"The rough board won't do," said the even voice. "It must he a dressed scantling." The soldier threw him an insolent laugh, and stooped to take up a board exactly like the one he had laid down. The baby-faced Lieutenant suddenly seized a club, knocked him down, and beat him until he yelled for quarter. The soldiers had watched the clash at first with grins and winks and nudges, betting on their giant. His strength was invincible. When the unexpected happened, and they saw the slender, plucky youngster standing over the form of the fallen brave, they raised a lusty shout for him. When the giant scrambled to his feet, the victor said with a smile: "This has been a fight, man to man, and I'm satisfied. I'll not report it officially." The big one grinned sheepishly and respectfully offered his hand: "You're all right, Lieutenant. I made a mistake. I beg your pardon. You're the kind of a commander I've always liked." Again the soldiers gave a shout. No man under him ever again presumed on his beardless face. He had only to make his orders known to have them instantly obeyed. Jim Pemberton had watched the little drama of officer and man with an ugly light gleaming in his eyes. The young master had not seen him. That night in his quarters Jim quietly said: "I'd a killed him ef he'd a laid his big claws on you, Marse Jeff." "Would you, James?" "Dat I would, sah." Nothing more was said. But a new bond was sealed between master and man. While at Fort Crawford, the Lieutenant had been ordered up the Yellow River to build a saw mill. He had handled the neighboring Indians with such friendly skill and won their good will so completely, he was adopted by their chief as a brother of the tribe. An old Indian woman bent with age traveled a hundred miles to the Fort to warn the "Little Chief" of a coming attack of hostile bands. Her warning was unheeded by the new commander and a massacre followed. The success of this attack raised the war spirit of the entire frontier and gave the soldiers a winter of exceptional danger and hardship. The country in every direction swarmed with red warriors on the warpath. The weather was intensely cold, and his Southern blood suffered agonies unknown to his companions. Often wet to the skin and compelled to remain in the saddle, the exposure at last brought on pneumonia. For months he lay in his bed, directing, as best he could, the work of his men. James Pemberton lifted his weak, emaciated form in his arms as if he were a child. The black man carried his money, his sword and pistols. At any moment, day or night, he could have stepped from the door into the wilderness and been free. He was free. He loved the man he served. With tireless patience and tenderness, he nursed him back from the shadows of death into life again. On recovering from this illness, the Lieutenant faced a new commander at the head of his regiment--a man destined to set in motion the greatest event of his life.