“I wish,” said Anita, in a soft, composed voice, “that I could have Gamechick.  I can’t help loving the horse that might have killed me and did not.  Daddy, if I give up half my allowance for every month until I pay for him, would you buy him for me?”

Colonel Fortescue was quite as well able as Broussard to own Gamechick, but Anita had been brought up with a wholesome economy.

“I think so, my dear,” replied the Colonel, gravely.

It would, in reality, have taken Anita’s modest allowance for a couple of years to buy Gamechick.  Mrs. Fortescue said as much.

“It would take all your allowance for a long time, Anita, to buy Gamechick.  The horse has a pedigree longer than mine, and I have often noticed that ancestors are worth a great deal more to horses than to human beings.”

“Oh, the price can be managed,” said the Colonel, good naturedly.  “Broussard’s horses will probably be sold for a song.”

Gamechick was not sold for a song, however, but for an excellent price.  Colonel Fortescue was not the man to buy a good horse for a song of any man, least of all one of his own subalterns.  When Broussard got the Colonel’s note containing an offer for Gamechick, he laughed with pleasure, although he was not in a laughing mood.

“I should like to own the horse,” the Colonel’s note ran, “which, together with your fine horsemanship, saved my daughter’s life, and he is well worth my offer.”

Broussard would have given all of his other possessions at Fort Blizzard if he could have made Anita a gift of the horse, but the next best thing to do was, to sell him to her father.  Broussard felt sure that Anita would ride Gamechick and there was much solid comfort in that, for an officer’s charger, which carries him in life and is led behind his coffin in death, is near and dear to him.  So, Broussard lost not a moment in accepting the Colonel’s offer for Gamechick.

It was quite midnight before Broussard, with the assistance of his soldier attendant, had got those of his belongings which he intended to take with him sorted out and packed up.  He dismissed the man and in the midst of his disordered sitting-room settled himself for his last cigar before turning in for the night.  At that moment he heard a tap at the door, and opening it, Lawrence was standing on the threshold.  He entered, taking off his cap and loosening his heavy uniform greatcoat.  Once he had been a handsome fellow, but he had danced too long to the devil’s fiddling, and that always spoils a man’s looks.

For the first time, Lawrence seemed to forget the distance between the private soldier and the officer.  He sat down heavily, without waiting for an invitation, and turned a haggard face on Broussard.

“So you are going,” said Lawrence.

“Yes,” replied Broussard.

Broussard saw that Lawrence was oppressed at the thought, there would be no more Broussard to help him pay the post trader’s bills and to give him a good word when he got into trouble with the non-coms.