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Why did Bob Hampton refuse to let his ward fall in love with Lieutenant Brant? Why did he have to live in the underworld, and to be known by an assumed name? Why does he make a living by gambling and a reputation by quickness with a revolver? And why, in spite of all this, do the reader's sympathy and admiration go to him at once, and stay with him to the end? Because he is the hero we all like, brave, sure quiet, well-bred, and because we fell that somehow he must be all right, and his punishment undeserved.

It was not an uncommon tragedy of the West. If slightest chronicle of it survive, it must be discovered among the musty and nearly forgotten records of the Eighteenth Regiment of Infantry, yet it is extremely probable that even there the details were never written down. Sufficient if, following certain names on that long regimental roll, there should be duly entered those cabalistic symbols signifying to the initiated, "Killed in action." After all, that tells the story. In those old-time Indian days of continuous foray and skirmish such brief returns, concise and unheroic, were commonplace enough. Yet the tale is worth telling now, when such days are past and gone. There were sixteen of them when, like so many hunted rabbits, they were first securely trapped among the frowning rocks, and forced relentlessly backward from off the narrow trail until the precipitous canyon walls finally halted their disorganized flight, and from sheer necessity compelled a rally in hopeless battle. Sixteen,-ten infantry-men from old Fort Bethune, under command of Syd.

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