WITH THE BLUECOATS ON THE BORDER. 



16: 



the nearest stage station — the oft -repeated tap- tap-r-r-ratatattat 

 of the drum over by the commandant's office, and a subdued 

 sound of voices near the barracks, rouse us up from our half- 

 recHning attitude, and we step to the window to see what 

 reason there is for the unusual stir. Two sweat -covered 

 horses stand with heaving flanks, heads bowed down, necks 

 out-stretched, before the door of the office, and an Indian scout 

 squats on the ground beside them, holding the bridles loosely 

 in his hand. In spite of his air of stolid indifference, his disor- 

 dered dress — loose gray shirt, mud -splashed blue regulation 

 trousers, bead - embroidered, yellow - fringed, and betasselled 

 buckskin leggings — show that he has ridden hard and fast. 

 Through the open door, standing hat in hand by the desk 

 of the commandant, who, seated in his office -chair, half turns 

 around and looks up into the speaker's face, we see the half- 

 II* 



