"Captain Ray's troop ordered out, sir," or "ma'am," as the case might
be. No need to add the well-worn cause of such night excursions--"Indians."
The office was brightly lighted, and there, sleepy-eyed and silent, were
gathered many of the officers about their alert commander. Ray was down
at his stables, passing judgment on the mounts. Only fifty were to go,
the best half hundred in the sorrel troop, for it was to be a forced
march. Neither horse nor man could be taken unless in prime condition,
for a break down on part of either on the way meant delay to the entire
command, or death by torture to the hapless trooper left behind. Small
hope was there of a march made unobserved, for Stabber's band of
Ogalallas had been for weeks encamped within plain view. Less hope was
there of Stabber's holding aloof now that his brethren at the Big Horn
had declared for war. He was a recalcitrant of the first magnitude, a
sub-chief who had never missed the warpath when the Sioux were afield,
or the consolation trip to Washington between times. Where Stabber went
his young men followed unquestioning. It was a marvel that Kennedy had
succeeded in getting through. It meant that the Indian runners, or the
Indian smokes and signals, had not at once so covered the country with
scouts that couriers could by no possibility slip between them.
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