IV. Romance 99 V. Red Ferry 127 VI. An Air Line 157 VII. The Pass 192 VIII. Ever After 223 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE "Daintily her handsome horse set foot in the water" Frontispiece "'They seem to be allfired sure of us'" 78 "Then, like a flash his hand fell to his holster, and it was empty" 90 "'Turn around,' said the Special Messenger" 176 "She dropped her sunbonnet--stooped to recover it" 216 "White-faced, desperate, she clung to him with the tenacity of a lynx" 220 "'We was there--I know that; yes, an' we had a fight'" 238 "'Yes,' she gasped, 'the Special Messenger--noncombatant!'" 258 PART ONE WHAT SHE WAS I NONCOMBATANTS About five o'clock that evening a Rhode Island battery clanked through the village and parked six dusty guns in a pasture occupied by some astonished cows. A little later the cavalry arrived, riding slowly up the tree-shaded street, escorted by every darky and every dog in the country-side. The clothing of this regiment was a little out of the ordinary. Instead of the usual campaign head gear the troopers wore forage caps strapped under their chins, heavy visors turned down, and their officers were conspicuous in fur-trimmed hussar tunics slung from the shoulders of dark-blue shell jackets; but most unusual and most interesting of all, a mounted cavalry band rode ahead, led by a bandmaster who sat his horse like a colonel of regulars--a slim young man with considerable yellow and gold on his faded blue sleeves, and an easy manner of swinging forward his heavy cut-and-thrust sabre as he guided the column through the metropolitan labyrinths of Sandy River. Sandy River had seen and scowled at Yankee cavalry before, but never before had the inhabitants had an opportunity to ignore a mounted band and bandmaster. There was, of course, no cheering; a handkerchief fluttered from a gallery here and there, but Sandy River was loyal only in spots, and the cavalry pressed past groups of silent people, encountering the averted heads or scornful eyes of young girls and the cold hatred in the faces of gray-haired gentlewomen, who turned their backs as the ragged guidons bobbed past and the village street rang with the clink-clank of scabbards and rattle of Spencer carbines. But there was a small boy on a pony who sat entranced as the weather-ravaged squadrons trampled by. Cap in hand, straight in his saddle, he saluted the passing flag; a sunburnt trooper called out: "That's right, son! Bully for you!"