“He did, did he? Where’d he learn them?” “In the war. He was a bugler.” “What regiment?” “Sixth Michigan Cavalry.” “What!” General Custer stopped his horse, as he turned in the saddle and scrutinized Ned, his blue eyes shining. “Was he a Michigander? In my old brigade, then! He was one of my boys! The son or daughter of any of my boys is like one of my own family. Of course you’ll come with me to Fort Riley. What do you want to do?” Sudden resolve seized Ned. “I’d like to join the army, too, and hunt Indians until I find my sister.” “You shall,” declared the general, enthusiastically. “I’ll enlist you as a bugler with the Seventh Cavalry, and we’ll hunt Indians together and find your sister, I’m sure. Shake hands on it.” He skillfully reined his restless bay to the side of the troop horse and extended his hand. With a strong grip his nervous gauntlet closed warmly about Ned’s slim scarred fingers. “Now tell me more about your father.” So, as they rode slowly, biding the arrival of the soldiery, Ned did: relating to this singularly young general (the youngest, had said Bugler Odell, in the whole army, commanding men, like Ned’s father, almost twice his age) the story of how Mr. Fletcher, after the War, had moved to the frontier of Colorado Territory and had located upon a ranch; how outlaw Cheyennes and Sioux, called “Dog Soldiers,” had raided the ranch, killing him in the field, burning the buildings and carrying off Ned, Ned’s mother, and his sister who was eight. While the general was asking questions, the other soldiers, responding to the “rally,” began to arrive. II AT OLD FORT RILEY Early came a lancer, bearing the swallow-forked guidon, his steed blown and wet. The soldiers gathered about him. Foremost of the riders was a man not a soldier; at least, he looked more like a handsome, gentlemanly desperado. He sat easy and lithe and broad-shouldered; from under his wide-brimmed black hat, fell down upon the shoulders long, curling light hair. Belted about his waist was a pair of ivory-handled revolvers, one at either thigh. He wore shiny, flexible boots reaching to the knee; tight-fitting white doe-skin riding-breeches; a fine blue-flannel shirt open at the throat, and trimmed down the front with red; around his throat was loosely knotted a blue silk handkerchief; upon his hands were well-fringed gauntlet gloves. His skin was fair, with just a touch of sun-brown; a long blonde moustache drooped along either side of a firm clean chin; his nose was a bold hawk nose, and as piercing as the eyes of a hawk were his eyes of steely blue. Altogether, he seemed a man to be reckoned with. “Well, Bill,” addressed the general, buoyantly, “I didn’t mean to desert you fellows, but I needed exercise.” “I see,” nodded Bill, gravely. His keen, steely eyes noted the buffalo tongue; they read every detail of Ned’s face and figure; and swiftly sweeping the horizon they returned to him.