Lanier of the Cavalry | Page 4

me nothing of the facts in this case, sir. Lieutenant Lanier
says he directed this man to wait here, with the colonel's message,
while he rode to stables. Pardon me, Miss Dora. Come this way,
sergeant."
And there was nothing for it but to obey. Abashed, humiliated, rebuked
and in her presence, where he had looked but a moment before to
humble and humiliate his rival, Fitzroy, could only lift his hand in
salute, follow the captain out of earshot, and there make his plea as best
he could, leaving Lanier and the silent young trooper, Dora and her
grave-faced old father, in possession of the field.
For a moment they watched Fitzroy, eagerly gesticulating as he stood at
attention before his superior.
"He'll give you no more trouble, I fancy," said Lanier, in low tone, to
the veterinarian. "I'll say good-night again, Miss Dora;" and he walked
cheerily away, but Mayhew looked after him long and anxiously, then
upon the young people before him, then upon the still protesting
sergeant across the way.

"Maybe not--maybe not," he muttered, with sorrowing shake of the
head; "but few men can give more trouble than--him, when he's minded,
and I reckon he's minded now."

II
Nearly six long months went the regiment afield on the hardest
campaign of its history. Then at last by way of reward it had been
ordered in to big Fort Cushing for the winter. It was close to town,
close to the railway--things that in those days, thirty years ago, seemed
almost heavenly. The new station was blithe and merry with Christmas
preparations and pretty girls. All the married officers' families had
rejoined. Half a dozen fair visitors had come from the distant East. The
band was good; the dancing men were many; the dancing floor was fine,
and the dance they were having on Friday night, December 16, was all
that even an army dance could be until just after eleven o'clock. Then
something happened to cast a spell over everybody.
Bob Lanier was officer-of-the-guard. Bob had asked the colonel to let
him turn over his sword to a brother officer, who, being in mourning,
could not dance, and the colonel had curtly said no. The colonel's wife
was amazed; she did not dream he could do such a thing. Six girls were
sorrowful, three were incensed, and one was cruelly hurt. She was
under parental orders to start for home on the morrow. It was to be her
last dance at the fort. She liked Bob Lanier infinitely more than she
liked her father's dictum that she must like him not at all. As for Bob
Lanier, the garrison knew he loved her devotedly even before she knew
it herself.
Of course she came to the dance. As the guest of Captain and Mrs.
Sumter she even had to go up and smile on the colonel and his wife,
who were receiving. She and Kate Sumter had been
classmates--roommates--at Vassar, and Kate, born and reared in the
army, had never been quite content until her friend could come to visit
the regiment--her father's home.

A winsome pair they were, these two "sweet girl graduates" of the June
gone by, while the regiment was stirring up the Sioux on the way to the
Big Horn and Yellowstone. Everybody had lavish welcome for them,
and to Miriam Arnold the month at Fort Cushing had been quite a
dream of delight, until there came a strange and sudden missive from
her father, bidding her break off a visit that was to have lasted until
February, and all relations with Lieutenant Robert Ray Lanier.
Up to this moment these relations had been delightful, yet indefinite.
For reasons of his own Mr. Lanier had made no avowal of his love to
her, even though he had disclosed it to every one else. He was a frank,
fearless, out-and-out young soldier, a prime favorite with most of his
fellows. Bob had his enemies--frank men generally have. He could
hardly believe the evidence of his ears when, just after sunset roll-call,
he had confidently approached the colonel with his request and had
received the colonel's curt reply. Time and again during the recent
campaign the veteran soldier now in command had shown marked
liking for this energetic young officer. Then came the march to the
settlements, and sudden, unaccountable change. Twice or thrice within
the past ten days he had shown singular coldness and disfavor; to-night
strong and sudden dislike, and Lanier, amazed and stung, could only
salute and turn away.
Everybody by half past ten had heard of it, and most men marvelled.
Nobody at eleven o'clock was very much surprised when, in the midst
of the lovely Lorelei waltz of Keler Bela, a group of young maids,
matrons, and officers near