CHAPTER XIX.

That was a wretched night at Sandy. Accustomed as the regiment had been to battle, and murder, and sudden death, there was something indescribably mournful in the circumstances attending Tanner’s tragic fate. He had been sent away on the very anniversary of the death of his first-born, refusing in his soldierly way to allow the commanding officer to be informed of a fact that might lead to a change in the detail, since there were so many ready and eager to go in his stead. He had had two sharp and successful encounters with the very band which he had been sent out to punish, and, having scattered them to the four winds, was joyfully on his way homeward to join his dearly-loved wife and little ones in time for Christmas; had written the glad news of his coming (Ah, was she not re-reading that blessed letter to Rosalie when the blow came?), and, when only two days’ march away from the post, as they bivouacked at evening beside a rapid-running stream, he and some two or three men had stolen forth to “stalk” a deer they saw on a hill-side not five hundred yards away. Half an hour afterwards four shots were heard in quick succession, then shouts and scattering shots, and Ray, springing to his feet, seized his carbine, and, with a yell of “Come on,—_lively_, men!” had darted off through the thickets. In three minutes they were standing over Tanner’s lifeless body. Too late to succor, but not too late to avenge. It seems that three or four Indians, relatives probably of the prisoners whom they were bringing in, had followed the command on its homeward march, and from their ambush among the rocks it had been an easy thing to pick off the captain as he crept up the hill-side, intent only on getting a shot at the deer. Two rifle-bullets had pierced him through and through, and death must have been instantaneous. The skulking foe of course had fled, but Ray had his scouts in pursuit in less than no time, and long before dark two were overtaken and died fighting. Two of Tanner’s own men were sent forward with a brief report of the sad affair, hurriedly written by Lieutenant Ray, and on the following morning the detachment, bringing the lifeless remains of their late commander, resumed their march in bitter sorrow.

And now, what was the effect in the garrison? The tidings flew from mouth to mouth, and in shocked, solemn silence the news was heard by officers and men. In the entire regiment no man had been more universally respected than Tanner, few, if any, were as popular; but, deeply as they mourned him, the one question that seemed to rise first to all lips was, “How will she bear it?” All hearts seemed to turn at once to her, and women who but yesterday would resent the faintest word of praise lavished upon Mrs. Tanner were now flocking to her quarters, where she lay hovering ’twixt life and death.

Mrs. Wilkins had been the first to hurry in, summoned by the doctor, and very soon Truscott had come down-stairs and taken sobbing, terrified, lonely little Rosalie in his arms. Presently Mrs. Raymond and Mrs. Turner appeared, and with awe and sympathy in their faces begged the doctor to let them be of some assistance. He was flitting nervously to and fro: now up in the sick-room, where she lay moaning and senseless; now coming to the parlor to exchange a few words with Truscott. Then he had telegraphed to Prescott, begging that his comrade, the post-surgeon at Whipple, might be sent at once. Lady after lady had strived to induce Rosalie to leave Truscott’s arms and come to her for the night, but she seemed to shrink from all and to turn shudderingly, clingingly, with fresh outbursts of tears, to him; and, despite the pain it caused him, Jack held her to his breast and strove to soothe her to sleep. At last, just as the first call for tattoo was sounding, worn out with her wild grief, the sunny, curly head drooped upon his shoulder and the heavy eyelids closed in slumber. Still he carried her to and fro, as he had when she was a mite of a baby, and as he looked down into the innocent, helpless, trusting little face, never more to know a father’s kiss and blessing, great tears stole from his own hot eyes, and burying his worn, haggard face among her bonny curls, Jack Truscott sobbed silently in his grief. And on this picture Grace Pelham entered, looked one moment with a world of wistfulness, of entreaty, of love, tenderness, sympathy and utter misery in her swimming eyes, then turned and fled—unseen.

All that weary night Truscott haunted the parlor, while the doctor and Mrs. Wilkins kept watch and ward o’erhead. Sometimes he snatched a few minutes of broken sleep upon the sofa, but morning found him pale and haggard and looking worse than when he returned from the scout.

“This will never do, Jack,” said the doctor. “You must go home and get to bed.” But Truscott avowed his intention of going with the ambulance to meet the remains. There seemed to be nothing he could do there. She had recovered consciousness once towards morning, but only to fall away again. “Still,” said the doctor, “if we can only keep her quiet we may pull her through. It is the waking I dread as much as anything else.”

At stables in the morning Colonel Pelham did not appear. A group of officers—Canker, Crane, Carroll, and Glenham—were in conversation, when Truscott walked rapidly past them, merely nodding, and entered the quartermaster’s corral. Coming out again, he was heard to say, as though speaking to the driver of the ambulance,—

“Come round to my quarters, then. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

With that he was again passing them, when the senior officer, near whom was standing an orderly, called to him,—

“Mr. Truscott!”

“What is it?” said the adjutant, surprised at the formality of the salutation, but not checking his rapid walk.

“I wish to see you, sir,” called Captain Canker after him, reddening with chagrin as he did so.

“I’m in a hurry now, captain,” replied Truscott, absently. “Come to my quarters.” And on he went, plunged in his gloomy thoughts, and in an instant had entered the band-stables, out of sight.

Canker fairly snapped with rage. Treated with disrespect and indignity by the very officer of all others whom he most desired to get upon the hip—the very officer whom it was now in his power doubly to humiliate. Ignored in his high position as commander of the post, now that Colonel Pelham was sick in quarters, what better opportunity needed he?

“You heard that language, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Carroll, Mr. Glenham, come with me.” And hurrying after the adjutant, Captain Canker entered the band-stables in high dudgeon.

“Captain,” suggested Carroll, “I’m certain that Truscott had no idea you were in command of the post.”

“That’s d—d nonsense, sir! It’s his business to know.”

And though Mr. Carroll was confident that, being on sick report, and furthermore, utterly taken up with his cares at Tanner’s quarters, Mr. Truscott did not know that the colonel had again taken to his bed and turned over the command at reveille to the senior captain, he was diplomatic enough to hold his peace. It is always safer to let a comrade get rapped over the knuckles undeservingly than to attempt to restrain the impetuosity of such commanders as Canker, and of many another not exactly like him; and, besides, Carroll possibly wanted to see how “His Infallibility,” as Truscott had once been nicknamed, would stand a reprimand.

They found him in earnest conversation with the sergeant-major and with the corporal of Tanner’s troop who had brought in the news. He did not notice their approach.

Canker rapidly stepped to his side, his eyes flashing, his face flushed with passion.

“Mr. Truscott, did you hear me say that I wished to see you?”

“Certainly, captain,” said Jack, very calmly, but looking vastly surprised at the sudden appearance of this irate captain and his satellites.

“Then how dare you pass me by, sir?” and at the furious, undignified tone the men looked up in amaze. Every brush and curry-comb seemed to need cleaning at that minute, and the non-commissioned staff and band, almost to a man, ceased grooming.

Worn, wearied, harassed both mentally and physically, Truscott was in no condition to calmly submit to an unjust overhauling from a man of Canker’s calibre. The blood rushed to his face at the arrogance, the utter lack of consideration, of decency in the captain’s manner. But with perfect self-poise, despite it all, he courteously spoke.

“I had no idea that you were in command of the post, as I presume you must be.”

“You ought to have known it, sir, if you had sense enough to know anything.”

And now Mr. Carroll was turning away in disgust, and Glenham stood a picture of indignant helplessness. Truscott turned from red to white, and looked squarely into Canker’s eyes as the latter stormed furiously on.

“I’ve had abundant opportunity to remark your discourtesy and slights on previous occasions, sir, and now you have the insolence to ignore my authority as commanding officer in the presence of the command. I——”

“One moment, captain,” said Truscott, raising his hand deprecatingly, and speaking with the utmost self-control and respect. “Let me repeat, that I had no idea you were in command. I was deeply engrossed in thought of far different matters. I thought you merely wished to speak to me about some personal affairs, as I’m not on duty as adjutant this——”

“No, by God!” burst in Canker, to whom Truscott’s power over himself was only an additional goad. With all the malignity of a low, tyrannical nature, what he wanted was an excuse to rasp and humiliate the adjutant, not to listen to explanations that were establishing the latter’s entire innocence of wrong so far as intent was concerned. “No, by God! you are not on duty as adjutant; and a most fortunate thing it is for the regiment that in that capacity your days are numbered.”

Truscott simply stared at him in surprise and absolute pity, and Canker saw it.

“I’m not blowing, sir, as you seem to think. Four days ago the colonel directed me to see you and request your resignation.” And still Truscott stood calm and stately. It was simply exasperating to poor Canker. Determined to break through that impenetrable armor of reserve and dignity, he flew on another tack. “You were giving some instructions to the driver of the ambulance just now. By what right, sir?”

“I merely asked him to stop for me at my quarters. I desired to go down the valley to meet Captain Tanner’s remains.”

“I have detailed Captain Turner for that purpose, sir. You cannot go.”

“I did not expect to go in an official capacity, but it never occurred to me for an instant that any one would prohibit my going to meet the body of my oldest and most intimate friend.”

“It _is_ prohibited, sir, emphatically, and for excellent reason. From the colonel down, sir, it is prohibited, and it is a brazen-faced outrage on your part to expect to be allowed to go.”

Even Carroll and Glenham here stepped forward as though to check him, and Carroll seized his arm.

“Captain, captain, for God’s sake, not here! Think where you are.”

And suddenly, as though realizing that every man was listening, Canker turned.

“I will see you again about this, Mr. Truscott, but understand,—you cannot go.”

For an instant Truscott stood dazed, then hurried after them, overtaking the party at the gate. From the adjoining stables Captain Raymond and Mr. Wilkins were approaching.

“Captain Canker,” said Truscott, and now fire was flashing from his eyes, “you have used words which require immediate explanation.”

“I say, sir,” almost shouted Canker, “that you are the last man in the regiment to be allowed to go to meet the remains of a man _we_ honored, sir! _Your_ conduct has been too monstrous. You have been long suspected, but now the thing is known throughout the whole garrison.”

“What thing, sir?”

“Your grossly improper, _criminal_, probably, relations with Mrs. Tanner——”

Crash!

Something like a flash of lightning had seemed to shoot from Truscott’s shoulder, and with a thud, plunge, and sputter Captain Canker lay sprawling on his back, after ploughing up several square feet of gravel, and Raymond and Carroll had thrown themselves on Truscott, who, a living embodiment of fury, stood glaring at the stunned foeman at his feet.

“No more of this, Truscott! I don’t blame you. I heard it,” said Raymond. “Go at once to your quarters. I’ll see that he is looked after.” And escorted by Carroll, the adjutant slowly, silently, walked away.

“Send Bucketts here at once,” he said to Carroll, as he entered his hall and closed the door after him.

Meantime the other officers had raised Canker to his feet. He had been knocked half senseless by the force of the blow, and blood was streaming from his nostrils, and his eye was rapidly closing, but his first impulse on rising was to get at Truscott. He was blind with rage, and it required great effort to control him. Little by little the gravity of the situation overcame his fury, and he suffered himself to be led to his quarters; but half the command, probably, had seen the affair, and with huge delight the men were commenting on the scientific manner in which “the adjutant knocked ould Canker out of time in one crack.”

Raymond was urging Canker to take no steps in the matter until he had cooled down.

“Of course the whole thing will get to the colonel’s ears at once, and you had better let him deal with the matter,” said Raymond.

But Canker thought he knew his own business best, and sent at once for Major Bucketts, who stumped in with his customary expression of profound gravity, while the commanding officer was being plastered with brown paper and vinegar by the hands of his flurried and tearful wife.

“Major Bucketts, you will place Mr. Truscott in close arrest at once.”

“By whose order, captain?” said Bucketts, imperturbably.

“By mine, of course, sir. I command the post.”

“Very well, sir,” said Bucketts, and vanished.

Ten minutes afterwards he banged the hilt of his sabre against Truscott’s door and entered, finding Jack stripped to the waist, bathing, and attempting to rebandage the gash on his breast, which recent muscular action seemed to have reopened.

“Just hold on a moment, Jack, till I commit you in due form, and then I’ll help you at that. You are hereby placed in close arrest, by order of Captain Canker; and may God have mercy on your soul, and you on his’n! What did you hit him with? he’s knocked all one-sided.” Thus irreverently and flippantly discoursed the quartermaster, as he threw off his sabre, belt, and gauntlets and went to the assistance of his friend.

“I haven’t my spurs on, Jack, but you’ll observe the arrest all the same, and won’t go back on me. Never mind what it’s about now. Let’s get you comfortable first.” And by dint of some minutes’ work Major Bucketts succeeded in getting the bandage back where it belonged and Jack into his clothes and easy-chair.

Truscott lay there very pale and quiet, saying nothing, but there was a look in his face Bucketts did not like to see; something terrible in its intensity. Stepping in next door to the doctor’s quarters, he found him plunging his head in cold water and listening to Carroll’s excited description of the affray. The quartermaster boiled with rage when he heard the language which had called forth Truscott’s blow, and then requested the doctor to come with him a moment.

“I want you to be with me when I have my talk with Jack. Of course, _now_ he has got to be told the whole thing; and the question is, can he stand it now? Go and see him.”

So the doctor had gone, and in the course of half an hour returned to Bucketts, saying that Truscott was calm and composed, but insisted upon knowing the uttermost detail of the story in which his good name was involved. “He will have to rest until we do tell him, and I think it best we should go at once,” was the doctor’s decision; so they went.

“Jack,” said Bucketts, “I’ll make it short as I can, yet tell you all I know, and I believe all anybody knows, and if I go wrong, doctor, you correct me. Not until the day before you got back did I know anything about it, but the doctor and myself have gone to the bottom of the whole story. For some reason Mrs. Pelham has been determined to get you away from this post. The ladies all say that, and it is mainly through them that we reached the facts. She has been steadily at work ever since you met them at Prescott in striving to prejudice people against you, and finally she got hold of some infernal story circulated by that girl the Tanners discharged at Phœnix, to the effect that you had been unduly intimate with Mrs. Tanner when in Kansas, and she has been putting the colonel up to it ever since. Now of the facts I can only tell you this. She has a letter from Mrs. Treadwell saying that when Tanner was in the field you came to Phœnix, and she saw Mrs. Tanner crying in your arms in her parlor. The night Tanner left here Miss Pelham and Hunter saw Mrs. Tanner leaning in your arms out there on the bluff, and the night you were wanted when those despatches came after midnight, and you could not be found, the colonel and Canker saw you coming out of her house. I know, and the doctor knows, that it is all susceptible of explanation. But those facts were industriously circulated everywhere about the post, and we would have told you yesterday but for the doctor, who said you were not well enough.”

To all this, told rapidly and quietly, Truscott listened without a word. He knit his brow at times, a look of surprise came into his face at mention of Mrs. Treadwell’s name, but even after Bucketts had ceased he sat for a few moments in silence.

Then looking coolly, wearily around him, Jack rose, went to his wardrobe, took a letter from the pocket of his blouse, and returned to the fireplace.

“Bucketts,” said he, “it is a fact that Mrs. Tanner did on one occasion cry in my arms at Phœnix. She probably would have done so the night Tanner marched if she had not fainted dead away, and it is also a fact that long after midnight I came from her house when those despatches arrived. In fact, had I not heard the noise outside I would have been there an hour longer. For myself, I absolutely refuse to make any explanation _now_, but for her sake that which may seem necessary shall be done. This letter will account for my presence at Tanner’s at the hour which has scandalized Camp Sandy, and, doctor, you can doubtless account for the other enumerated indiscretions. Now, Bucketts, I have a question to ask. Was it on this account that the colonel requested my resignation, as that—as Captain Canker stated this morning?”

“So Canker says, and so it has been told all over the post. Turner and I went to the colonel two days ago, and he promised us that nothing farther should be said or done until you returned, and last evening he did tell me to see Canker and say to him that he desired him to say nothing to you now until Tanner’s return, as he would be here in two days. I did so, but Canker seems to have gone crazy this morning.”

“Then it is doubtless true that Canker’s statement is correct as to the resignation,” said Jack, while his teeth set almost savagely. “That, at least, I never could have believed of Pelham; he should never have delegated that message to any one. Now, gentlemen,” he continued, “I have a great deal to think of this morning, and I will thank you both to come to me occasionally. You, doctor, will have to devote all possible time to Mrs. Tanner, I know, but let me hear how she is getting on. As for Captain Canker, it is not probable any message will come from him before evening if it should then, and by that time Ray will be here.”

And now we have to turn from Truscott and his bitter reflections and look for Grace, who, of late, has appeared but seldom on the scene.

At any other time so important an announcement as that of the engagement of the beauty and belle of the regiment, the daughter of its colonel, to one of its officers, and that one its wealthiest, would have created wide commotion; but just now everything was forgotten in the fate that had overtaken Tanner, shrouded the garrison in mourning, and involved his stricken widow and his most trusted friend in so strange, so uncanny a complication. The circumstances of Grace’s engagement have not been explained,—indeed, she never could satisfactorily explain them herself,—but to make a long and most unpleasant story short, her mother had speedily added the story of Truscott’s midnight appearance at Tanner’s to his other enormities, and this, coupled with what she had seen, so preyed upon the poor girl’s jealousy and wretchedness that, yielding to her mother’s representations of all Glenham’s excellences, the debt they owed him for Ralph’s sake, the deep wrong she was doing him in keeping him in suspense, “dangling at her apron-strings,” as madame expressed it, though knowing well that she, not Grace, was there at fault, Grace Pelham had at last surrendered. “I do _not_ love you,” she told him, frankly. “I respect and honor and like you, no doubt, but it is not what you deserve,” and he had rapturously declared that he could wait to win her love if she would but promise to let him try. And then mamma had clinched the nail by announcing the engagement, confidentially, to three or four ladies, and writing it confidentially to two or three more at department headquarters. And Grace, receiving congratulations she would eagerly have shunned, and devotions and raptures that she absolutely shrank from, was profoundly miserable.

Coming suddenly into the Tanners’ parlor at tattoo the night of the news of his death, she stopped short on seeing Truscott, and then had turned and fled. Distrusting him as she had, yet unwilling to believe in his baseness, she now saw him fondling and soothing the child of the man he was accused of having bitterly wronged, and mingling his tears with those of the innocent little one because of that man’s death. No wonder hers had been an almost sleepless night, but early in the morning she was at her father’s bedside. He was still far from well, though the ailment seemed to be mental rather than bodily. Lady Pelham was sleeping the sleep of the just in her own room. She had been up very late the night before, making love to her prospective son-in-law, as Mrs. Wilkins put it. Grace had plead distress and illness and gone to her room.

Soon after guard-mounting a letter was brought to the door. The servant handed it to Grace, and she, noting with faintly heightened color and trembling hand that it was addressed in Truscott’s writing to the colonel, took it up-stairs, and silently placed it before him on the coverlet.

“Where are my glasses, dear?” he asked. But the glasses were not under his pillow nor on the bureau. “Read it to me, Grace.”

For a moment she hung back, unwilling, then opened the note, and in a low, tremulous voice, read as follows:

“CAMP SANDY, A. T., December 20, 187—.

“COLONEL R. R. PELHAM, Commanding —th Regiment of Cavalry U.S.A.

“_Colonel_,—I have the honor to tender my resignation of the adjutancy of the regiment.

“Very respectfully,

“Your obedient servant,

“JOHN G. TRUSCOTT,

“_1st Lieut. —th Cavalry_.”

“He gives no reason?” asked the colonel, after a long and painful pause.

“Nothing, father.”

Then there was another pause.

“Grace, I want to see Major Bucketts,” said he, at last.

And presently Major Bucketts came, and, after ushering him in, she left the room.

“Bucketts,” said the colonel, peevishly, “I thought I told you to tell Canker not to mention this matter to Mr. Truscott until—until Tanner got back.”

“You did, sir.”

“Didn’t you do it?”

“Certainly, I did, sir. At stables yesterday.”

“But here’s Truscott’s resignation, and, d—n it! I wanted the thing stopped until—well, for the present anyhow. Where is Captain Canker? Has he had anything to do with this, do you know?”

“He is in his quarters, sir, and, to the best of my knowledge and belief, he had all to do with it.”

“That’s horribly awkward,” said the colonel, sitting up in bed. “Has Truscott gone to meet the body?”

“No, sir.”

“He hasn’t? Why, I supposed, of course, he would go.”

“He wanted to go, sir, but Captain Canker refused permission.” And it was evident that the quartermaster was grimly enjoying the conversation.

“Canker refused him! Why, what’s the man thinking of? Truscott _ought_ to have gone. Where is he?”

“In close arrest, sir, in his quarters.”

“_What!_ What’s happened?” exclaimed Pelham, already half out of bed.

“Captain Canker took it upon himself to use very dangerous language to Mr. Truscott at stables. I did not hear it, and prefer not to repeat what I was told, but there is no doubt of the fact that Truscott knocked him flat, and that Canker is spending the morning drawing up charges and specifications by the quire.”

“Go and say to the captain that I resume command at once,” said the colonel, slipping out of bed with astonishing activity. “Then come to the office, both of you.”

Doleful indeed was Captain Canker’s appearance when telling his tale to the colonel half an hour afterwards. His left eye was covered with a broad bandage, and his nose and cheek were discolored and contused. Trembling still with indignation and excitement was the captain, and, after listening patiently to his recital, which, of course, made no allusion to his insulting, overbearing manner, and somewhat inaccurately represented his language, and very inaccurately represented Truscott’s conduct, Pelham spoke very moderately and kindly.

“It is, of course, a most flagrant breach of discipline, and Mr. Truscott must be held accountable. I shall confirm the arrest; and yet, Captain Canker, did you not receive a message from me directing you to postpone further action; not to say anything, in fact, until—well, for the present?”

“I did, sir,” said Canker, coloring painfully; “but I was justly indignant at his ignoring my position as commanding officer, and Captain Tanner could never return to us now, and I was outraged, I suppose, at the idea of Mr. Truscott’s being allowed to appear as his friend. Well, there were a dozen reasons why I thought he ought to be informed at once that his crime was known.”

Pelham winced at the word. Already he was beginning to believe an awful mistake had been made. He fidgeted uneasily in his chair.

“But how came you to speak of his resignation? That wasn’t necessary that I can see.”

And Canker had no satisfactory explanation to offer, and left the colonel’s office in a very unpleasant frame of mind. Then Pelham sent for Raymond, Carroll, and Glenham, and questioned them as eye-witnesses. Crane and Wilkins also were summoned, and despite every effort on their part to say as little as possible any way, the fact became pretty clearly established that Canker had behaved in an outrageously unbecoming if not insulting manner. And awfully ill at ease and unhappy the colonel found himself at the end of his two hours’ confabulation with those gentlemen.

Meantime, Bucketts sat fuming in the adjutant’s chair. In his pocket he had Tanner’s last letter to Truscott, one that would have forcibly shaken the colonel and his _confrères_, but Truscott had forbidden Bucketts and the doctor to make its contents known until after the colonel had acted upon his resignation.

For a long time after the officers had gone, Colonel Pelham sat there at his desk in deep perplexity. All over the garrison people were talking of the exciting events of the day. Everybody knew that Truscott was in close arrest. Everybody had heard that Canker had virtually demanded the resignation of the adjutancy in the colonel’s name. Everybody heard in some mysterious way that the resignation had been tendered, and all were eagerly speculating on the upshot. This, too, when only a few miles away now the lifeless body of their gallant comrade was being borne back to the post, and, all unconscious of that or any other fact, poor little Mrs. Tanner lay in her darkened room more dead than alive.

At last the colonel rose and came to Bucketts’ desk.

“Have you had any conversation with Mr. Truscott about this a affair?” said he.

“Yes, sir,” said Bucketts, promptly.

“Did he—does he explain this—I mean—his very suspicious relations with Mrs. Tanner?” asked Pelham. And very hesitatingly he asked, and painfully embarrassed he looked.

Bucketts paused.

“I do not know that I have any right to answer that question, colonel. In the absence of Turner and Ray, the doctor and myself seemed to be the only friends left to him. He feels most keenly the manner in which the matter was brought to his notice, and as no defence was necessary where the doctor or myself were concerned he made none.” And blushing very much but still looking steadfastly at his commander, Bucketts went on: He liked his colonel,—was greatly attached to him in fact,—but was stung to the quick by the deep trouble brought upon his friend by the weakness and mismanagement of that officer.

“Do you mean to say that he has a satisfactory explanation?”

“Most assuredly, colonel.”

“Then why does he not come forward with it, or express a desire to do so? It is my right to know it.”

“He certainly would have done so, sir, and you must pardon me if I seem wanting in respect, had you yourself sent for him and represented the allegations against him and given him an opportunity. Instead of that, at this most trying time, when he has just returned from very distinguished service, is wounded and sick, his best friend killed, he finds you holding aloof from him, and a man whom he—whom we all dislike,—whom you yourself never selected as an intimate before,—_now_ chosen to represent you in a most delicate office, and you see how—how he did it.” And here Bucketts’ voice rose and trembled and grew husky. “Again, colonel, I beg your pardon if I speak too strongly, but—I feel very strongly.”

Redder and redder Pelham had grown.

“Do you mean that he will refuse to explain the matter now?” he asked.

“For Mrs. Tanner’s sake he may explain,” answered Bucketts; “for his own I am not prepared to say.”

“Well, send for him, anyhow. I want to see him at once,” said the colonel, with a nervous twitching about his face. It was plain that he was nettled, miserable, and dissatisfied with himself and everybody else.

And so it happened that Jack Truscott, to his great surprise, as he sat talking with Raymond and Carroll, received a summons to come at once to the commanding officer’s presence. A dozen pairs of eyes watched him as he walked slowly down the line, for he was still far from well, and many were the speculations as to the meaning of this move.

Presently, cap in hand, he appeared at the office-door and knocked. Pelham had watched him as he came, and with a shock of distress noted how very pale and haggard he looked; but as he entered and stood erect before his colonel, his head seem carried even higher, his bearing was calm as ever, but haughty. He said not a word.

“Mr. Truscott,” said Pelham, “I have sent for you because it is most necessary that a very unpleasant matter should be cleared up at once. I am given to understand by your friends that you are perfectly able to explain away all suspicion that may have attached to your conduct of late, and, if so, and you are entirely innocent in the matter, your violence to Captain Canker this morning may in a measure be condoned,—and other—other disagreeable features be suppressed. Are you prepared to offer such explanation?”

“No, sir.” And the answer was prompt, but so stern and low that Pelham fairly started.

“Do you mean that you have no explanation?”

“I mean that after the language of the officer selected as your spokesman this morning I will not condescend to defend myself, sir. The time for that has passed.”

“Are you aware—do you realize that your refusal makes it my duty to proceed to take action in your case?” And the colonel’s voice trembled so that he could hardly speak, and he could not look at Truscott.

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Then that is all, Mr. Truscott,” said the colonel. And that night at retreat everybody knew that the adjutant was “broken,” and was wondering who would be the next victim.

It was late in the evening when the detachment, now commanded by Lieutenant Ray, escorting Tanner’s honored remains, reached Sandy and scattered to quarters. Ray did not wait for any change of raiment. After having placed the body in charge of the doctors at the hospital, he went at once to Truscott’s quarters, and that evening Turner, Raymond, Ray, and Bucketts spent in earnest consultation with the ex-adjutant. Down at the store various congenial spirits were solemnly discussing the situation over their toddies.

“What do you think will happen now?” asked Mr. Wilkins of the group gathered about the store.

“Well, Ray has been with Truscott for the last hour,” said Mr. Hunter, “and I’ll bet that there will be a circus if he is called in.”

“What do you want to bet Ray isn’t made adjutant?”

“Anything you like, Wilkins, for the simple reason that madame wants that place for son-in-law Arty,” replied an irreverent youth, but it would be unkind to mention his name.