"Buffalo Creek."

"Thet's the same neighborhood; must've been in cahoots with those red devils to have ever run cattle in thar. We 've got to head 'em off afore they git down into that kintry, er we won't have no scalps to go back home with. Let's mosey erlong, boys."

The day grew dark and murky as they moved steadily forward, the wind blew cold from out the northwest, the heavy canopy of cloud settled lower in a frosty fog, which gradually obscured the landscape. This mist became so thick that the men could scarcely see a hundred yards in any direction, and Hamlin placed a pocket compass on his saddle-pommel. The trail was less distinct as they traversed a wide streak of alkali, but what few signs remained convinced Wasson that the fugitives were still together, and riding southward. Under concealment of the fog his previous caution relaxed, and he led the way at a steady trot, only occasionally drawing rein to make certain there was no division of the party ahead. The alkali powdered them from head to foot, clinging to the horses' hides, reddening and blinding the eyes, poisoning the lips dry and parched with thirst. The two troopers swore grimly, but the Sergeant and scout rode in silence, bent low over their pommels, eyes strained into the mist ahead. It was not yet dark when they rode in between the first sand-dunes, and Wasson, pulling his horse up short, checked the others with uplifted hand.

"Thar 'll be a camp here soon," he said, swinging down from the saddle, and studying the ground. "The wind has 'bout blotted it all out, but you kin see yere back o' this ridge whar they turned in, an' they was walkin' their horses. Gittin' pretty tired, I reckon. We might as well stop yere too, Sergeant, an' eat some cold grub. You two men spread her out, an' rub down the hosses, while Hamlin an' I poke about a bit. Better find out all we kin, 'Brick,' 'fore it gits dark."

He started forward on the faint trail, his rifle in the hollow of his arm, and the Sergeant ranged up beside him. The sand was to their ankles, and off the ridge summit the wind whirled the sharp grit into their faces.

"What's comin', Sam; a storm?"

"Snow," answered the scout shortly, "a blizzard of it, er I lose my guess. 'Fore midnight yer won't be able ter see yer hand afore yer face. I 've ben out yere in them things a fore, an' they're sure hell. If we don't git sight o' thet outfit mighty soon, 't ain't likely we ever will. I 've been expectin' that wind to shift nor'east all day—then we'll get it." He got down on his knees, endeavoring to decipher some faint marks on the sand. "Two of 'em dismounted yere, an Injun an' a white—a big feller by his hoof prints—an' they went on leadin' their hosses. Goin' into camp, I reckon—sure, here's the spot now. Well, I 'll be damned!"

Both men stood staring—under protection of a sand ridge was a little blackened space where some mesquite chips had been burned, and all about it freshly trampled sand, and slight impressions where men had outstretched themselves. Almost at Wasson's feet fluttered a pink ribbon, and beyond the fire circle lay the body of a man, face up to the sky. It was Connors, a ghastly bullet hole between his eyes, one cheek caked black with blood. The Sergeant sprang across, and bent over the motionless form.

"Pockets turned inside out," he said, glancing back. "The poor devil!"

"Had quite a row here," returned the scout. "That stain over thar is blood, an' it never come from him, fer he died whar he fell. Most likely he shot furst, er used a knife. The girl's with 'em anyhow; I reckon this yere was her ribbon; that footprint is sure."

He stirred up the scattered ashes, and then passed over and looked at the dead man.

"What do yer think, Sergeant?"

"They stopped here to eat, maybe five hours ago," pushing the ashes about with his toe. "The fire has been out that long. Then they got into a quarrel—Connors and Dupont—for he was shot with a Colt '45'; no Indian ever did that. Then they struck out again with two led horses. I should say they were three or four hours ahead, travelling slow."

"Good enough," and Wasson patted his arm. "You 're a plainsman all right, 'Brick.' You kin sure read signs. Thet 's just 'bout the whole story, as I make it. Nuthin' fer us to do but snatch a bite an' go on. Our hosses 're fresher 'n theirs. No sense our stoppin' to bury Connors; he ain't worth it, an' the birds 'll take care o' him. The outfit was still a headin' south—see!"

There could be no doubt of this, as the shelter of the sand ridge had preserved a plain trail, although a few yards beyond, the sweeping wind had already almost obliterated every sign of passage. The four men ate heartily of their cold provender, discussing the situation in a few brief sentences. Wasson argued that Dupont was heading for some Indian winter encampment, thinking to shift responsibility for the crime upon the savages, thus permitting him to return once more to civilization, but Hamlin clung to his original theory of a hide-out upon Dupont's old cattle-range, and that a purpose other than the mere robbery of McDonald was in view. All alike, however, were convinced that the fugitives were seeking the wild bluffs of the Canadian River for concealment.

It was not yet dark when they again picked up the trail, rode around the dead body of Connors, and pushed forward into the maze of sand. For an hour the advance was without incident, the scout in the lead not even dismounting, his keen eyes picking up the faint "sign" unerringly. Then darkness shut down, the lowering bank of clouds completely blotting the stars, although the white glisten of the sand under foot yielded a slight guidance. Up to this time there had been no deviation in direction, and now when the trail could be no longer distinguished, the little party decided on riding straight southward until they struck the Cimarron. An hour or two later the moon arose, hardly visible and yet brightening the cloud canopy, so that the riders could see each other and proceed more rapidly. Suddenly Wasson lifted his hand, and turned his face up to the sky.

"Snow," he announced soberly. "Thought I felt it afore, and the wind 's changed."

Hamlin turned in the saddle, feeling already the sharp sting of snow pellets on his face. Before he could even answer the air was full of whiteness, a fierce gust of wind hurling the flying particles against them. In another instant they were in the very heart of the storm, almost hurled forward by the force of the wind, and blinded by the icy deluge. The pelting of the hail startled the horses, and in spite of every effort of the riders, they drifted to the right, tails to the storm. The swift change was magical. The sharp particles of icy snow seemed to swirl upon them from every direction, sucking their very breath, bewildering them, robbing them of all sense of direction. Within two minutes the men found it impossible to penetrate the wintry shroud except for a few feet ahead of them.

The Sergeant knew what it meant, for he had had experience of these plains storms before.

"Halt!" he cried, his voice barely audible in the blast. "Close up, men; come here to me—lively now? That you, Wade? Wasson; oh, all right, Sam. Here, pass that lariat back; now get a grip on it, every one of you, and hold to it for your lives. Let me take the lead, Sam; we 'll have to run by compass. Now then, are you ready?"

The lariat rope, tied to Hamlin's pommel, straightened out and was grasped desperately by the gloved hands of the men behind. The Sergeant, shading his eyes, half smothered in the blast, could see merely ill-defined shadows.

"All caught?"

The answers were inaudible.

"For the Lord's sake, speak up; answer now—Wasson."

"Here."

"Wade."

"Here."

"Carroll."

"Here."

"Good; now come on after me."

He drove his horse forward, head bent low over the compass, one arm flung up across his mouth to prevent inhaling the icy air. He felt the tug of the line; heard the labored breathing of the next horse behind, but saw nothing except that wall of swirling snow pellets hurled against him by a pitiless wind, fairly lacerating the flesh. It was freezing cold; already he felt numb, exhausted, heavy-eyed. The air seemed to penetrate his clothing, and prick the skin as with a thousand needles. The thought came that if he remained in the saddle he would freeze stiff. Again he turned, and sent the voice of command down the struggling line:

"Dismount; wind the rope around your pommels. Sam. How far is it to the Cimarron?"

"More 'n twenty miles."

"All right! We 've got to make it, boys," forcing a note of cheerfulness into his voice. "Hang on to the bit even if you drop. I may drift to the west, but that won't lose us much. Come on, now."

"Hamlin, let me break trail."

"We 'll take it turn about, Sam. It 'll be worse in an hour than it is now. All ready, boys."

Blinded by the sleet, staggering to the fierce pummelling of the wind, yet clinging desperately to his horse's bit, the Sergeant struggled forward in the swirl of the storm.



CHAPTER XXV

IN THE BLIZZARD

There was no cessation, no abatement. Across a thousand miles of plain the ice-laden wind swept down upon them with the relentless fury of a hurricane, driving the snow crystals into their faces, buffeting them mercilessly, numbing their bodies, and blinding their eyes. In that awful grip they looked upon Death, but struggled on, as real men must until they fall. Breathing was agony; every step became a torture; fingers grasping the horses' bits grew stiff and deadened by frost; they reeled like drunken men, sightless in the mad swirl, deafened by the pounding of the blast against their ears. All consciousness left them; only dumb instinct kept them battling for life, staggering forward, foot by foot, odd phantasies of imagination beginning to beckon. In their weakness, delirium gripped their half-mad brains, yielding new strength to fight the snow fiend. Aching in every joint, trembling from fatigue, they dare not rest an instant. The wind, veering more to the east, lashed their faces like a whip. They crouched behind the horses to keep out of the sting of it, crunching the snow, now in deep drifts, under their half-frozen feet.

Wade, a young fellow not overly strong, fell twice. They placed him in the centre, with Carroll bringing up the rear. Again he went down, face buried in the snow, crying like a babe. Desperately the others lashed him into his saddle, binding a blanket about him, and went grimly staggering on, his limp figure rocking above them. Hour succeeded hour in ceaseless struggle; no one knew where they were, only the leader staggered on, his eyes upon the compass. Wasson and Hamlin took their turns tramping a trail, the snow often to their knees. They had stopped speaking, stopped thinking even. All their movements became automatic, instinctive, the result of iron discipline. They realized the only hope—attainment of the Cimarron bluffs. There was no shelter there in the open, to either man or horse; the sole choice left was to struggle on, or lie down and die. The last was likely to be the end of it, but while a drop of blood ran red and warm in their veins they would keep their feet and fight.

Carroll's horse stumbled and rolled, catching the numbed trooper under his weight. The jerk on the lariat flung Wade out of the saddle, dangling head downward. With stiffened fingers, scarcely comprehending what they were about, the Sergeant and Wasson came to the rescue, helped the frightened horse struggle to its feet, and, totally blinded by the fury of the storm which now beat fairly in their eyes, grasped the dangling body, swaying back and forth as the startled animal plunged in terror. It was a corpse they gripped, already stiff with cold, the eyes wide-open and staring. Carroll, bruised and limping, came to their help, groaning with pain, and the three men together managed to lift the dead weight to the horse's back, and to bind it safely with the turn of a rope. Then, breathless from exhaustion, crouching behind the animals, bunched helplessly together, the howl of the wind like the scream of lost souls, the three men looked into each other's faces.

"I reckon Jim died without ever knowin' it," said the scout, breaking again the film of ice over his eyes, and thrashing his arms. "I allers heard tell it was an easy way o' goin'. Looks to me he was better off than we are just now. Hurt much, Carroll?"

"Crunched my leg mighty bad; can't bear no weight on it. 'T was darn near froze stiff before; thet 's why I could n't get out o' the way quick."

"Sure; well, ye 'll have ter ride, then. We 'll take the blanket off Jim; he won't need it no more. 'Brick' an' I kin hoof it yet awhile—hey, 'Brick'?"

Hamlin lifted his head from the shelter of his horse's mane.

"I reckon I can make my feet move," he asserted doubtfully, "but they don't feel as though there was any life left in them." He stamped on the snow. "How long do these blizzards generally last, Sam?"

"Blow themselves out in about three days."

"Three days? God! We can never live it out here."

His eyes ranged over the dim outline of Wade stretched across the saddle, powdered with snow, rested an instant upon Carroll who had sunk back upon the ground, nursing his injured limb, and then sought the face of Wasson.

"What the hell can we do?"

"Go on; thet's all of it; go on till we drop, lad. Come, 'Brick,' my boy," and the scout gripped the Sergeant's shoulder, "you 're not the kind to lie down. We 've been in worse boxes than this and pulled out. It 's up to you and me to make good. Let's crunch some hard-tack and go on, afore the whole three of us freeze stiff."

The Sergeant thrust out his hand.

"That isn't what's taken the nerve out of me, Sam," he said soberly. "It's thinking of the girl out in all this with those devils."

"Likely as not she ain't," returned the other, tramping the snow under his feet. "I 've been thinkin' 'bout thet too. Thet outfit must hev had six hours the start o' us, didn't they?"

Hamlin nodded.

"Well, then, they could n't a ben far from the Cimarron when the storm come. They 'd be safe enough under the bluffs; have wood fer a fire, and lay thar mighty comfortable. That's whar them bucks are, all right. Why, damn it, man, we 've got to get through. 'T ain't just our fool lives that's at stake. Brace up!"

"How far have we come?"

"A good ten miles, an' the compass has kep' us straight."

They drew in closer together, and munched a hard cracker apiece, occasionally exchanging a muttered word or two, thrashing their limbs about to keep up circulation, and dampening their lips with snow. They were but dim, spectral shapes in the darkness, the air filled with crystal pellets, swept about by a merciless wind, the horses standing tails to the storm and heads drooping. In spite of the light refraction of the snow the eyes could scarcely see two yards away through the smother. Above, about, the ceaseless wind howled, its icy breath chilling to the bone. Carroll clambered stiffly into his saddle, crying and swearing from weakness and pain. The others, stumbling about in the deep snow, which had drifted around them during the brief halt, stripped the blanket from Wade's dead body, and tucked it in about Carroll as best they could.

"Now keep kicking and thrashing around, George," ordered the Sergeant sternly. "For God's sake, don't go to sleep, or you 'll be where Jim is. We 'll haul you out of this, old man. Sam, you take the rear, and hit Carroll a whack every few minutes; I'll break trail. Forward! now."

They plunged into it, ploughing a way through the drifts, the reluctant horses dragging back at first, and drifting before the fierce sweep of the wind, in spite of every effort at guidance. It was an awful journey, every step torture, but Hamlin bent to it, clinging grimly to the bit of his animal, his other arm protecting his eyes from the sting of the wind. Behind, Wasson wielded a quirt, careless whether its lash struck the horse's flank or Carroll. And across a thousand miles of snow-covered plain, the storm howled down upon them in redoubled fury, blinding their eyes, making them stagger helplessly before its blasts.

They were still moving, now like snails, when the pale sickly dawn came, revealing inch by inch the dread desolation, stretching white and ghastly in a slowly widening circle. The exhausted, struggling men, more nearly dead than alive from their ceaseless toil, had to break the film of ice from their eyes to perceive their surroundings. Even then they saw nothing but the bare, snow-draped plain, the air full of swirling flakes. There was nothing to guide them, no mark of identification; merely lorn barrenness in the midst of which they wandered, dragging their half-frozen horses. The dead body of Wade had stiffened into grotesque shape, head and feet dangling, shrouded in clinging snow, Carroll had fallen forward across his saddle pommel, too weak to sit erect, but held by the taut blanket, and gripping his horse's ice-covered mane. Wasson was ahead now, doggedly crunching a path with his feet, and Hamlin staggered along behind.

Suddenly some awakened instinct in the numbed brain of the scout told him of a change in their surroundings. He felt rather than saw the difference. They had crossed the sand belt, and the contour of the prairie was rising. Then the Cimarron was near! Even as the conviction took shape, the ghostly outline of a small elevation loomed through the murk. He stared at it scarce believing, imagining a delusion, and then sent his cracked voice back in a shout on the wind.

"We 're thar, 'Brick'! My God, lad, here 's the Cimarron!"

He wheeled about, shading his mouth, so as to make the words carry through the storm.

"Do you hear? We're within a half mile o' the river. Stir Carroll up! Beat the life inter him! There 's shelter and fire comin'!"

As though startled by some electric shock, Hamlin sprang forward, his limbs strengthening in response to fresh hope, ploughed through the snow to Carroll's side, and shook and slapped the fellow into semi-consciousness.

"We 're at the river, George!" he cried, jerking up the dangling head. "Wake up, man! Wake up! Do you hear? We 'll have a fire in ten minutes!"

The man made a desperate effort, bracing his hands on the horse's neck and staring at his tormentor with dull, unseeing eyes.

"Oh, go to hell!" he muttered, and went down again.

Hamlin struck him twice, his chilled hand tingling to the blow, but the inert figure never moved.

"No use, Sam. We 've got to get on, and thaw him out. Get up there, you pony!"

The ghostly shape of the hill was to their right, and they circled its base almost waist-deep in drift. This brought the wind directly into their faces, and the horses balked, dragging back and compelling both men to beat them into submission. Wasson was jerking at the bit, his back turned so that he could see nothing ahead, but Hamlin, lashing the rear animal with his quirt, still faced the mound, a mere dim shadow through the mists of snow. He saw the flash of yellow flame that leaped from its summit, heard the sharp report of a gun, and saw Wasson crumble up, and go down, still clinging to his horse's rein. It came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that the single living man left scarcely realized what had happened. Yet dazed as he was, some swift impulse flung him, headlong, into the snow behind his pony, and even as he fell, his numbed fingers gripped for the revolver at his hip. The hidden marksman shot twice, evidently discerning only dim outlines at which to aim; the red flame of discharge cut the gloom like a knife. One ball hurtled past Hamlin's head; the other found billet in Wade's horse, and the stricken creature toppled over, bearing its dead burden with him. The Sergeant ripped off his glove, found the trigger with his half-frozen fingers, and fired twice. Then, with an oath, he leaped madly to his feet, and dashed straight at the silent hill.



CHAPTER XXVI

UNSEEN DANGER

Once he paused, blinded by the snow, flung up his arm, and fired, imagining he saw the dim shape of a man on the ridge summit. There was no return shot, no visible movement. Reckless, mad with rage, he sprang up the wind-swept side, and reached the crest. It was deserted, except for tracks already nearly obliterated by the fierce wind. Helpless, baffled, the Sergeant stared about him into the driving flakes, his ungloved, stiffening hand gripping the cold butt of his Colt, ready for any emergency. Nothing but vacancy and silence encompassed him. At his feet the snow was still trampled; he could see where the man had kneeled to fire; where he had run down the opposite side of the hill. There had been only one—a white man from the imprint—and he had fled south, vanishing in the smother.

It required an effort for the Sergeant to recover, to realize his true position, and the meaning of this mysterious attack. He was no longer numb with cold or staggering from weakness. The excitement had sent the hot blood pulsing through his veins; had brought back to his heart the fighting instinct. Every desire urged him forward, clamoring for revenge, but the aroused sense of a plainsman held him motionless, staring about, listening for any sound. Behind him, down there in the hollow, were huddled the horses of his outfit, scarcely distinguishable from where he stood. If he should venture farther off, he might never be able to find a way back again. Even in the gray light of dawn he could see nothing distinctly a dozen yards distant. And Wasson had the compass. This was the thought which brought him tramping back through the drifts—Wasson! Wade was dead, Carroll little better, but the scout might have been only slightly wounded. He waded through the snow to where the man lay, face downward, his hand still gripping the rein. Before Hamlin turned him over, he saw the jagged wound and knew death had been instantaneous. He stared down at the white face, already powdered with snow; then glared about into the murky distances, revolver ready for action, every nerve throbbing. God! If he ever met the murderer! Then swift reaction came, and he buried his eyes on the neck of the nearest horse, and his body shook with half-suppressed sobs. The whole horror of it gripped him in that instant, broke his iron will, and left him weak as a child.

But the mood did not last. Little by little he gained control, stood up again in the snow, and began to think. He was a man, and must do a man's work. With an oath he forced himself to act; reloaded his revolver, thrust it back into the holster at his hip, and, with one parting glance at poor Sam, ploughed across through the drifts to Carroll. He realized now his duty, the thing he must strive to accomplish. Wade and Wasson were gone; no human effort could aid them, but Carroll lived, and might be saved. And it was for him alone now to serve Molly. The sudden comprehension of all this stung like the lash of a whip, transformed him again into a fighter, a soldier of the sort who refuses to acknowledge defeat. His eyes darkened, his lips pressed together in a straight line.

Carroll lay helpless, inert, his head hanging down against the neck of his horse. The Sergeant jerked him erect, roughly beating him into consciousness; nor did he desist until the fellow's eyes opened in a dull stare.

"I 'll pound the life out of you unless you brace up, George," he muttered. "That 's right—get mad if you want to. It will do you good. Wait until I get that quirt; that will set your blood moving. No! Wake up! Die, nothing! See here, man, there 's the river just ahead."

He picked up his glove, undid the reins from Wasson's stiffened fingers, and urged the horses forward. Carroll lurched drunkenly in the saddle, yet retained sufficient life to cling to the pommel, and thus the outfit plunged blindly forward into the storm, leaving the dead men where they lay. There was nothing else to do; Hamlin's heart choked him as he ploughed his way past, but he had no strength to lift those heavy bodies. Every ounce of power must be conserved for the preservation of life. Little as he could see through the snow blasts there was but one means of passage, that along the narrow rift between the ridges. The snow lay deep here, but they floundered ahead, barely able to surmount the drifts, until suddenly they emerged upon an open space, sheltered somewhat by the low hills and swept clean by the wind. Directly beneath, down a wide cleft in the bank, dimly visible, appeared the welcome waters of the Cimarron. The stream was but partly frozen over, the dark current flowing in odd contrast between the banks of ice and snow.

The Sergeant halted, examining his surroundings cautiously, expecting every instant to be fired upon by some unseen foe. The violence of the storm prevented his seeing beyond a few yards, and the whirling snow crystals blinded him as he faced the fury of the wind sweeping down the valley. Nothing met his gaze; no sound reached his ears; about him was desolation, unbroken whiteness. Apparently they were alone in all that intense dreariness of snow. The solemn loneliness of it—the dark, silently flowing river, the dun sky, the wide, white expanse of plain, the mad violence of the storm beating against him—brought to him a feeling of helplessness. He was a mere atom, struggling alone against Nature's wild mood. Then the feeling clutched him that he was not alone; that from somewhere amid those barren wastes hostile eyes watched, skulking murderers sought his life. Yet there was no sign of any presence. He could not stand there and die, nor permit Carroll to freeze in his saddle. It would be better to take a chance; perhaps the assassins had fled, believing their work accomplished; perhaps they had become confused by the storm.

Foot by foot, feeling his passage, he advanced down the gully, fairly dragging his own horse after him. Behind, held by the straining lariat, lurched the others, the soldier swaying on the back of the last, swearing and laughing in delirium, clutching at snowflakes with his hands. At the end of the ravine, under shelter of the bank, Hamlin trampled back the snow, herding the animals close, so as to gain the warmth of their bodies. Here they were well protected from the cruel lash of the wind and the shower of snow which blew over them and drifted higher and higher in the open space beyond. Working feverishly, the blood again circulating freely through his veins, the Sergeant hastily dragged blankets from the pack, and spread them on the ground, depositing Carroll upon them. Then he set about vigorously rubbing the soldier's exposed flesh with snow. The smart of it, together with the roughness of handling, aroused the latter from lethargy, but Hamlin, ignoring his resentment, gripped the fellow with hands of iron, never ceasing his violent ministrations until his swearing ended in silence. Then he wrapped him tightly in the blankets, and stood himself erect, glowing from the exercise. Carroll glared up at him angrily out of red-rimmed eyes.

"I 'll get you for that, you big boob!" he shouted, striving to release his arms from the clinging blankets. "You wait! I 'll get you!"

"Hush up, George, and go to sleep," the other retorted, poking the shapeless body with his foot, his thoughts already elsewhere. "Don't be a fool. I 'll get a fire if I can, and something hot into you. Within an hour you 'll be a man again. Now see here—stop that! Do you hear? You lie still right where you are, Carroll, until I come back, or I 'll kick your ribs in!" He bent down menacingly, scowling into the upturned face. "Will you mind, or shall I have to hand you one?"

Carroll shrank back like a whipped child, his lips muttering something indistinguishable. The Sergeant, satisfied, turned and floundered through the drifts to the bank of the stream. He was alert and fearful, yet determined. No matter what danger of discovery might threaten, he must build a fire to save Carroll's life. The raging storm was not over with; there was no apparent cessation of violence in the blasts of the icy wind, and the snow swept about him in blinding sheets. It would continue all day, all another night, perhaps, and they could never live through without food and warmth. He realized the risk fully, his gloved hand gripping the butt of his revolver, as he stared up and down the snow-draped bluffs. He wished he had picked up Wasson's rifle. Who was it that had shot them up, anyhow? The very mystery added to the dread. Could it have been Dupont? There was no other conception possible, yet it seemed like a miracle that they could have kept so close on the fellow's trail all night long through the storm. Yet who else would open fire at sight? Who else, indeed, would be in this God-forsaken country? And whoever it was, where had he gone? How had he disappeared so suddenly and completely? He could not be far away, that was a certainty. No plainsman would attempt to ford that icy stream, nor desert the shelter of these bluffs in face of the storm. It would be suicidal. And if Dupont and his Indians were close at hand, Miss McDonald would be with them. He had had no time in which to reason this out before, but now the swift realization of the close proximity of the girl came to him like an electric shock. Whatever the immediate danger he must thaw out Carroll, and thus be free himself.

He could look back to where the weary horses huddled beneath the bank, grouped about the man so helplessly swaddled in blankets on the ground. They were dim, pitiable objects, barely discernible through the flying scud, yet Hamlin was quick to perceive the advantage of their position—the overhanging bluff was complete protection from any attack except along the open bank of the river. Two armed men could defend the spot against odds. And below, a hundred yards away, perhaps—it was hard to judge through that smother—the bare limbs of several stunted cottonwoods waved dismally against the gray sky. Hesitating, his eyes searching the barrenness above to where the stream bent northward and disappeared, he turned at last and tramped downward along the edge of the stream. Across stretched the level, white prairie, beaten and obscured by the storm, while to his left arose the steep, bare bluff, swept clear by the wind, revealing its ugliness through the haze of snow. Not in all the expanse was there visible a moving object nor track of any kind. He was alone, in the midst of indescribable desolation—a cold, dead, dreary landscape.

He came to the little patch of forest growth, a dozen gaunt, naked trees at the river's edge, stunted, two of them already toppling over the bank, apparently undermined by the water, threatening to fall before each blast that smote them. Hoping to discover some splinters for a fire, Hamlin kicked a clear space in the snow, yet kept his face always toward the bluff, his eyes vigilantly searching for any skulking figure. Silent as those desert surroundings appeared, the Sergeant knew he was not alone. He had a feeling that he was being watched, spied upon; that somewhere near at hand, crouching in that solitude, the eyes of murder followed his every movement. Suddenly he straightened up, staring at the bluff nearly opposite where he stood. Was it a dream, an illusion, or was that actually the front of a cabin at the base of the bank? He could not believe it possible, nor could he be sure. If so, then it consisted merely of a room excavated in the side of the hill, the opening closed in by cottonwood logs. It in no way extended outward beyond the contour of the bank, and was so plastered with snow as to be almost indistinguishable a dozen steps away. Yet those were logs, regularly laid, beyond a doubt; he was certain he detected now the dim outlines of a door, and a smooth wooden shutter, to which the snow refused to cling, the size and shape of a small window. His heart throbbing with excitement, the Sergeant slipped in against the bluff for protection, moving cautiously closer until he convinced himself of the reality of his strange discovery by feeling the rough bark of the logs. It was a form of habitation of some kind beyond question; apparently unoccupied, for there were no tracks in the snow without, and no smoke of a fire visible anywhere.



CHAPTER XXVII

HUGHES' STORY

Hamlin thrust his glove into his belt, drew forth his revolver, and gripped its stock with bare hand. This odd, hidden dwelling might be deserted, a mere empty shack, but he could not disconnect it in his mind from that murderous attack made upon their little party two hours before. Why was it here in the heart of this desert? Why built with such evident intent of concealment? But for what had occurred on the plateau above, his suspicions would never have been aroused. This was already becoming a cattle country; adventurous Texans, seeking free range and abundant water, had advanced along all these prominent streams with their grazing herds of long-horns. Little by little they had gained precarious foothold on the Indian domains, slowly forcing the savages westward. The struggle had been continuous for years, and the final result inevitable. Yet this year the story had been a different one, for the united tribes had swept the invading stockmen back, had butchered their cattle, and once again roamed these plains as masters. Hamlin knew this; he had met and talked with those driven out, and he was aware that even now Black Kettle's winter camp of hostiles was not far away. This hut might, of course, be the deserted site of some old cow camp, some outrider's shack, but—the fellow who fired on them! He was a reality—a dangerous reality—and he was hiding somewhere close at hand.

The Sergeant stole along the front to the door, listening intently for any warning sound from either without or within. Every nerve was on edge; all else forgotten except the intensity of the moment. He could perceive nothing to alarm him, no evidence of any presence inside. Slowly, noiselessly, his Colt poised for instant action, he lifted the wooden latch, and permitted the door to swing slightly ajar, yielding a glimpse within. There was light from above, flittering dimly through some crevice in the bluff, and the darker shadows were reddened by the cheery glow of a fireplace directly opposite, although where the smoke disappeared was not at first evident. Hamlin perceived these features at a glance, standing motionless. His quick eyes visioned the whole interior—a rude table and bench, a rifle leaning in one corner, a saddle and trappings hanging against the wall; a broad-brimmed hat on the floor, a pile of skins beyond. There was an appearance of neatness also, the floor swept, the table unlittered. Yet he scarcely realized these details at the time so closely was his whole attention centred on the figure of a man. The fellow occupied a stool before the fireplace, and was bending slightly forward, staring down at the red embers, unconscious of the intruder. He was a thin-chested, unkempt individual with long hair, and shaggy whiskers, both iron gray. The side of his face and neck had a sallow look, while his nose was prominent. The Sergeant surveyed him a moment, his cocked revolver covering the motionless figure, his lips set grimly. Then he stepped within, and closed the door.



At the slight sound the other leaped to his feet, overturning the stool, and whirled about swiftly, his right hand dropping to his belt.

"That will do, friend!" Hamlin's voice rang stern.

"Stand as you are—your gun is lying on the bench yonder. Rather careless of you in this country. No, I would n't risk it if I was you; this is a hair trigger."

The fellow stared helpless into the Sergeant's gray eyes.

"Who—who the hell are you?" he managed to articulate hoarsely, "a—a soldier?"

Hamlin nodded, willing enough to let the other talk.

"You 're—you 're not one o' Le Fevre's outfit?"

"Whose?"

"Gene Le Fevre—the damn skunk; you know him?"

Startled as he was, the Sergeant held himself firm, and laughed.

"I reckon there is n't any one by that name a friend o' mine," he said coolly. "So you 're free to relieve your feelings as far as I 'm concerned. Were you expecting that gent along this trail?"

"Yes, I was, an' 'twa'n't no pleasant little reception I 'lowed to give him neither. Say! Would n't yer just as soon lower thet shootin' iron? We ain't got no call to quarrel so fur as I kin see."

"Maybe not, stranger," and Hamlin leaned back against the table, lowering his weapon slightly, as he glanced watchfully about the room, "but I 'll keep the gun handy just the same until we understand each other. Anybody else in this neighborhood?"

"Not unless it's Le Fevre, an' his outfit."

"Then I reckon you did the shooting, out there a bit ago?"

The man shuffled uneasily, but the Sergeant's right hand came to a level.

"Did you?"

"I s'pose thar ain't no use o' denyin' it," reluctantly, eyeing the gun in the corner, "but I did n't mean to shoot up no outfit but Le Fevre's. So help me, I did n't! The danged snow was so thick I could n't see nohow, and I never s'posed any one was on the trail 'cept him. Thar ain't been no white man 'long yere in three months. Didn't hit none of yer, did I?"

"Yes, you did," returned Hamlin slowly, striving to hold himself in check. "You killed one of the best fellows that ever rode these plains, you sneaking coward, you. Shot him dead, with his back to you. Now, see here, it's a throw of the dice with me whether I fill you full of lead, or let you go. I came in here intending to kill you, if you were the cur who shot us up. But I 'm willing to listen to what you have got to say. I 'm some on the fight, but plain murder don't just appeal to me. How is it? Are you ready to talk? Spit it out, man!"

"I 'll tell yer jest how it was."

"Do it my way then; answer straight what I ask you. Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Kin I sit down?"

"Yes; make it short now; all I want is facts."

The man choked a bit, turned and twisted on the stool, but was helpless to escape.

"Wal, my name is Hughes—Jed Hughes; I uster hang out round San Antone, an' hev been mostly in the cow business. The last five years Le Fevre an' I hev been grazin' cattle in between yere an' Buffalo Creek."

"Partners?"

"Wal, by God! I thought so, till just lately," his voice rising. "Anyhow, I hed a bunch o' money in on the deal, though I 'll be darned if I know just what's become o' it. Yer see, stranger, Gene hed the inside o' this Injun business, bein' as he 's sorter squaw man—"

"What!" interrupted the other sharply. "Do you mean he married into one of the tribes?"

"Sorter left-handed—yep; a Cheyenne woman. Little thing like that did n't faze Gene none, if he did have a white wife—a blamed good-looker she was too. She was out here onc't, three years ago, 'bout a week maybe. Course she did n't know nothin' 'bout the squaw, an' the Injuns was all huntin' down in the Wichitas. But as I wus sayin', Gene caught on to this yere Injun war last spring—I reckon ol' Koleta, his Injun father-in-law, likely told him what wus brewin'—he's sorter a war-chief. Anyhow he knew thet hell wus to pay, an' so we natch'ally gathered up our long-horns an' drove 'em east whar they would n't be raided. We did n't git all the critters rounded up, as we wus in a hurry, an' they wus scattered some 'cause of a hard winter. So I come back yere to round up the rest o' ther bunch."

"And brand a few outsiders."

He grinned.

"Maybe I was n't over-particular, but anyhow I got a thousand head together by the last o' June, an' hit the trail with 'em. Then hell sure broke loose. 'Fore we 'd got that bunch o' cattle twenty mile down the Cimarron we wus rounded up by a gang o' Cheyenne Injuns, headed by that ornery Koleta, and every horn of 'em drove off. Thar wa'n't no fight; the damn bucks just laughed at us, an' left us sittin' thar out on the prairie. They hogged hosses an' all."

He wiped his face, and spat into the fire, while Hamlin sat silent, gun in hand.

"I reckon now as how Le Fevre put ol' Koleta wise to that game, but I was plum innocent then," he went on regretfully. "Wall, we,—thar wus four o' us,—hoofed it east till we struck some ranchers on Cow Crick, and got the loan o' some ponies. Then I struck out to locate the main herd. It didn't take me long, stranger, to discover thar wa'n't no herd to locate. But I struck their trail, whar Le Fevre had driven 'em up into Missouri and cashed in fer a pot o' money. Then the damn cuss just natch'ally vanished. I plugged 'bout fer two er three months hopin' ter ketch up with him, but I never did. I heerd tell o' him onc't or twice, an' caught on he was travellin' under 'nuther name—some durn French contraction—but thet's as much as I ever did find out. Finally, up in Independence I wus so durn near broke I reckoned I 'd better put what I hed left in a grub stake, an' drift back yere. I figgered thet maybe I could pick up some o' those Injun cattle again, and maybe some mavericks, an' so start 'nuther herd. Anyhow I could lie low fer a while, believin' Le Fevre wus sure ter come back soon as he thought the coast wus clear. I knew then he an' Koleta was in cahoots an' he 'd be headin' this way after the stock. So I come down yere quiet, an' laid fer him to show up."

"What then?"

"Nuthin' much, till yisterday. I got tergether some cows, herded down river a ways, out o' sight in the bluffs, but hev hed ter keep mighty quiet ter save my hair. Them Cheyennes are sure pisen this year, an' raisin' Cain. I never see 'em so rambunctious afore. But I hung on yere, hidin' out, cause I didn't hev nowhar else ter go. An' yisterday, just ahead o' the blizzard, a Kiowa buck drifted in yere. Slipped down the bluff, an' caught me 'fore ever I saw him. Never laid eyes on the red afore but he wus friendly 'nough, natch'ally mistakin' me fer one o' Le Fevre's herders. His name wus Black Smoke, an' he could n't talk no English worth mentionin', but we made out to understan' each other in Mex. He wus too darn hungry and tired to talk much anyhow. But I got what I wanted to know out o' him."

"Well, go on, Hughes; you are making a long story out of it."

"The rest is short 'nough. It seems he an' ol' Koleta, an' a young Cheyenne buck, had been hangin' 'round across the river from Dodge fer quite a while waitin' fer Le Fevre to pull off some sorter stunt. Maybe I did n't get just the straight o' it, but anyhow they held up a paymaster, er something like that, fer a big boodle. They expected to do it quiet like, hold the off'cer a day er so out in the desert, an' then turn him loose to howl. But them plans did n't just exactly work. The fellow's daughter was with him, when the pinch was made, an' they hed to take her 'long too. Then the officer man got ugly, an' had to be shot, an' Le Fevre quarrelled with the other white man in the outfit, an' killed him. That left the gal on their hands, an' them all in a hell of a fix if they wus ever caught. The young Injuns wanted to kill the gal too, an' shet her mouth, but somehow Le Fevre an' Koleta would n't hear to it—said she 'd be worth more alive than dead, an' that they could hide her whar she 'd never be heard of ag'in unless her friends put up money to buy her back."

Hamlin was leaning forward, watching the speaker intently, and it seemed to him his heart had stopped beating. This story had the semblance of truth; it was the truth. So Dupont and Le Fevre were one and the same. He could believe this now, could perceive the resemblance, although the man had grown older, taken on flesh, and disguised himself wonderfully by growing that black beard. Yet, at the moment, he scarcely considered the man at all; his whole interest concentrated on the fate of the unfortunate girl.

"Where were they taking her, Hughes—do you know?"

"Wa'n't but one place fer 'em to take her—the Cheyennes hev got winter camp down yonder on the Canadian—Black Kettle's outfit. Onc't thar, all hell could n't pry her loose."

"And Le Fevre dared go there? Among those hostiles?"

"Him!" Hughes laughed scornfully. "Why, he's hand in glove with the whole bunch. He's raided with 'em, decked out in feathers an' war-paint."

The Sergeant thought rapidly and leaped to a sudden conclusion.

"And you were trying to kill him when you shot us up?"

"Thet wus the idea, stranger; if I got a friend o' yourn, I 'm powerful sorry."



CHAPTER XXVIII

SNOWBOUND

The gleam in Hamlin's eyes impelled the other to go on, and explain fully.

"Lord, I know how yer feel, stranger, an', I reckon, if yer was to plug me right yere it would n't more 'n even matters up. But yer listen furst afore yer shoot. Thet Kiowa Black Smoke was sent on ahead, an' got yere afore the storm. He said them others wus 'bout four hours behind, an' headin' fer this yere cabin to make camp. They wa'n't hurryin' none, fer they did n't suspect they wus bein' tracked. Well, thet was my chance; what I 'd been campin' out yere months a-waitin' fer. I did n't expect ter git nuthin' back, y' understand; all I wanted was ter kill that damn skunk, an' squar accounts. It looked ter me then like I hed him on the hip. He did n't know I was in the kintry; all I hed to do was lay out in the hills, an' take a pot-shot at him afore he saw me."

"And get the girl and the money."

"As God is my witness, I never thought 'bout thet. I jest wanted ter plug him. I know it sounds sorter cowardly, but that fellow 's a gun-fighter, an' he hed two Injuns with him. Anyhow that wus my notion, an' as soon as Black Smoke went lopin' up the valley, I loaded up, an' climbed them bluffs, to whar I hed a good look-out erlong the north trail. I laid out thar all night. The storm come up, an' I mighty nigh froze, but snuggled down inter ther snow an' stuck. When yer onc't get a killin' freak on, yer goin' through hell an' high water ter get yer man. Thet's how I felt. Well, just 'long 'bout daylight an outfit showed up. With my eyes half froze over, an' ther storm blowin' the snow in my face, I could n't see much—nuthin' but outlines o' hosses an' men. But thar was four o' 'em, an' a big fellow ahead breakin' trail. Course I thought it was Le Fevre; I wa'n't lookin' fer no one else, an' soon as I dared, I let drive. He flopped over dead as a door nail, an' then I popped away a couple o' times at the others. One fell down, an' I thought I got him, but did n't wait to make sure; just turned and hoofed it fer cover, knowin' the storm would hide my trail. I 'd got the man I went after, an' just natch'ally did n't give er whoop what become o' the rest. As I went down the bank I heard 'em shootin' so I knowed some wus alive yet an' it would be better fer me to crawl inter my hole an' lie still."

Hamlin sat motionless, staring at the man, not quite able to comprehend his character. Killing was part of the western code, and he could appreciate Hughes' eagerness for revenge, but the underlying cowardice in the man was almost bewildering. Finally he got up, swept the revolver on the bench into his pocket, walked over, and picked up the gun.

"Now, Hughes," he said quietly. "I'll talk, and you listen. In my judgment you are a miserable sneaking cur, and I am going to trust you just so far as I can watch you. I suppose I ought to shoot you where you are, and have done with it. You killed one of the best men who ever lived, a friend of mine, Sam Wasson—"

"Who?"

"Sam Wasson, a government scout."

Hughes dropped his face into his hands.

"Good Lord! I knew him!"

The Sergeant drew a deep breath, and into his face there came a look almost of sympathy.

"Then you begin to realize the sort of fool you are," he went on soberly. "They don't make better men out here; his little finger was worth more than your whole body. But killing you won't bring Sam back, and besides I reckon you 've told me the straight story, an' his shooting was an accident in a way. Then you 're more useful to me just now alive than you would be dead. My name is Hamlin, sergeant Seventh Cavalry, and I am here after that man Le Fevre. We trailed his outfit from Dodge until the storm struck us, and then came straight through travelling by compass. I did not know the man's name was Le Fevre until you told me; up in Kansas he is known as Dupont."

"That 's it; that's the name he took when he sold the cattle."

"The officer robbed and killed was Major McDonald, and it is his daughter they hold. The fellow Dupont quarrelled with and shot was a deserter named Connors. We found the body. Now where do you suppose Le Fevre is?"

Hughes stared into the fire, nervously pulling his beard.

"Wall, I 'd say in west yere somewhar along the Cimarron. 'T ain't likely he had a compass, an' the wind wus from the nor'east. Best they could do, the ponies would drift. The Injuns would keep the gineral direction, o' course, storm 'er no storm, an' Gene is some plainsman himself, but thet blizzard would sheer 'em off all the same. I reckon they 're under the banks ten mile, er more, up thar. An' soon as there 's a change in weather, they 'll ride fer Black Kettle's camp. Thet's my guess, mister."

Hamlin turned the situation over deliberately in his mind, satisfied that Hughes had reviewed the possibilities correctly. If Le Fevre's party had got through at all, then that was the most likely spot for them to be hiding in. They would have drifted beyond doubt, farther than Hughes supposed, probably, as he had been sheltered from the real violence of the wind as it raged on the open plain. They might be fifteen, even twenty miles away, and so completely drifted in as to be undiscoverable except through accident. What course then was best to pursue? The storm was likely to continue violent for a day, perhaps two days longer. His horses were exhausted, and Carroll helpless. It might not even be safe to leave the latter alone. Yet if the frozen man could be left in the hut to take care of himself and the ponies, would there be any hope of success in an effort to proceed up the river on foot? He could make Hughes go—that was n't the difficulty—but probably they could n't cover five miles a day through the snowdrifts. And, even if they did succeed in getting through in time to intercept the fugitives, the others would possess every advantage—both position for defense, and horses on which to escape. Hughes, lighting his pipe, confident now in his own mind that he was personally safe, seemed to sense the problem troubling the Sergeant.

"I reckon I know this yere kintry well 'nough," he said lazily, "ter give yer a pointer er two. I 've rounded up long-horns west o' yere. Them fellers ain't goin' to strike out fer the Canadian till after the storm quits. By thet time yer ponies is rested up in better shape than theirs will be, and we kin strike 'cross to the sou'west. We 're bound either to hit 'em, or ride 'cross thar trail."

"But the woman!" protested Hamlin, striding across the floor. "What may happen to her in the meanwhile? She is an Eastern girl, unaccustomed to this life,—a—a lady."

"Yer don't need worry none 'bout thet. Ef she 's the right kind she 'll stan' more 'n a man when she has to. I reckon it won't be none too pleasant 'long with Gene an' them Cheyenne bucks, but if she 's pulled through so far, thar ain't nuthin' special goin' ter happen till they git to the Injun camp."

"You mean her fate will be decided in council?"

"Sure; thet's Cheyenne law. Le Fevre knows it, an' ol' Koleta would knife him in a minute if he got gay. He's a devil all right—thet ol' buck—but he 's afraid of Black Kettle, an' thar won't be no harm done to the gal."

The Sergeant walked over to the fire, and stared down into the red embers, striving to control himself. He realized the truth of all Hughes said, and yet had to fight fiercely his inclination to hasten to her rescue. The very thought of her alone in those ruthless hands was torture. There was no selfishness in the man's heart, no hope of winning this girl for himself, yet he knew now that he loved her; that for him she was the one woman in all the world. Her face was in his memory; the very soughing of the wind seemed her voice calling him. But the real man in him—the plainsman instinct—conquered the impetuosity of the lover. There must be no mistake made—no rash, hopeless effort. Better delay, than ultimate failure, and Hughes' plan was the more practical way. He lifted his head, his lips set with decision.

"You're right, old man. We'll wait," he said sternly. "Now to get ready. Have you a corral?"

The other made a gesture with his hand.

"Twenty rod b'low, under the bluff."

"We 'll drive the horses down, feed and water them. But first come with me; there is a half-frozen man up yonder."

They ploughed through the snow together, choking and coughing in the thick swirl of flakes that beat against their faces. The three horses, powdered white, stood tails to the storm, with heads to the bluff, while the drifts completely covered Carroll. He was sleeping, warm in the blankets, and the two men picked him up and stumbled along with their burden to the shelter of the cabin. Then Hughes faced the blizzard again, leading the horses to the corral, while Hamlin ministered to the semi-conscious soldier, laying him out upon a pile of soft skins, and vigorously rubbing his limbs to restore circulation. The man was stupid from exposure, and in some pain, but exhibited no dangerous symptoms. When wrapped again in his blankets, he fell instantly asleep. Hughes returned, mantled with snow, and, as the door opened, the howl of the storm swept by.

"No better outside?"

"Lord, no! Worse, if anything. Wind more east, sweepin' the snow up the valley. We 'll be plum shet up in an hour, I reckon. Hosses all right, though."

In the silence they could hear the fierce beating against the door, the shrieking of the storm-fiend encompassing them about.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE CHASE

Hamlin never forgot those two days and nights of waiting, while the storm roared without and the clouds of drifting snow made any dream of advance impossible. Trained as he was to patience, the delay left marks in his face, and his nerves throbbed with pain. His mind was with her constantly, even in moments of uneasy sleep, picturing her condition unsheltered from the storm, and protected only by Le Fevre and his two Indian allies. If he could only reach them, only strike a blow for her release, it would be such a relief. The uncertainty weighed upon him, giving unrestricted play to the imagination, and, incidentally awakening a love for the girl so overwhelming as almost to frighten him. He had fought this feeling heretofore, sternly, deliberately, satisfied that such ambition was hopeless. He would not attempt to lower her to his level, nor give her the unhappiness of knowing that he dared misconstrue her frank friendliness into aught more tender. But these misfortunes had changed the entire outlook. Now he flung all pretence aside, eager to place his life on the altar to save her. Even a dim flame of hope began blazing in his heart—hope that he might yet wring from Le Fevre a confession that would clear his name. He knew his man at last—knew him, and would track him now with all the pitiless ingenuity of a savage. Once he could stand erect, absolved of disgrace, a man again among men, he would ignore the uniform of the ranks, and go to her with all the pride of his race. Ay! and down in his heart he knew that she would welcome his coming; that her eyes would not look at the uniform, but down into the depths of his own.

He thought of it all as he paced the floor, or stared into the fire, while outside the wind raged and howled, piling the snow against the cabin front, and whirling in mad bursts up the valley. It would be death to face the fury of it on those open plains. There was nothing left him but to swear, and pace back and forth. Twice he and Hughes fought their way to the corral, found the horses sheltered in a little cove, and brought them food and water. The struggle to accomplish this was sufficient proof of the impossibility of going farther. Exhausted and breathless they staggered back into the quietness of the cabin, feeling as though they had been beaten by clubs. Once, desperate to attempt something, Hamlin suggested searching for the bodies of Wasson and Wade, but Hughes shook his head, staring at the other as though half believing him demented. The Sergeant strode to the door and looked out into the smother of snow; then came back without a word of protest.

Carroll improved steadily, complaining of pain where the frost had nipped exposed flesh, yet able to sit up, and eat heartily. There remained a numbness in his feet and legs, however, which prevented his standing alone, and both the others realized that he would have to be left behind when the storm abated. Hughes would go without doubt; on this point the Sergeant was determined. He did not altogether like or trust the man; he could not blot from memory the cowardly shot which had killed Wasson, nor entirely rid himself of a fear that he, himself, had failed an old comrade, in not revenging his death; yet one thing was clear—the man's hatred for Le Fevre made him valuable. Treacherous as he might be by nature, now his whole soul was bent on revenge. Moreover he knew the lay of the land, the trail the fugitives would follow, and to some extent Black Kettle's camp. Little by little Hamlin drew from him every detail of Le Fevre's life in the cattle country, becoming more and more convinced that both men were thieves, their herds largely stolen through connivance with Indians. Undoubtedly Le Fevre was the bigger rascal of the two, and possessed greater influence because of his marriage into the tribe.

It was the second midnight when the wind died down. Hamlin, sleeping fitfully, seemed to sense the change; he rose, forced the door open, and peered out eagerly. There was lightness to the sky, and all about, the unbroken expanse of snow sparkled in cold crystals. Nothing broke the white desolation but the dark waters of the river still unfrozen, and the gaunt limbs of the cottonwoods, now standing naked and motionless. The silence was profound, seeming almost painful after the wild fury of the past days. He could hear the soft purr of the water, and Carroll's heavy breathing. And it was cold, bitterly cold, the chill of it penetrating to his very bones. But for that he had no care—his mind had absorbed the one important fact; the way was open, they could go. He shook Hughes roughly into wakefulness, giving utterance to sharp, tense orders, as though he dealt with a man of his own troop.

"Turn out—lively, now. Yes, the storm is over. It's midnight, or a little after, and growing cold. Put on your heavy stuff, and bring up the two best horses. Come, now; you 'll step off quicker than that, Hughes, if you ride with me. I 'll have everything ready by the time you get here. Eat! Hell! We 'll eat in the saddle! What's that, Carroll?'

"Ye ain't a-goin' to leave me yere alone, are ye, Sergeant?"

"No; there 'll be two horses to keep you company. You've got a snap, man; plenty to eat, and a good fire—what more do you want—a nurse? Hughes, what, in the name of Heaven, are you standing there for? Perhaps you would like to have me stir you up. I will if those horses are not here in ten minutes."

The cowman, muffled to the ears in a buffalo coat, plunged profanely into the drift, slamming the door behind him. Hamlin hastily glanced over the few articles piled in readiness on the bench—ammunition, blankets, food—paying no heed to Carroll's muttering of discontent. By the time Hughes returned, he had everything strapped for the saddles. He thrust the cowman's rifle under his own flap, but handed the latter a revolver, staring straight into his eyes as he did so.

"I reckon you and I have got enough in common in this chase to play square," he said grimly. "We 're both out after Le Fevre, ain't we?"

"You bet."

"All right, then; here 's your gun. If you try any trickery, Hughes, I 'd advise that you get me the first shot, for if you miss you 'll never have another."

The man drew the sleeve of his coat over his lips, his eyes shifting before the Sergeant's steady gaze.

"I ain't thet sort," he muttered uneasily. "Yer don't need to think thet o' me."

"Maybe not," and Hamlin swung into the saddle carelessly. "Only I thought I 'd tell you beforehand what would happen if you attempt any fool gun-play. Take the lead, you know the trail."

Carroll, supporting himself by the table, crept across to the door and watched them, reckless as to the entering cold. The glare of the white snow revealed clearly the outlines of the disappearing horsemen, as they rode cautiously down the bank. The thin fringe of shore ice broke under the weight of the ponies' hoofs, as the riders forced them forward into the icy water. A moment later the two crept up the sharp incline of the opposite shore, appearing distinct against the sky as they attained the summit. Hamlin waved his hand, and then, on a lope, the figures vanished into the gloom. Crying, and swearing at his helplessness, the deserted soldier closed the door, and crept back shivering into his blankets.

Hughes turned his horse's head to the southwest, and rode steadily forward, the buffalo overcoat giving him a shaggy, grotesque appearance in the spectral light reflected from the snow. Without a word Hamlin followed, a pace behind. Their route lay for the first few miles across a comparatively level plateau, over which the fierce wind of the late storm had swept with such violence as to leave the surface packed firm. The night shut them in silently, giving to their immediate surroundings a mournful loneliness most depressing. There were no shadows, only the dull snow-gleam across which they passed like spectres, the only sound the crunching of their horses' hoofs on the crust. The Sergeant, staring about, felt that he had never looked upon a more depressing spectacle than this gloomy landscape, desolate and wind-swept, still over-arched with low-lying storm clouds, black and ominous.

They advanced thus for two hours, making no attempt to force their animals, and scarcely exchanging a word, both men watchful of the snow underfoot in search of a possible trail, when the character of the country began to change. The level plain broke into a series of ridges of irregular formation, all evidently heading toward some more southern valley. In the depressions the snow lay banked in deep drifts, and, after plunging desperately through two of these, unable to judge correctly in the dim light where to ride, Hughes turned more to the south, skirting along the bare slope of a ridge, trusting some turn lower down would yield them the necessary westerning.

"It's over the ponies' heads down thar, Sergeant," he said, pointing sideways into the dark hollow, "an' we 're bound to strike a cross-ridge afore we come to the bluffs."

"What bluffs? The Canadian?"

"Yep; it 's badly broken kintry a long ways west o' yere. Bad lands, mostly, an' a hell o' a place for cattle to hide out."

"Hughes, do you know where Black Kettle's camp is?"

"Well, no, not exactly. Las' winter the Cheyennes was settled 'bout opposite the mouth o' Buffalo Creek, an' thar 're down thar somewhar now. Thar 's one thing sure—they ain't any east o' thet. As we ain't hit no trail, I reckon as how Le Fevre's outfit must hev drifted further then I calc'lated."

"I thought so at the time," commented the other quietly. "However, we will have to make the circle, and, if the country out yonder is as you describe, they will be no better off. They 'll have to follow the ridges to get through. We may get a glimpse when daylight comes."

They rode on steadily, keeping down below the crest of the hills, yet picking a passage where the snow had been swept clear. The slipperiness of the incline made their progress slow, as they dared not risk the breaking of a horse's leg in that wilderness, and the faint light glimmer was most confusing. The wind had ceased, the calm was impressive after the wild tumult, but the cold seemed to strengthen as the dawn advanced, viciously biting the exposed faces of the men. The straining ponies were white with frost. In the gray of a cheerless dawn they reached the first line of bluffs, and drew rein just below the summit, where they could look on across the lower ridges to the westward.

It was a wild, desolate scene, the dull gray sky overhead, the black and white shading below. Mile on mile the picture unrolled to the horizon, the vista widening slowly as the light increased, bringing forth the details of barren, wind-swept ridges and shallow valleys choked with snow. Not a tree, not a shrub, not even a rock broke the dead monotony. All was loneliness and silence. The snow lay gleaming and untrampled, except as here and there a dull brown patch of dead grass darkened the side of a hill. Hamlin shadowed his eyes with gloved hands, studying intently inch by inch the wide domain. Suddenly he arose in his stirrups, bending eagerly forward.

"By heaven! There they are, Hughes," he exclaimed, feeling the hot blood course through his veins. "See, on the incline of that third ridge. There is a shadow there, and they are not moving. Here; draw in back of me; now you can see. It looks as though they had a horse down."

Hughes stared long in the direction indicated, his eyes narrowed into mere slits.

"Ah! that's it," he said at last. "Horse broke a leg; shot it jest then—I seen the flash. Now they 're goin' on. See! One fellow climbin' up behind 'nother, an' the horse left lyin' thar on the snow."

"How many people do you make out?" and Hamlin's voice shook a little. "There's four, ain't there?"

At that distance the fugitives looked like mere black dots. It could scarcely be determined that they moved, and yet their outlines were distinct against the background of white snow, while the two watchers possessed the trained vision of the plains. Hughes answered after a deliberate inspection, without so much as turning his head.

"Thar's four; leastwise thar was four hosses, and two—the Injuns likely—are ridin' double. Thar animals are 'bout played, it looks ter me—just able ter crawl. Ain't had no fodder is 'bout the size o' it. We ought to be able ter head thet bunch off 'fore they git to the Canadian at thet rate o' travel—hey, Sergeant?"

Hamlin's eyes followed the long sweep of the cross-ridge, studying its trend, and the direction of the intervening valleys. Once down on the other slope all this extensive view would be hidden; they would have to ride blindly, guessing at the particular swale along which those others were advancing. To come to the summit again would surely expose them to those keen Indian eyes. They would be searching the trail ahead ceaselessly, noting every object along the crests of the ridges. However, if the passage around was not blocked with snow, they ought to attain the junction in ample time. With twice as far to travel, their ponies were strong and fit, and should win out against Le Fevre's starved beasts. He waved his gloved hand.

"We 'll try it," he said shortly; "come on, Hughes."

He led off along the steep side of the hill, and forcing his horse into a sharp trot, headed straight out into the white wilderness; Hughes, without uttering a word, brought down his quirt on his pony's flank and followed.



CHAPTER XXX

THE FIGHT IN THE SNOW

The slope toward the south had not been swept clear by the wind, and the horses broke through the crust to their knees, occasionally stumbling into hollows where the drifts were deep. This made progress slow, although Hamlin pressed forward recklessly, fully aware of what it would mean should the fugitives emerge first, and thus achieve a clear passage to the river. What was going on there to the right, behind the fringe of low hills, could not be conjectured, but to the left the riders could see clearly for a great distance over the desolate, snow-draped land, down to the dark waters of the Canadian and the shore beyond. It was all a deserted waste, barren of movement, and no smoke bore evidence of any Indian encampment near by. A mile or more to the west the river took a sharp bend, disappearing behind the bluffs, and on the open plain, barely visible against the unsullied mantle of snow, were dark specks, apparently moving, but in erratic fashion. The distance intervening was too great for either man to distinguish exactly what these might be, yet as they plunged onward their keen eyes searched the valley vigilantly through the cold clear air.

"Some of your long-horns, Hughes?" asked the Sergeant finally, pointing as he turned and glanced back. "Quite a bunch of cattle, it looks to me."

"Them thar ain't cows," returned the other positively. "Tha 're too closely bunched up. I reckon it 'll be Black Kettle's pony herd."

"Then his village will lie in beyond the big bend there," and Hamlin rose in his stirrups, shading his eyes. "The herders have n't driven them far since the storm broke. You don't see any smoke, do you?"

Hughes shook his head.

"You would n't likely see none against thet gray sky; them ponies is two er maybe three miles off, an' ther camp is likely a mile er so further. Thar 's a big bend thar, as I remember; a sort o' level spot with bluff all 'round, 'cept on the side o' ther river. We hed a cattle corral thar onc't, durin' a round-up. Most likely that's whar they are."

"And Le Fevre is heading straight for the spot. Well, he 'll have to come out on this bench first."

"Yep, there sure ain't no valleys lying between. How many o' these yere gulch openings have we got past already?"

"Three; there 's the fourth just ahead. That's the one they were trailing through. No doubt about that, is there?"

"Not 'less them Injuns took to the ridge. They wus sure in the fourth valley when we fust sighted the outfit back thar. Whatcher goin' ter do, Sergeant? Jump 'em a hoss-back, an' just pump lead?"

Hamlin had thought this over as he rode and already had planned his attack. The opening to the valley, along which Le Fevre's exhausted party were slowly advancing toward them, seemed favorable—it was narrow and badly choked with snow. It offered an ideal place for a surprise and was far enough away from the Indian encampment—if the latter was situated as Hughes believed, in the great bend above—so that no echo of shots would carry that distance, even through the crisp atmosphere. There were two things the Sergeant had determined to accomplish if possible—the rescue of Miss Molly uninjured, and the capture of Le Fevre. No matter how deeply he despised the man he could not afford to have him killed. So far as the Indians were concerned there would be no mercy shown, for if either one escaped he would carry the news to the village. With all this in his mind the Sergeant swung out of the saddle, dropping the rein to the ground, confident that the tired cow-pony would remain quiet. His belt was buckled outside the army overcoat, and he drew his revolver, tested it, and slipped it back loosely into the holster. Then he pulled out the rifle from under the flap of the saddle, grimly handling it in his gloved fingers. Hughes, his head sunk into his fur collar, his hot breath steaming in the cold atmosphere, watched him curiously.

"Lookin' fer a right smart fight, I reckon," he said, a trifle uneasily. "Believe me, yer ain't goin' ter find thet fellar no spring chicken. He 's some on ther gun play."

"I hope he knows enough to quit when he 's cornered," returned the other pleasantly, sweeping his eyes to the opening in the hills, "for I 'm aiming to take him back to Kansas alive."

"The hell ye are!"

"That 's the plan, pardner, and I 've got reason for it. I knew Le Fevre once, years ago, during the war, and I 've been some anxious to get my hands on him ever since. He 's worth far more to me alive than dead, just now, and, Hughes," his voice hardening, "you 'll bear that fact in mind when the fracas begins. From now on this is my affair, not yours. You understand? You get busy with the two bucks, and leave the white man to me. Come on now,—dismount."

Hughes came to the ground with evident reluctance, swearing savagely.

"What do yer think I 'm yere for," he demanded roughly, "if it wa'n't to shoot that cuss?"

Hamlin strode swiftly over, and dropped a hand on the shaggy shoulder.

"You are here because I ordered you to come with me; because if you hadn't I would have killed you back there in the shack, you red-handed murderer. Now listen, Hughes. I know what you are—a cattle thief. You and Le Fevre belong to the same outfit, only he was the smarter of the two. I have spared your life for a purpose, and if you fail me now I 'll shoot you down as I would a dog. Don't try to threaten me, you cur, for I am not that kind. I am not trusting you; I have n't from the first, but you are going into this fight on my side, and under my orders."

The two men glared into each other's eyes, silent, breathing hard, but there was a grim determination about the Sergeant's set jaw that left Hughes speechless. He grinned weakly, stamping down the snow under foot. Hamlin's continued silence brought a protest to his lips.

"Damn if I know why you say that," he began. "Haven't I been square?"

"Because I know your style, Hughes. You hate Le Fevre for the dirty trick he played on you, but you 'd sell out to him again in five minutes if you thought there was any money in it. I don't propose giving you the chance. You 'll go ahead, and you are in more danger from me than that outfit yonder. Now move, and we 'll take a look up the valley."

They ploughed a way through the drifts to the mouth of the narrow opening between the hills, dropping to their knees in the snow, and cautiously creeping forward the last few yards. Hamlin, convinced that fear alone could control the ex-cowthief, kept slightly to the rear.

"Now wait, Hughes," he said, his voice lowered but still tense with command. "Be careful, man. Crawl up there in between those drifts, and look over. Keep down low, you fool."

The two men wriggled slowly forward, smothered in the snowdrift, until Hughes' eyes barely topped the surface. Hamlin lay outstretched a foot below, watchful for the slightest sign of treachery. The cowman stared up the depression, blinking his eyes in the snow glare. The impatient Sergeant gripped his arm.

"Well, what is it? Are they coming?"

"You bet, an' about dead, from the looks of 'em. Them fellars ain't lookin' fer nuthin'. I reckon I could stand up straight yere an' they 'd never see me. Take a look yerself; it's safe 'nough."

Hamlin drew himself up, and peered out over the snow, but still gripped the other's arm. With his first glance up the valley there swept over him a strange feeling of sympathy for those he was hunting. It was a dismal, depressing picture—the bare, snow-covered hillsides, and between, floundering weakly through the drifts, the little party of fugitives, the emaciated ponies staggering with weakness, the men on foot, reeling as they tramped forward, their heads lowered in utter weariness. The girl alone was in saddle, so wrapped about in blankets as to be formless, even her face concealed. The manner in which she swayed to the movements of the pony, urged on by one of the Indians, was evidence that she was bound fast, and helpless. At sight of her condition Hamlin felt his old relentless purpose return. He was plainsman enough to realize what suffering those men had passed through before reaching such extremity, and was quick to appreciate the full meaning of their exhaustion, and to sympathize with it. He had passed through a similar baptism, and remembered the desperate clutch of the storm-king.

But the sight of that poor girl swaying helplessly in the saddle, a bound prisoner in the midst of those ruffians, who had murdered her father before her eyes and who were bearing her to all the unspeakable horrors of Indian captivity, instantly stifled within him every plea of mercy. No matter what they had suffered, they were a ruthless, merciless gang of cut-throats and thieves, fleeing from justice, deserving of no consideration. Yet their distressed appearance, their lack of vigilance, rendered him careless. They seemed too weak to resist, too exhausted to fight; the cold plucking at their hearts had seemingly already conquered. It was this impression which caused him to act recklessly, rising to his feet, rifle in hand, directly in their track, halting their advance with stern command.

"Hands up! Quick now, the three of you! Don't wait, Dupont; I 've got the drop!"

The white man was in front, a huge, shapeless figure in his furs, his black beard frosted oddly. He stood motionless, astounded at this strange apparition in blue cavalry overcoat, which had sprung up so suddenly in that wilderness. For an instant he must have deemed the vision confronting him some illusion of the desert, for he never stirred except to rub a gloved hand across his eyes.

"By all the gods, Dupont," roared the Sergeant impatiently, "do you want me to shoot? Damn you, throw up your hands!"

Slowly, as though his mind was still in a dream, the man's hands were lifted above his head, one grasping a short, sawed-off gun. The expression upon his face was ugly, as he began to dimly understand what this unexpected hold-up meant. There followed an instant of silence, in which Hamlin, forgetful of Hughes, who still remained lying quiet in the snow, took a step or two forward, rifle at shoulder. The two Indians, swathed in blankets, but with arms upraised, were in direct line, motionless as statues. He could see the gleam of their dark eyes, and even noticed the figure of the girl straighten in the saddle.

Dupont gave fierce utterance to an oath. Apparently he failed to recognize the soldier, but as Hughes rose to his knees, suspicion leaped instantly to his brain.

"A hold-up, hey!" he said coolly. "Hughes, you sneaking old coward, come out into the open once. What is it you want?"

"Nothing to that, Dupont," returned the Sergeant, glancing back questioningly toward his companion. "Your old partner is here under my orders. I am Sergeant Hamlin, Seventh Cavalry. Throw down that gun!"

"What! You—"

"Yes, you are my prisoner, I 've followed you from Dodge. Throw down the gun!"

It was dropped sullenly into the snow.

"Now, Hughes, go ahead, and disarm those Indians."

The cowman shuffled forward, revolver in hand, circling to keep safely beyond reach of Dupont, who eyed him maliciously. The latter was so buttoned up in a buffalo coat as to make it impossible for him to reach a weapon, and Hamlin permitted his eyes to waver slightly, as he watched the Indians. What occurred the next instant came so suddenly as scarcely to leave an impression. It was swift, instinctive action, primitive impulse. An Indian hand fell beneath its blanket covering; there was a flash of flame across a pony's saddle; Hughes sprang backward, and went reeling into the snow. Hamlin fired, as the savage dodged between the horse's legs, sending him sprawling, and, ignoring the other Indian, swung about to cover Dupont. Swift as he moved, he was too late. With one desperate spring backward the white man was behind the woman's pony, sheltered by her shapeless figure, gripping the animal's bit. The second Indian dropped to his knees and opened fire. With a sudden lurch forward the Sergeant plunged headlong in the snow.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE GIRL AND THE MAN

As he went down, uninjured, but realizing now that this was to be a battle to the death, Hamlin flung open his coat, and gripped his revolver. Lying there on his face he fired twice, deliberately, choosing the exposed Indian as a target. The latter, striving to mount his frightened pony, fell forward, grasping the mane desperately, a stream of blood dyeing his blanket as the animal dashed across the valley. Dupont had whirled the girl's horse to the left, and, with her body as a shield, was attempting to escape. Already he was too far away to make a revolver shot safe. Hamlin arose to his knees, and picked up the dropped rifle. His lips were pressed tight; his eyes full of grim determination. Why didn't Dupont fire? Could it be he was unarmed? Or was he hoping by delay to gain a closer shot? Keen-eyed, resolute, the Sergeant determined to take no chances. The rifle came to a level,—a spurt of flame, a sharp report, and the pony staggered to its knees, and sank, bearing its helpless burden with it. Dupont let go his grip on the rein, and stood upright, clearly outlined against the white hillside, staring back toward the kneeling Sergeant, the faint smoke cloud whirling between.

"All right—damn you!—you've got me!" he said sullenly.

Hamlin never moved, except to snap out the emptied cartridge.

"Unbutton that coat," he commanded tersely. "Now turn around. No shooting iron, hey! That's rather careless of a gun-man."

He dropped his rifle, and strode forward revolver in hand, glancing curiously at the dead Indian as he passed. A riata hung to the pommel of a saddle, and he paused to shake it loose, uncoiling the thin rope, but with watchful eyes constantly on his prisoner. He felt no fear of Dupont, now that he knew the fellow to be unarmed, and the wounded Indian had vanished over the ridge. Yet Dupont was a powerful man, and desperate enough to accept any chance. Something in the sullen, glowering face confronting him awoke the Sergeant to caution. He seemed to sense the plan of the other, and stopped suddenly, slipping the rope through his fingers.

He swung the coil about his head, measuring the distance, every faculty concentrated on the toss. He had forgotten Hughes lying in the snow behind; he neither saw nor heard the fellow scramble weakly to his knees, revolver outstretched in a half-frozen hand. And Hughes, his eyes already glazing in death, saw only the two figures. In that moment hate triumphed over cowardice; he could not distinguish which was Dupont, which Hamlin. In the madness of despair he cared little—only he would kill some one before he died. His weapon wavered frantically as he sought to aim, the man holding himself up by one hand. Dupont, facing that way, saw this apparition, and leaped aside, stumbling over the dead pony. Hughes' weapon belched, and Hamlin, the lasso whirling above him in the air, pitched forward, and came crashing down into the snow.

It was all the work of an instant, a wild, confused bit, so rapidly enacted as to seem unreal even to the participants. Hamlin lay motionless, barely conscious of living, yet unable to stir a muscle. Hughes, screaming out one oath, sank back into a heap, his frozen fingers still gripping his smoking weapon. Then Dupont rose cautiously to his knees, peering forth across the dead body of the pony. The man was unnerved, unable at first to comprehend what had occurred. He was saved as by a miracle, and his great form shook from head to foot. Then, as his eyes rested on the outstretched body of the Sergeant, hate conquered every other feeling; he staggered to his feet, picked up the gun lying in the snow, walked across, and brutally kicked the prostrate form. There was no response, no movement.

"All I wish is that I 'd been the one to kill yer," he growled savagely, grinning down. "Hell of a good shot, though I reckon the blame fool meant it for me." He threw the rifle forward, in readiness, and moved cautiously over toward Hughes.

"Deader than a door-nail," he muttered, pressing back the buffalo coat, and staring contemptuously down into the white, staring face. "I wonder how that coward ever happened to be here—laying out for me, I reckon!"

He straightened up and laughed, glancing furtively about.

"Some good joke that. The whole outfit cleaned out, and me twenty thousand to the good," feeling inside his coat to make sure. "It 's there all right. Well, good-bye, boys, there don't seem to be nothing here for me to stay for."

He caught the straying pony and swung up into the saddle, glanced about once more at the motionless figures, and finally rode off up the ridge, unconsciously following the tracks left by the fleeing Indian. If the girl ever occurred to him, he gave no sign of remembrance, and she uttered no word. Lying on her side, her eyes wide open, she watched him ride away, across the barren space, until the slow-moving pony topped the ridge, and disappeared on the other side. Twice the man turned and glanced back into the valley, but saw nothing except the black blotches on the snow. Molly made no motion, no outcry. She preferred death there alone, rather than rescue at his hands. Scarcely conscious, feeling no strength in her limbs, no hope pulsing at her heart, she closed her eyes and lay still. Yet wrapped about as she was, her young body remained warm, and the very disappearance of Dupont yielded a sense of freedom, awoke a strong desire to live. Her eyes opened again, despairingly, and gazed across the barren expanse. She could see Hamlin lying face downward, the yellow lining of his cavalry cape over his head. It seemed to her the man's foot moved. Could she be dreaming? No! He actually drew up one limb.

This evidence that the Sergeant still lived gave her fresh strength and renewed determination. She struggled to move her own feet; the left was free, but the right was caught firmly beneath the pony. She struggled desperately, forgetful of pain, in the faith that she might save Hamlin. Little by little she worked the imprisoned limb free, only to find it numb and helpless. She lay there breathless, conscious that she ached from head to foot. Beyond her the Sergeant groaned and turned partially over upon his side. Tugging at the blanket she managed to free one arm, gripped the mane of the dead pony, and drew herself into a sitting posture. Now the blood seemed to surge through her veins in new volume, and she labored feverishly to release the other hand. At last she undid a knot with her teeth, and slipped the blanket from her, beating her hands together to restore circulation. Her right leg still was too numb to stand upon, but she crept forward, dragging it helplessly behind her over the snow, to where Hamlin lay.

The girl's heart seemed to stop beating as she looked at him—at the white, colorless face, the closed eyes, the discoloration of blood staining the temple. Yet he lived; his faint breath was plainly perceptible in the frosty air.

"O God!" she sobbed, "what can I do!"

It was an unrestrained cry of anguish, yet there was no hesitation in action. She had forgotten everything except that helpless figure lying before her on the snow—her own danger, the surrounding desolation, the dead forms accentuating that wilderness tragedy. With bare hands she bathed his face in snow, rubbing the flesh until it flushed red, pressing her own warm body against his, her lips speaking his name again and again, almost hysterically, as though she hoped thus to call him back to consciousness. Her exploring fingers told her that it was no serious wound which had creased the side of his head; if there was no other he would surely revive, and the discovery sent her blood throbbing through her veins. She lifted his head to her lap, chafing his cold wrists frantically, her eyes staring again out across the barren snow fields, with fresh realization of their intense loneliness. She choked back a sob of despair, and glanced down again into Hamlin's face. He did not stir but his eyes were open, regarding her in bewilderment.

"Molly," he whispered, forgetting, "is this really you? What has happened?"

The girl's eyes filled instantly with tears, but she did not move, except that the clasp of her hands grew stronger.

"Yes, I am Molly; please do not move yet. You have been hurt, but it is all right now."

"Hurt!" he lifted his head slightly and stared about; then dropped it again with a sigh of content. "Oh, yes, now I know. Hughes shot me from behind." He struggled upright, in spite of her efforts at restraint, feeling beside him for the rifle. "Dupont was there, behind that dead pony. What became of Dupont?"

She dropped her face in her hands, her form trembling.

"He—he got away. He thought you were dead; to—to make sure he came over and kicked you. Then he took your rifle, and the only pony left, and rode off."

"And left you?"

"Yes—he—he never thought of me; only—only how he should escape with the money. I never moved, never opened my eyes; perhaps he believed me dead also, and—and I prayed he would. I would rather have died than have him touch me again. And—and I thought you were dead too. O God! It was so horrible!"

The man's voice was soft and low, thrilling with the love that refused control.

"I know, dear; I know it all, now," he said tenderly, clasping her hands. "But that is all over and gone." He put up one hand to his wound. "Heavens, how my head aches! But that pain won't last long. I am a bit groggy yet, but will be on my feet pretty soon. You are a brave little girl. Tell me how you got free?"

She went over the short story slowly, not lifting her eyes to his, and he listened in silence, moving his limbs about, confident of the gradual return of strength.

"But how did it happen?" he asked. "Your capture? Your father's death? It is all a mystery to me after I left you on the hotel balcony."

The tears stood in her eyes suddenly uplifted to his, and impulsively the man encircled her with his arm.

"You know I care, dear," he exclaimed recklessly. "You are not afraid to tell me."

"No, no; you have been so kind, so true. I can tell you everything—only it is so hard to confess the truth about my father."

"You suspect he was implicated?" he asked in astonishment, "that he actually had a part in the plot?"

She looked at him gravely, down into his very soul.

"Yes, and—and that hurts more than all the rest."



CHAPTER XXXII

WORDS OF LOVE

Hamlin was silent for a moment, not knowing what to say that would comfort or help. He had never suspected this, and yet he could not refrain altogether from experiencing a feeling of relief. Deeply as he sympathized with her in this trouble, still the man could not but be conscious of those barriers formerly existing between them which this discovery had instantly swept away. Now they could meet upon a level, as man and woman. No longer could rank intervene; not even the stain of his own court-martial. Possibly she dreamed of what was passing in his mind, for she suddenly lifted her eyes to his.

"Shall I tell you?"

"No; not now; both your explanation and mine can wait," he replied quickly. "I can stand alone now—see," and he regained his feet, swaying slightly with dizziness, yet smiling down at her as he held forth a hand. "Now you try it; take hold of me until you test your limbs—that was an ugly fall you got when I shot your pony."

She straightened slowly, her cheeks flushing in the keen air, her eyes striving to smile back in response to his challenge.

"That was nothing," she protested, tramping about. "I only went down into the snow, but my arms were bound, and the pony fell on my foot—it feels quite natural now."

"Good. We shall have to tramp a little way. In which direction did Dupont go?"

"Across the ridge there; see, that is his trail."

"Then he never saw our horses out yonder. That is one piece or good luck, at least. The sooner we get to them the better. I have been guilty of enough foolishness to-day to be careful hereafter." He looked across at Hughes' body. "I wonder if that fellow meant to hit me? I never trusted him much, but I did n't expect that. Did you see him fire?"

"Yes, but it was so sudden I could not even cry out. He was upon one knee, and his revolver waved like this as he tried to aim. Dupont saw it, and jumped just as he pulled the trigger."

"I thought so. The poor devil got the wrong man."

"Why? Were those two enemies?"

"They had been partners, stealing and running cattle. Dupont had cheated Hughes out of his share, and there was bad blood between them. I ran across the fellow up on the Cimarron, waiting for Dupont to come back to his old range. Did you ever hear Dupont called by any other name?"

She shook her head questioningly.

"No; was n't that his real name? The woman back there—wasn't she his wife?"

"She was his wife, yes; but their name was not Dupont. That was assumed; the correct one was Le Fevre."

"Le Fevre! Why,—why, wasn't that the name of the man you told me about once?—the officer who brought you those orders?"

"He is the same. I did not know him at Dodge; not until Hughes told me. He had changed greatly in appearance, and I only saw him at night. But it was because I knew that I failed to kill him here; I wanted him alive, so I could compel him to tell the truth."

She gave a little sob, her hands clasped together. The man's voice softened, and he took a step nearer, bending above her.

"And yet now I do not care quite as much as I did."

She looked up quickly into his face, and as swiftly lowered her lashes.

"You mean you have found other evidence?"

"No, but I have found you, dear. You need not try, for I am not going to let you get away. It is not the officer's daughter and the enlisted man any more. Those barriers are all gone. I do not mean that I am indifferent to the stain on my name, or any less desirous of wringing the truth from Gene Le Fevre's lips, but even the memory of that past can keep me silent no longer. You are alone in the world now, alone and in the shadow of disgrace—you need me."

He stopped, amazed at the boldness of his own words, and, in the silence of that hesitation, Molly lifted her eyes to his face.

"I think I have always needed you," she said simply.

He did not touch her, except to clasp the extended hands. The loneliness of the girl, here, helpless, alone with him in that wilderness of snow, bore in upon his consciousness with a suddenness that robbed him of all sense of triumph. He had spoken passionately, recklessly, inspired by her nearness, her dependence upon him. He had faith that she cared; her eyes, her manner, had told him this, yet even now he could not realize all that was meant by that quiet confession. The iron discipline of years would not relax instantly; in spite of the boldness of his utterance, he was still the soldier, feeling the chasm of rank. Her very confession, so simply spoken, tended to confuse, to mystify him.