Lanier of the Cavalry | Page 2

across the
rushing, swollen river. Not so much as a sign of a dust-cloud to tell of
marching cavalry, and she turned again, with rebuke ready on her
tongue, but again the voice from within:
"Comin' t 'other way, chile. Must ha' took the lower fohd and rode roun'
back o' de stables," and, with the words, a laughing "mammy" came
bustling to the front door, a cool white pitcher in one hand, a tray with
glasses in the other.

"Ah know well 'nuff what brings de lieutenant round dis way. As for
dat--trash--wid him"--and here came a chuckle of delight at her own
wit--"he just cain't help hisself." But Dora was not listening. Light as a
bird she had flown to the other end of the little porch and was gazing
out through the honeysuckles with all her soul in her eyes.
Coming up the slope at easy canter rode a young officer, with
broad-brimmed hat and dusty field dress, alert, slender, sinewy, of only
medium height and not more than twenty-five years, with a handsome,
sun-tanned, smiling face, a picture of healthful, wholesome young
manhood. And behind him, at the regulation distance, came what Aunt
Chloe, in her "darky" dialect more than once had declared "the very
spit of him"--a young trooper in similar slouch hat and dusty field dress,
younger, probably, by three or four years, but to the full as alert and
active, as healthful and wholesome to look at, his face now all aglow
with a light that was sweet for girlish eyes to see.
The leader swung his hat and blithely shouted as he curbed his eager
horse. "Howdy, Miss Dora. Bless your heart, Aunt Chloe, I knew you'd
have the buttermilk ready! No, Rawdon, I shan't dismount"--this to the
young "orderly," who had sprung from saddle and, with his rein over
his arm, stood ready to take that of his officer. "Merciful saints! but
isn't that good after thirty miles of alkali!" He had swallowed a
brimming goblet of the cool, refreshing drink, and Chloe was
delightedly refilling. "Father home, Miss Dora?" he went on cheerily.
"Over at the stables, Mr. Lanier," was the smiling answer. The face of
the girl was sunshine and roses now, yet merely a glance or two had
passed, for Trooper Rawdon had instantly swung once more into saddle
and was reining back to his place.
"Stables going yet? Why, I thought it must be supper time. Colonel sent
me ahead to find him. Three of 'E' Troop horses act like they'd been
eating loco-weed. That's what kept us."
"Colonel Button's always findin' some way of sendin' you in ahaid,
Marse Lanier," grinned Chloe. "Ah don't wonder dey says you can do
anything you like an' never get hauled up for it."

"You're a gossip, Auntie," laughed Lanier. "The colonel would cinch
me quick as the next man if I happened to rub his fur the wrong way.
One more swig now and I'm off. Tastes almost like the South again,
doesn't it?"
"Lak de Souf!" Aunt Chloe bristled, indignant. "Sho! Dat's no more lak
de buttermilk we makes dan dat ar' hawse is lak de racers at Belle Mead.
Cows got to have white clover, Marse Lanier, an' white clover don't
grow in dis Gawd foh-saken country."
"It's good all the same. Thank you, heartily, Miss Dora. You, too,
Auntie. Er--Rawdon, you dismount and wait for Doctor Mayhew in
case I miss him. Give him the colonel's message and say the squadron
should be in by 7.30." And with that and a wave of his hand and a
smiling good-night, he took the rein of the troop horse and away they
sped to the stables.
Then Chloe vanished opportunely. The young trooper stood one instant
looking gratefully after his officer and those curvetting steeds, eager to
reach their home and supper. Dora, with glistening eyes and glowing
cheeks, retreated within the shelter of the bowered porch. Then,
bounding up the steps and turning with outstretched arms, thither
Rawdon followed.
Ten minutes later, at swift trot, came a third horse and rider, the horse
all that a cavalry horse should be in gait and build, the rider well nigh
as marked in build and proportions. He, too, was well-made and
muscular, though somewhat heavy and stocky; he was as soldierly, if
not as young, as the two so recently there in saddle. It was the face that
repelled, for it was black with wrath and suspicion. In front of the little
cottage of the veterinary surgeon he hurriedly dismounted, threw the
reins over the post at the horse-block, and strode, angering, through the
gate. The murmur of blissful voices had ceased at first sight of him.
Dora, her face paling, met him at the head of the steps.
Hardly noticing