Part 9 (1/2)

_Second Lieutenant_ Edward W. Keyes.

_Second Lieutenant_ Robert London.

_Second Lieutenant_ George O. Eaton (until August 24th, disabled August 10th).

_Second Lieutenant_ Hoel S. Bishop.

_Lieutenant_ Wm. C. Hunter, U.S.N. (”Brevet Commodore”).

_Second Lieutenant_ Robt. H. Young, 4th Inf., A.D.C. to General Merritt.

_Second Lieutenant_ J. Hayden Pardee, 23d Inf., A.D.C. to General Merritt.

_Second Lieutenant_ Satterlee C. Plummer, 4th Inf., with Co. ”I.”

_Acting a.s.sistant Surgeon_ J. W. Powell.

CAPTAIN SANTA CLAUS.

There was unusual commotion in the frontier mining town when the red stage, snow-covered and storm-beaten, lurched up in front of the Bella Union and began to disgorge pa.s.sengers and mail. The crowd on the wooden sidewalk was of that cosmopolitan type which rich and recently discovered ”leads” so surely attract--tough-looking miners; devil-may-care cow-boys with rolling hat-brims and barbaric display of deadly weapons; a choice coterie of gamblers with exaggerated suavity of manners; several impa.s.sive Chinamen (very clean); several loafing Indians (very dirty); a brace of spruce, clean-shaven, trim-built soldiers from the garrison down the valley; and the inevitable squad of ”beats” with bleary eyes and wolfish faces infesting the doorways of the saloons, sublimely trustful of a community that had long ceased to trust them, and scenting eleemosynary possibilities in each new-comer.

But while the arrival of the stage was a source of perennial excitement in the business centre of Argentopolis, the commotion on this occasion was due to the tumultuous welcome given by a mob of school-children to a tall, bronzed, fiercely moustached party the instant he stepped, fur-clad, from the dark interior. Such an array of eager, joyous little faces one seldom sees. Big boys and wee maidens, they threw themselves upon him with shrill clamor and enthusiastic embraces, swarming about his legs as, with twinkling eyes and genial greeting, he lifted the little ones high in air and kissed their dimpled cheeks, and shook the struggling boys heartily by the hand, and was pulled this way and that way until eventually borne off in triumph towards the spickspan new shop, with its glittering white front and alluring display of fruit, pastry, and confectionery, all heralded forth under the grandiloquent but delusive sign, ”Bald Eagle Bakery.”

Upon this tumultuous reception Argentopolis gazed for some moments in wondering silence. When the transfer of the children and their willing captive to a point some dozen yards away rendered conversation a possibility, the spokesman of the sidewalk committee s.h.i.+fted his quid, and formulated in frontier phrase the question which seemed uppermost in the public mind:

”Who 'n thunder's that?”

”That?” said the soldier addressed. ”That's Captain Ransom. It's good times the kids'll be having now.”

”B'long to your rigiment?”

”Yes; captain of 'B' troop. Been away on leave ever since we got here.”

”Seems fond o' children,” said the Argentopolitan, reflectively. ”Got any of his own?”

”Nary. He b'longs to the whole crowd. The 'B' company fellers'll be glad he's back. They think as much of him as the kids do.”

”Good officer, eh?”

”You bet; ain't no better in the cavalry.”

At this unequivocal endors.e.m.e.nt from expert authority the eyes of Argentopolis again followed the big man in the fur overcoat. With three or four youngsters tugging at each hand, and a dozen revolving irregularly about him, he was striding across the street, keeping up a running fire of chatter with his thronging satellites. Soldier he was unquestionably. Tall, erect of carriage, broad of shoulder, deep of chest, with a keen, quick glance from under his heavy brows. Eyes full of light and fire, nose straight and prominent, a great moustache that hid the curves of his handsome mouth and swept out across the square and resolute jaws--a moustache that, like the wavy brown hair about the temples, was tingeing with gray. Strong white teeth glistened through the drooping thatch, and one or two merry dimples dotted his bronzed and weather-beaten cheeks.

Over on the neighboring side street, from the steps of the schoolhouse, other children surveyed the group, and with envious eyes and watering mouths beheld the demolition of tarts and turnovers. Despite the keen and searching cold of the mountain air, rare and still and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with ozone as November days can ever find it, the school shoved its hands deep in trousers pockets and stared with all its youthful might.

Even so blessed a half-hour must have its end, and as the warning bell began to ring, and the Townies to shout that ”reecess” was over, the merry throng, spoil-laden, came pouring down the bakery steps, with many admonitions to their big benefactor not to think of starting for the fort until school was out and they could escort him home. Two or three of the smallest still clung to him, explaining that only the big ones had afternoon school; _they_ were all through; they had nothing to do until the ambulance came to take them all at four o'clock; and the captain became suddenly aware of two little people standing on the sidewalk and regarding him wistfully. One was a st.u.r.dy boy of seven, with frank blue eyes and chubby rounded cheeks--a picture of solid young America despite the fact that his little fists were red and bare; his knickerbockers, though well fitting, were worn and patched; and the copper toes of his cheap, heavy boots were wearing suspiciously thin. He stood protectingly by a little maiden, whose face was like those of Sir Joshua Reynolds's seraphs--a face as pure an oval as ever sculptor modelled or painter limned, with great, l.u.s.trous, long-lashed eyes and delicate and dainty features, and all about it tumbled a wealth of glistening golden hair, and all over it shone the look of childish longing and almost piteous entreaty. One little mittened hand was clasped in her brother's; the other, uncovered, hung by a finger in her rosy mouth. She was warmly clad; her little cloak and hood were soft and white and fleecy; her pigmy legs were cased in stout worsted, and her feet in warm ”arctics,” and ”mother's darling” was written in every ornament of her dress.

Ransom, stowing away a handful of silver, came suddenly upon this silent pair, and stopped short. Another instant and he had stooped, raised the younger child in his strong hands, and with caressing tone accosted her:

”Why, little Snow-drop, who are you? What a little fairy you are!”

”She ain't one of us,” piped up a youthful patrician, disdainfully.