The Irish standard. [volume] (Minneapolis, Minn. ;) 1886-1920, 1894-09-29

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| RISING TO HIS FEET TO STUDY THE SIT
| UATION.
lieutenant and man, carrier and car
| ried, and this time Schramm, rolling
over and over, never let go Of his car
bine. but, lying prone, levelled it over
| little hummock, and sent shot
! square at the foremost Indian, tripping
his calico pony in the nick of time.
! Morgan echoed with another. ''Good
boy, Schramm Give EN- some more"
he cried, as the charging warriors
| veered and opened out. Then came
| other shots from the swale in rear.
! Only one man held the horses now; the
| others-the whole squad-were blazing
| away.
"Check to your game, my bucks!'
painted Morgan, loading, firing and
missing again. ''It's little but lead
you'll get out of this outfit" The In
dian bullets were biting at the turf all
around him, yet mercifully flying wild.
Schramm, bleeding fast, was paling,
yet keeping up his fre wondering how
it was he could so rarely hit those yell
ing, painted, feathered fends darting
about them only a few hundred yards
| away. Then, rising on his knees, he
shouted Prussian taunt and challenge.
''Lie down, you fool!'' yelled his OIL
GER rolling over to him, and, selling his
| shoulder. Morgan forced him to earth.
| Not second too soon; an Indian had
sprung from his pony, taken deliberate
aim and sent shot that just grazed
the hand that pinned him down, and
| then came thunder Of hoofs far out
over the prairie and the rush of COM
| rades to the rescue, and then the Sioux,
firing to the last minute, whirled away
up the ravine, and Morgan's deer hunt
was over That night, while Ray with
| his troop, was still out in pursuit, Nor
gan lay with a shot hole through the
left shoulder at the bivouac fire, and
was chaffed and condoned with in
moderation over the failure Of his VEN
ison chase, and took it all meekly
enough. He had bagged no game, had
well-nigh lost his own and other lives,
had ridden almost; blindly into Indian
ambuscade, and yet, in point of result,
as it turned out, that was about the best
days work he mad done in all his life.
CHAPTER II.
''If ever a man came into the cavalry
who deserved well of his country said
his colonel, lit is Morgan" He was a
good soldier, but bad manager-a
combination far more frequent than is
probably known. He came into the
regiment in '66, burdened with wife
and a war debt. A capital trooper, he
had won honors with the saber in the
Shenandoah; had risen to the command
of his battalion, and was urged to take
a commission in the regular army.
Famous names backed his application,
but he had been held to duty in Texas
while earlier-discharged volunteers
were picking up the plums in the
newly-authorized regiments. He got
in eventually as second lieutenant
where his own lieutenants had gone in
as first He had the brevet of a lieu
tenant colonel of volunteers and the
rank and pay of low-down subaltern
of regulars when he and his wife and
little daughter joined the regiment
in the south. When. he came to the
frontier after five years of reconstruc-
ton duty her health was impaired as
much as his prospects. Morgan was
supporting an invalid wife, three chill
dren, negro NANNY" an egregious
folly of female nurse and a scattered
indie btedness of no one knew just how
many hundreds or thousands, all on q
first ieutenant's pay, and that by
pothecated. He loved his wife and
little ones; he was attached to his COM
rades and his profession, but every
month found him more dangerously in
volved He had no relatives to help
him; she had some who might, but
didn't. He wore old clothes, stinted
himself in every way, yet saw no light
ahead, and, to make long story short,
would have thanked God for the
chance to end it all but for the
thought of those helpless little ones,
taken. She had been practically bed
ridden for two years, and it would
have been mercy to take her long be-
fore, but Morgan couldn't see that.
He wept sorely over the cold, ema-
ciated form, then reused himself,
gathered his children in his strong
arms and folded them to his heart.
ssYou must be more than ever little
mother to them, now, Connie, said he,
as he kissed the white forehead Of his
eldest. She was only fifteen that
spring, vet for two years had been