"No, James, not yet--"

"He ain't no count, no how--"

"All the more reason why I should be his master, not he be mine."

The horse was possessed of seven devils. He jumped and plunged and
bucked, wheeled and reared and walked on his hind legs in mad effort to
throw his cool rider. The moment he reared, the Lieutenant dropped his
feet from the stirrups and leaned close to the brute's trembling, angry
head. At last in one supreme effort the beast threw himself straight
into the air and fell backwards, with the savage purpose of crushing his
tormentor beneath his body.

With a quiet laugh, the young officer slipped from the saddle and
allowed him to thump himself a crashing blow. As the horse sprang to his
feet to run, the Lieutenant leaped lightly into the saddle and the fight
was over.

"Well, for de Lawd, did ye ebber see de beat er dat!" Jim Pemberton
cried with laughing admiration.

Scarcely a week passed without its dangerous excursions against the
Pawnees, Comanches and other hostile tribes of Indians. The friendly
tribes, too, were everlastingly changing to hostiles in a night. Death
rode in the saddle with every man who left a fortified post in these
early days of our national life.

The Lieutenant was ordered on a peculiarly long and daring raid into
hostile territory, and twice barely escaped a massacre. Their errand