The "Babe's" diverging orbs popped from his face and again played from side to side. "Y-e-e-s," drawled Lounsbury. He ripped open the other's vest. Two pistols were displayed, snuggling head to head. He plucked them out and kicked them across the room. "The morning train," he repeated. "So long." "Babe" gave a weak nod. Lounsbury walked out. "Howdy, boys, howdy," he said pleasantly as he went. The admiring crowd returned his salute, and rotated back to the bar. He wasted no further time, but hurried to his store, a saddle-roofed building farther along the street. Before it paced a Fort Lincoln officer. Lounsbury stopped him for news. "You ought to be chuck full of it," returned the officer, pumping the storekeeper's arm; "just in from New York." "The redskins?" "Daytime sortie on us yesterday." "Pretty sassy. How about Brannon?" "Nothing since old Lancaster----" "I heard that--Fraser wrote me." Lounsbury gritted his teeth. "And our poor Custer?" "Ah, poor Custer! The East's talking about nothing else." "Awful! awful!" The officer turned away to hide the twitching of his face. "Going to Lincoln now?" asked Lounsbury. "Not right away." "Then, I'm off." "For Lincoln?" "No, for Brannon." "_Brannon!_ Alone? Lounsbury! Why, the Indians----" "I'm going, just the same." He hailed a neighbour to bargain for a cayuse of reputed wind and speed. In another half-hour he was ready. He rode as light as possible. Behind the cantle, rolled in a poncho, he tied some hardtack, jerked beef, and brandy. His revolver was reinforced by a Henry, which he carried in a holster under his leg. For the ".45," he took fifty rounds. A second fifty, designed for the rifle, occupied the loops of his belt. Thus armed and provisioned, he jogged out of town. Good fortune made the journey almost uneventful. He saw but one Indian, who loped into sight from a wooded bottom, and turned tail when Lounsbury levelled his gun. Twice only did he come upon signs of savages. Toward the middle of the first night, he passed a pile of glowing embers, where food had been cooked and eaten; and fifty miles lower down, the next afternoon, as he dismounted at a rivulet, the cayuse shied from an antelope kid that had dragged itself to the water for a last drink. There was an arrow through its neck, and the little body was still limber. Just before dawn, the second morning, he turned with the river, crossed the coulee, and reined upon the yellowing bend. To his left, a black dot, stood the shack. Three smaller dots were near it--Simon and the mule team. South, on the opposite bank, were the low, whitewashed buildings of Fort Brannon. He bared his dust-powdered head in thanksgiving.