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“Well, I hope you’ll never have to ride for your life on him. He’s pretty and sound and fast, but those Indians have such wind and bottom; they never seem to give out.”

A little later–at about half after eight o’clock–Sergeant Wells, the telegraph operator, and one or two of the ranchmen sat tilted back in their rough chairs on the front porch of the station enjoying their pipes. Ralph had begun to feel a little sleepy, and was ready to turn in when he was attracted by the conversation between the two soldiers; the operator was speaking, and the seriousness of his tone caused the boy to listen.

“It isn’t that we have any particular cause to worry just here. With our six or seven men we could easily stand off the Indians until help came, but it’s Farron and little Jessie I’m thinking of. He and his two men would have no show whatever in case of a sudden and determined attack. They have not been harmed so far, because the Indians always crossed below Laramie and came up to the Chug, and so there was timely warning. Now, they have seen Farron’s place up there all by itself. They can easily find out, by hanging around the traders at Red Cloud, who lives there, how many men he has, and about Jessie. Next to surprising and killing a white man in cold blood, those fellows like nothing better than carrying off a white child and concealing it among them. The gypsies have the same trait. Now, they know that so long as they cross below Laramie the scouts are almost sure to discover it in an hour or two, and as soon as they strike the Chug Valley some herders come tumbling in here and give the alarm. They have come over regularly every moon, since General Crook went up in February, until now.”

The operator went on impressively:

“The moon’s almost on the wane, and they haven’t shown up yet. Now, what worries me is just this. Suppose they should push out westward from the reservation, cross the Platte somewhere about Bull Bend or even nearer Laramie, and come down the Chug from the north. Who is to give Farron warning?”

“They’re bound to hear it at Laramie and telegraph you at once,” suggested one of the ranchmen.

“Not necessarily. The river isn’t picketed between Fetterman and Laramie, simply because the Indians have always tried the lower crossings. The stages go through three times a week, and there are frequent couriers and trains, but they don’t keep a lookout for pony tracks. The chances are that their crossing would not be discovered for twenty-four hours or so, and as to the news being wired to us here, those reds would never give us a chance. The first news we got of their deviltry would be that they had cut the line ten or twelve miles this side of Laramie as they came sweeping down.

“I tell you, boys,” continued the operator, half rising from his chair in his earnestness, “I hate to think of little Jessie up there to-night. I go in every few minutes and call up Laramie or Fetterman just to feel that all is safe, and stir up Lodge Pole, behind us, to realize that we’ve got the Fifth Cavalry only twenty-five miles away; but the Indians haven’t missed a moon yet, and there’s only one more night of this.”

Even as his hearers sat in silence, thinking over the soldier’s words, there came from the little cabin the sharp and sudden clicking of the telegraph. “It’s my call,” exclaimed the operator, as he sprang to his feet and ran to his desk.

Ralph and Sergeant Wells were close at his heels; he had clicked his answering signal, seized a pencil, and was rapidly taking down a message. They saw his eyes dilate and his lips quiver with suppressed excitement. Once, indeed, he made an impulsive reach with his hand, as if to touch the key and shut off the message and interpose some idea of his own, but discipline prevailed.