Quickly Kit Carey drew his glass from beneath his robe and turned it upon the officer, who sat upon his horse reconnoitering the country before him. He gazed for a while through the glass, and then muttered: "It is that splendid fellow, Casey, of the Twenty-second Infantry, and who has a command of irregular cavalry. He is too daring to venture thus far into the lines," added the white captain, seeming to forget what he was then engaged in. Lieutenant Casey still sat upon his horse some distance from where Kit Carey was in hiding, and his glass swept the country thoroughly, taking in the dust as it arose under the hoofs of some Indian rider, and noting the plateau and buttes beyond, where was the camp of the hostiles. Behind him was his sole companion, the Indian soldier, who sat like a statue on his horse, awaiting the will of the young officer. "I wish I could get to speak to Casey and warn him off, for he is in great danger of a shot from some hostile scout lying in hiding; but I dare not make the attempt, for I would be seen, and that would end my career very quickly. But if I could only see him for half an hour's talk, I would be able to explain much, which I cannot write--ah! he is going--no, he is riding nearer to the hostiles' lines. Heaven grant he be not sacrificed to his recklessness. Great God! it is as I feared! poor Casey has got his death wound, but his slayer shall never have his scalp!" and Kit Carey threw his rifle to his shoulder as he spoke, and pulled trigger as soon as his aim fell upon the Indian bounding forward to scalp the daring Casey, who had dropped dead from his horse at the fire from an Indian, who had suddenly risen from behind the ridge near him. At the shot from behind him Lieutenant Casey had thrown up his arms, and then fell from his saddle as his horse wheeled and ran off, while the Indian soldier in alarm had also fled at full speed. The Indian bounding to secure the scalp of the young officer was Not-Afraid-of-Death, the Brule warrior, and he held his scalping-knife in hand, while from his lips burst a triumphant war-cry. But from afar off had come a white puff of smoke, a faint report of a rifle followed, and then the sting of the bullet as it struck the Brule brave and bringing him down as he ran, his rapid impetus causing him to roll over and over again. All day long the avenger watched the body of the young officer and his slayer, not daring to venture near, or leave his hiding-place, and then, to his joy, he saw the Indian soldier come in sight, followed by a party of cavalry, and, dashing up to the spot, carry off the body of the officer, while the Cheyenne scout quickly removed the scalp of the dead Brule, though he could give no account of his killing. And then, as the evening shadows began to lengthen, the disguised officer made his way back toward the retreat of the hostiles, to once more play the daring role of spy in the hostile camp. CHAPTER XXXVIII. HOPE AND DESPAIR.