She wrenched at the back-flap and tore it away, Then aiming her gun at the fellow beneath She held it point-blank to his chattering teeth. "Go back to your duty," she cried, "with the men! Go back, or you'll never see sunrise again! Do you think, because only the women are here, You can skulk behind skirts with your dastardly fear? Get out on the ground. Take your gun. About, face! And don't look around till you're back in your place!" Well, he minded; what's more, all the others did, too. That girl cleared the camp of the whole scurvy crew, For a pistol-point, hovering under his nose, Was an argument none of them cared to oppose. Yet so modest she was that she colored with shame When the boys on the line began cheering her name! Well, that's all; just an echo of old border strife When the sights on your gun were the guide-posts of life. Harsh times breed strong souls, by eternal decree, Who can breast them and win--but it's always struck me That the Lord did an extra good job when He made Miss Edgar, the girl of the Yankton stockade. [Illustration: 028] [Illustration: 029] THE BALLAD OF SERGEANT ROSS |THE south wind's up at the break of dawn From the dun Missouri's breast, It has tossed the grass of the Council Hill And wakened the flames on its crest; The flames of the sentry fires bright, Ablaze on the prairies pale, Where sixty men of the Frontier Corps Are guarding the Government Trail. A rattle of hoofs from the northern hills, A steed with a sweat-wrung hide And Olaf Draim, of the Peska Claim, Swings off at the captain's side. A limb of the sturdy Swedes is he, Marauders in days of old, But the swart of his face is stricken white And the grip of his hand is cold. "Now, hark ye, men of the Frontier Corps, I ride from the Beaver Creek, Where I saw a sight at the grim midnight That might turn a strong man weak. "Chief Black Bear's out from the Crow Creek lands, The buzzards his track have showed; Last eve he pillaged at Old Fort James, To-day on the Firesteel road, "And Corporal Stowe, of the Frontier Corps, On furlough to reap his grain, At the Peska stage-house lieth dead With his wife and his children twain." Then up and spoke First Sergeant Ross, Who had bunked with Corporal Stowe: "By the glory of God, they shall pay in blood The debt of that dastard blow! "Ye know the path to the Crow Creek lands; It is sown with this spawn of hell, And there's deep ravine and there's plum-hedge green To shelter a foeman well. "Now, who of my comrades mounts with me For a murdered mess-mate's wrong, That the Sioux who rides with those scalps at his side May swing from a hempen thong?" Of three-score men there were only ten Would gird for that chase of death. Quoth Ross: "As ye please. For the cur, his fleas, But men for the rifle's breath."