"And Ray is
officer-of-the-day. There'll be no napping on guard this night."
At the barred aperture that served for window on the southward front, a
dark face peered forth in malignant hate as the speakers strode by. But
it shrank back, when the sentry once more tossed his carbine to the
shoulder, and briskly trudged beneath the bars. Six Indians shared that
prison room, four of their number destined to exile in the distant
East,--to years, perhaps, within the casemates of a seaboard fort--the
last place on earth for a son of the warlike Sioux.
"They know their fate, I understand," said Blake, as the general moved
on again.
"Oh, yes. Their agent and others have been here with Indian Bureau
orders, permitting them to see and talk with the prisoners. Their
shackles are to be riveted on to-night. Nearly time now, isn't it?"
"At tattoo, sir. The whole guard forms then, and the four are to be
moved into the main room for the purpose. I am glad this is the last of
it."
"Yes, we'll start them with Flint at dawn in the morning. He'll be more
than glad to get away, too. He hasn't been over lucky here, either."
A strange domestic--(the McGrath having been given warning and removed
to Sudsville) showed them into the trader's roomy parlor, the largest
and most pretentious at the post.
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