Indian traders and trappers and other hangers-on, and there were a couple of stores that sold things to emigrants. Sioux Indians usually were camping nearby, in time of peace. Davy changed his rough teamster costume for clothes a little more suited to a clerk and messenger in the quartermaster’s department, and was put to work by Captain Brown, the acting quartermaster. The post proved a busy place, with the quartermaster’s offices the busiest of all; but the captain and Mrs. Brown saw that Dave was courteously treated and given a fair show. He went to evening school, and had books to read; and once in a while was allowed time for a hunt. In fact, Fort Laramie, away out here, alone, guarding the middle of the Overland Trail through to Salt Lake, was by no means a stupid or quiet place. Of course, the trail was what kept it lively, for every day news from the States and from the farther west arrived with the emigrants and the bull trains; and scarcely had Dave been settled into his new niche, when arrived the first of the new daily stages from the Missouri. It was preceded by a slender, gentlemanly man named Bob Scott, dropped off by one of the company wagons which was establishing the stations. Bob Scott was to drive stage from Fort Laramie on to Horseshoe, thirty-six miles, and he was here in readiness. He seemed to be well known on the trail, for many persons at the post called him “Bob.” “When do you expect to start on the run, Bob?” asked the captain. “I think about next Tuesday, captain,” answered Bob, in his quiet, easy tone. “The first coach leaves to-day, I understand, from St. Joe.” “They’ll make it through in six days, will they?”