Before retiring for the night, we debated the question: Should we remain the next day at Fort ----, or proceed on our journey? The mules needed rest, as well as the horses, for the quartermaster could not furnish fresh mules, which we had rather expected; still, my husband was anxious to reach Santa Fé as soon as possible--and we left the question of our departure where it was, to settle it the next morning at breakfast. The news that came to Fort ----, before the next morning, made us forget our journey--for that day, at least. Captain Arnold had been murdered! The big, true-hearted man was lying at Fort Desolation--dead--with his broken eyes staring up to the heaven that had not had pity on him--his broad breast pierced with the bullet that a woman's treachery had sped! Before daybreak, a detachment of six men had come in from Fort Desolation to Fort ----, to report to the commander of their regiment that Captain Arnold had been assassinated, and Sergeant Henry Tulliver had deserted, taking with him one horse, two revolvers, and a carbine. Captain Arnold had started out the morning before, with only two men, to call in the picket-posts. An hour later, the two men had come dashing back to the fort, stating that they had been attacked, and Captain Arnold killed, by the two white men who had been confined in the guard-house. It was ascertained then, for the first time, that the prisoners had made their escape. A detachment of men was sent out with a wagon, and the Captain's body brought in--the men, with their black faces and simple hearts, gathered around it, with tears and lamentations, heaping curses on the villains who had slain their kind commander. Suddenly a rumor had been spread among them that Harry, the sergeant, had set the prisoners free; and instantly, a hundred hoarse voices were shouting the mulatto's name--a hundred hands ready to take the traitor's life. Vainly Lieutenant Rockdale--who, after the Captain's departure, had at once repaired to his house--tried to check the confusion, that was quickly ripening into mutiny: the excitement only increased, and soon a crowd of black soldiers moved toward the men's quarters, with anything but peaceful intentions. Perhaps Harry's conscience had warned him of what would come, for while the mob were searching the quarters, a lithe figure sprang over the planks across the creek, ran to the stables below the Captain's house, and the next moment dashed over the road, mounted on a wild-looking, black horse. Could they but have reached him--the infuriated men, who sent yells and carbine-balls after the fugitive--he would have been sacrificed by them to the _manes_ of the murdered man; and perhaps this effect had been calculated on, when the fact of his having liberated the prisoners had been brought, to their ears.