"I guess not," said Landor, tolerantly, as he turned his horse over to his orderly; "but, anyway," he added to Ellton, "we had a picnic--of a sort." And before the next morning the picnic that kept the southwest interested for five years had begun. Victorio and two hundred hostiles had left the Mescalero Agency for good and all, killing, burning, torturing, and destroying as they went, and troops from all the garrisons were sent out post haste. At noon Landor got his orders. He was to leave at four o'clock, and when he told Felipa she planned for dinner at three, with her usual manner of making all things as pleasant as possible, and indulging in no vain and profitless regrets. "We may as well have Mr. Brewster and Nellie McLane, too," she decided, and went off in search of them, bareheaded and dancing with excitement. She dearly loved rumors of war. The prospect of a scout was always inspiriting to her. Ellton messed with them regularly, but he was not to go out, because he was acting adjutant. To his intense disgust and considerable mortification--for he was young and very enthusiastic and burdened with ideals--he was obliged to appear spick and span in irreproachable undress, beside his superiors in their campaign clothes. "They're out from Apache, two troops under Kimball and Dutton; Morris has a band of scouts, Bayard has sent two troops, Wingate one. Oh! it's going to be grim-visaged war and all that, this time, sure," Brewster prophesied. Ellton could not eat. He bewailed his hard fate unceasingly. "Shut up," said Brewster, with malicious glee. "They also serve who only stand and wait, you know," he chuckled. "You can serve your admiring and grateful country quite as well in the adjutant's office as summering on the verdant heights of the Mogollons." Ellton retaliated with more spirit. "Or guarding a water hole on the border for two or three months, and that's quite as likely to be your fate." "True, too," Brewster admitted perforce. "I've been talking to a fellow down at the Q. M. corral," Landor said, "Englishman named Cairness,--Charley Cairness. He's going as a scout. He can't resist war's alarms. He used to be in my troop a few years ago, and he was a first-rate soldier--knew his place a good deal better than if he had been born to it, which he very obviously wasn't." "Squaw-man, isn't he?" Brewster asked. Landor shrugged his shoulder, but Felipa would not have it so. "You know he is not, Jack," she said a little petulantly, which was noticeably unwonted on her part. "I don't know anything whatever about it," he answered; "that is none of my affair. I should be surprised if he were, and I must say I am inclined to think he is not." "I know he is not," she said decisively. "I beg pardon," said Brewster, pointedly, accentuating the slight awkwardness.