‘Laramie’ or, The Queen of Bedlam

April had been a month of storm and bluster and huge, wanton wastes of snow, whirling and drifting down from the bleak range that veiled the valley of the Laramie from the rays of the westering sun, and anyone who chose to stroll out from the fort and climb the gentle slope to the bluffs on that side, and to stand by the rude scaffolding whereon were bleaching the bones of some Dakota brave, could easily see the gleaming, glistening sides of the grand old peak, fully forty miles away,—all one sheen of frosty white that still defied the melting rays. Somebody was up there this very afternoon—two somebodies.

Their figures were blacked in silhouette against the sky close by the Indian scaffolding, but even at a distance, one could see they were not Indian mourners. That was not a blanket that the tall, slender shape had just thrown about the slighter form. Mrs. Miller, the major’s wife, who happened to be crossing the parade at the moment, knew very well that it was an officer’s cape and that Randall McLean had carefully wrapped it about Nellie Bayard lest the keen wind from the west, blowing freely over the ridges, should chill the young girl after her long spin across the prairie and up the heights.