"Swear that you are alone!" "Oh, stop that damned nonsense! Of course I'm alone!" was the sullen reply, and at the sound of the voice Loring seemed fairly to quiver. The gate was unbarred. A man's form, slender and shadowy, squeezed in and seemed peering cautiously about. "You got my note?" he began. "You know what's happened?" But a woman's muffled scream was the answer. With a spring like a cat Loring threw himself on the intruder and bore him down. In an instant Folsom had barred the gate, and the woman, moaning, fell upon her knees. "Mercy! Mercy!" she cried. "It is all my fault. I sent for him." "Take your hands off, damn you, or you'll pay for this!" cried the undermost man. "I'm Captain Newhall, of the army!" "You're a thief!" answered Loring, through his set teeth. "Hand over the key of that safe!" The sound of hoof-beats at the front had suddenly ceased. There was a sputter and scurry in the alley behind. Full half a dozen horses must have gone tearing away to the east. Other lights were popping in the windows now. Folsom's household was alarmed. Attracted by the scream and the sound of scuffle, a man came hurrying toward them from the front. "Halt! Who are you?" challenged Folsom, covering him with his revolver. "Don't shoot. I'm Ned Lannion--just in from the ranch. Have you heard anything of Hal, sir?" "Of Hal?" gasped Folsom, dropping his pistol in dismay. "In God's name, what's wrong?" "God only knows, sir. Mrs. Hal's nigh crazy. He's been gone two days." CHAPTER XXIII. Five days later the women and children from Warrior Gap, most of them bereaved, all of them unnerved by the experiences of that awful day, arrived at old Fort Frayne, escorted by a strong command of infantry and all that was left of the cavalry troop at the stockade. A sad procession it was as it slowly forded the Platte and ascended the winding road to the post, where sorrowing, sympathetic army women met and ministered to them. With them, too, came such of the wounded as could be moved, and at the head of the little squad of horse rode Lieutenant Dean, whom the post commander and several officers greeted almost effusively. Yet almost the first question was, "Did you see any Indians?" "Not one," answered Dean. "They seem to have drawn away from the Big Horn road entirely. Why do you ask?" he added anxiously. "There were signal fires out at Eagle Butte last night, and I've just had a letter from old Folsom at the ranch on the Laramie. He begs us to send a guard at once, and I haven't a horseman. There's been the devil to pay at young Folsom's place." Dean's face went a shade paler. "What's happened?" he asked. "A dozen of his best horses run off by Birdsall's gang, probably to replace those they lost in the flood, and Hal himself was shot and left for dead in the hills. He'd have died but for an Ogallalla girl and a couple of half-breeds who had a hunting lodge out near the Peak. There are letters for you at the office."