"Do you mean," he asked eagerly, "that you love me?"

"What else should I mean?" she said slowly. "It is not new to me; I have known for a long while."

"That I loved you!"

"Yes," smiling now. "Love is no mystery to a woman. I do not care because you are in the ranks; that is only a temporary condition. I knew you out there, at the very first, as a gentleman. I have never doubted you. Here, in this wilderness, I am not afraid. It is not because my father is dead or because he has been guilty of crime, that I say this. I would have said it before, on the balcony there in Dodge, had you asked me. It is not the uniform I love, but the man. Can you not understand?"

"Will you marry me—a sergeant of cavalry?"

She was still smiling, her eyes frankly looking into his own.

"I will marry David Hamlin," she answered firmly, "let him be what he may."

The man let out his suppressed breath in a sob of relief, his eyes brightening with triumph.

"Oh, Molly! Molly!" he cried, "I cannot tell you what this all means to me. There is no past now to my life, but all future."

"Am I that to you?"

"That! Yes, and a thousand times more! I had ambition once, opportunity, even wealth. They were swept away by a man's lie, a woman's perfidy. Out of that wreck, I crawled into the world again a mere thing. I lived simply because I must live, skulking in obscurity, my only inspiration the hope of an honorable death or an opportunity for vengeance. Mine was the life of the ranks in the desert, associating with the lowest scum, in constant contact with savagery. I could not speak to a decent woman, or be a man among men. There was nothing left me but to brood over wrongs, and plot revenge. I became morose, savage, a mere creature of discipline, food for powder. It was no more when I first met you. But with that meeting the chains snapped, the old ambitions of life returned. You were a mere girl from the East; you did not understand, nor care about the snobbery of army life. No, it was not that—you were above it. You trusted me, treated me as a friend, almost as an equal. I loved you then, when we parted on the trail, but I went back to New Mexico to fight fate. It was such a hopeless dream, yet all summer long I rode with memory tugging at my heart. I grew to hate myself, but could never forget you."

She drew nearer, her hand upon his arm, her face uplifted.

"And you thought I did not care?"

"How could I dream you did?" almost bitterly. "You were gracious, kind—but you were a major's daughter, as far away from me as the stars. I never heard from you; not even a rumor of your whereabouts came to me across the plains. I supposed you had returned East; had passed out of my life forever. Then that night when we rode into Dodge I saw you again—saw you in the yellow lamp-light watching us pass, heard you ask what troops those were, and I knew instantly all my fighting out there in the desert had been vain—that you were forever the one, one woman."

"I remained for that," she confessed softly, her lashes wet.

"At Dodge?"

"Yes, at Dodge. I knew you would come, must come. Some intuition seemed to tell me that we should meet again. Oh, I was so happy the night you came! No one had told me your troop had been ordered in. It was like a dream come true. When I saw you leading your horse across the parade I could hardly refrain from calling out to you before them all. I did not care what they thought—for my soldier had come home from the wars."

"Sweetheart," the deep voice faltering, "may—may I kiss you?"

"Of course you may."

Their lips met, and she clung to him, as his arms held her closely. It was like a dream to him, this sudden, unexpected surrender. Perhaps she read this in his eyes.

"Do not misunderstand," she urged softly. "I do not come to you because of what has happened, because I am alone and helpless. If you had stepped from the ranks that night at Dodge, I would have answered even as I do now."

"You love me?—love me?" he repeated.

"Yes."

Even as he looked down into her upturned face, there was borne back upon him a realization of their predicament. His eyes swept over the surrounding desolation, the two dead bodies lying motionless in the snow, the stiffening pony, the drear hillside which shut them in. The sight brought him back to consciousness with a shock. Minutes might mean much now. Dupont had disappeared over that ridge to the right, in the direction of Black Kettle's camp. How far away that might be was altogether guess-work, yet what would inevitably occur when the fugitive arrived among his friends, and told his story, could be clearly conceived. Even if the man believed Hamlin killed, he would recall to mind the girl, and would return to assure himself as to her fate. Knowing her helplessness, the practical impossibility of her escape alone, a return expedition might not be hurried, yet, beyond doubt, this isolated valley would have Indian visitors within a few hours. And when these discovered the truth they would be hot upon a trail where concealment was impossible. The only hope of escape, and that far from brilliant,—as he remembered the long desert ride from the distant cow-camp on the Cimarron,—lay in immediate departure. Every moment of delay served to increase their peril. Even beyond the danger of Dupont's report to Black Kettle, this snow-bound valley was not so far away from that chief's camp as to be safe from invasion by young warriors in search of game. All this flashed upon Hamlin's consciousness instantly, even as his heart thrilled to her frank avowal.

"This is so strange I can hardly realize the truth," he said gravely. "But, dear one, we must talk elsewhere, and not here. Life was never before worth so much as it is now, and every instant we waste here may mean capture and death. Come, there are two ponies at the mouth of the valley."

He snatched up the blanket from the ground, and wrapped it about her in such manner as to enable her to walk; stooped over Hughes, loosened the revolver from his stiffened fingers, and then came back to where she waited.

"You can walk? It is not far."

"Yes, the numbness is all gone."

He was all seriousness now, alert and watchful, the plainsman and the soldier.

"Then come; I'll break trail."

"Where is the Indian village?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"Beyond those bluffs; at least Hughes thought so. We saw their pony herd in the valley below, mere dots against the snow."

Ten minutes later, ploughing through the intervening drifts, they came forth to the broad vista of the valley and the two patient ponies standing motionless.



CHAPTER XXXIII

MOLLY'S STORY

The two rode steadily, following the trail left by Hamlin and Hughes earlier in the morning. As there had been no wind, and the cold had crusted the snow, the tracks left by the two ponies were easily followed. As they skirted the ridge the Indian pony herd could be distinguished, sufficiently close by this time to leave no doubt as to what they were. Hamlin cautiously kept back out of sight in the breaks of the ridge, although his keen eyes, searching the upper valley, discovered no sign of pursuit. Tired as Dupont's horse undoubtedly was, he might not yet have attained the Indian encampment, which, in truth, might be much farther away than Hughes had supposed. The fact that no spirals of smoke were visible puzzled the Sergeant, for in that frosty air they should naturally be perceived for a considerable distance. Possibly, however, the bluffs were higher and more abrupt, farther up stream, affording better chances of concealment. Indeed it was quite probable that the Indians would seek the most sheltered spot available for their winter camp, irrespective of any possible fear of attack. Reasonably safe from a winter campaign, the atrocities of the past summer would naturally tend to make them unusually cautious and watchful.

Molly, muffled to the eyes in her thick blanket, permitted her pony to follow the other without guidance, until they both dipped down into the hollow, safe from any possible observation. In some mysterious way the overpowering feeling of terror which had controlled her for days past had departed. The mere presence of Hamlin was an assurance of safety. As she watched him, erect in saddle, his blue overcoat tightly buttoned, his revolver belt strapped outside, she no longer felt any consciousness of the surrounding desolation, or the nearness of savage foes. Her heart beat fast and her cheeks flushed in memory of what had so swiftly occurred between them. Without thought, or struggle, she gave herself unreservedly to his guidance, serenely confident in his power to succeed. He was a man so strong, so resourceful, so fitted to the environment, that her trust in him was unquestioned. She needed to ask nothing; was content to follow in silence. Even as she realized the completeness of her surrender, the Sergeant, relaxing none of his watchfulness, checked his pony so that they could ride onward side by side.

"We will follow the trail back," he explained, glancing aside at her face. "It is easier to follow than to strike out for ourselves across the open."

"Where does it lead?"

"To an old cow-camp on the Cimarron. There is a trooper there waiting. Shall I tell you the story?"

"I wish you would."

"And then I am to have yours in return—everything?"

"Yes," she said, and their eyes met. "There is nothing to conceal—from you."

He told his tale simply, and in few words; how he had missed, and sought after her in Dodge; how that searching had led directly to the discovery of crime, and finally the revealment of Major McDonald's body. He told of his efforts at organizing a party to follow the fugitives, inspired by a belief that she was a prisoner, of the trip through the blizzard, and of how he had succeeded in outstripping Dupont in the race.

The girl listened silently, able from her own experience to fill in the details of that relentless pursuit, which could not be halted either by storm or bullets. The strength, the determination of the man, appealed to her with new force, and tears welled into her eyes.

"Why, you are crying!" he exclaimed in surprise.

"That is nothing," her lips smiling, as she loosened one hand from the blanket and reached across to clasp his. "You must know, dear, how happy I am to have found you. No one else could have done this."

"Oh, yes, little girl," soberly. "Wasson would have gone on, if I had been the one to go down. The hardest part of it all was waiting for the storm to cease, not knowing where you were hidden—that nearly drove me insane."

"I understand; uncertainty is harder to bear than anything else. Shall I tell you now what happened to me?"

"Yes," tenderly, "as much, or as little as you please."

"Then it shall be everything, dear," her hand-grasp tightening. A moment she hesitated, looking out across the snow plains, and then back into his eyes. From their expression she gained courage to proceed, her voice low, yet clear enough to make every syllable distinctly audible.

"I—I was frightened when you left me alone on the balcony, and went in to confront Mrs. Dupont. I knew the woman and suspected that she would only be too glad to find some indiscretion she could use against me. It occurred to me that possibly she had seen me enter the parlor and was there herself to make sure. If so, she would hesitate at no trick to verify her suspicions. This thought so took possession of me that I determined to escape if possible. And it appeared easy of accomplishment. There was but a short drop to the ground, while a few steps around the end of the hotel would bring me safely to the front entrance. The temptation to try was irresistible. I heard your voices within and thought I understood her game. It was dark below, yet I knew how close the earth was, and there was no sign of any one about. I clambered over the railing, let myself down as far as I could, and dropped. The slight fall did not even jar me, yet I was none too soon. As I crouched there in the darkness, she flung open the curtains, and looked out on to the vacant balcony. I saw the flash of light, and heard her laugh—it was not pleasant laughter, for she was disappointed not to find me there. After the curtains fell again I could no longer hear your voices, and my sole desire was to get back into the hotel unobserved. I was not afraid, only I dreaded to meet any one who might recognize me."

She paused in her recital, as though to recall more clearly the exact facts, the two riding forward, Hamlin leaning over toward her, occasionally glancing watchfully behind.

"The guests were already beginning to straggle back to the dance hall from supper, and I waited in the shadow of the building for an opportunity to slip into the hotel unobserved. While I hid there a cavalry soldier from the fort rode up, swung down from his saddle, and ran up the steps. I heard him ask for Major McDonald. Almost immediately he came out again, and I passed him on the porch. Just inside the door I met my father. He was leaving the hotel with Dupont, and the latter swore savagely when I caught my father's arm, asking what message the orderly had brought. He answered strangely, saying he had received orders to go at once to Ripley on the stage; that he might be gone several days. There was nothing about all that to startle a soldier's daughter, but Dupont kept his hand on my father's arm, urging him to hurry. The actions of the man aroused my suspicions. I knew my father was acting paymaster, and I could perceive the outlines of a leather bag bulging beneath his overcoat. If this contained money, then I grasped Dupont's purpose. My plan of action occurred to me in a flash—I would accompany him until—until he was safely in the stage, and find opportunity to whisper warning. I remember asking him to wait a moment for me, and rushing to the cloak room after my coat. But when I returned they were gone. I ran out into the street, but they were not to be seen; they had not gone toward the stage office, for the lights revealed that distance clearly, and they had had no time in which to disappear within. With the one thought that Dupont had lured my father out of sight for purposes of robbery, I started to run down the little alley-way next the hotel. I know now how foolish I was, but then I was reckless. It was dark and I saw and heard nothing to warn me of danger. It was in my mind that my father had been lured on to the open prairie behind the hotel. Suddenly I was seized roughly, and a cloth whipped over my face before I could even scream. I heard a voice say: 'Damned if it ain't the girl! What will we do with her?' and then Dupont's voice answered gruffly: 'Hell, there ain't anything to do, but take the little hussy along. She 'd queer the whole game, an' we 've got an extra horse. They jerked me forward so roughly, and I was so frightened that—that I must have fainted. At any rate I remember nothing more distinctly until we had crossed the river, and I was on horseback wrapped in a blanket, and tied to the saddle. Some one was holding me erect; I could not move my arms, but could see and hear. It was dark, and we were moving slowly; there were two Indians ahead, and a white man riding each side of me. They thought me unconscious still, and spoke occasionally; little by little I recognized their voices, and understood their words."

Her voice broke into a sob, but the Sergeant's eyes were still gazing vigilantly out over the snow-clad hills.

"It is hard to tell the rest," she said finally, "but I learned that it was not robbery, but the betrayal of trust. My father was guilty, and yet at the same time a victim. I only got the truth in snatches, which I had to piece together, although later I learned other details. Mrs. Dupont had bled my father through some knowledge she had gained of his sister's family. I cannot even imagine what this could have been, but it was sufficient for her purpose. He gave her all he had, and then—then she heard of this government money being sent to Ripley. She had known about that for several days through the Lieutenant, and had ample time to arrange the plot. My father must have been crazy to have entered into the scheme, but he did, he did. The woman compelled him to it."

"I understand, Molly," broke in Hamlin, anxious to spare her the details. "They were to pretend robbery, but with the Major's connivance. An officer impersonating him was despatched to Ripley by stage. This would prevent any immediate pursuit. Later the Major was to be released, to return to Dodge with his story. The projection of yourself into the affair disarranged the entire plot, and then a quarrel occurred, and your father was killed."

"Yes; it was over what should be done with me; although I believe now they intended to kill him, so as to retain all the money. The older Indian fired the shot treacherously."

"And Connors?"

"Dupont killed him; they were both drunk, and the soldier fired first, but missed."

"And after that?"

She covered her face with her hands.

"It was all a dream of continuous horror, yet through it all, I do not recall consciousness of physical torture. I seemed to be mentally numbed, my brain a blank. It was a realization of my father's guilt more than my own danger which affected me—that and his death. They were not unkind nor brutal. Indeed I do not clearly recall that I was even spoken to, except when some necessary order was given. One night I heard them discuss what should be done with me; that I was to be hidden away in Black Kettle's camp. Generally Dupont spoke to the Indians in their own tongue, but that night he thought me asleep. I—I had no hope left—not even faith that you could ever rescue me."

Hamlin's hand clasped hers firmly, but his eyes were riveted on something in the distance.

"Wait," he said, checking his horse, "what is that? See; down in the valley of the creek! Is it not a moving body of men?"



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE ADVANCE OF CUSTER

The Sergeant swung down from the saddle and forced both ponies back below the crest of the hill, his swift glance sweeping back over their trail. Then he gazed again searchingly into the valley below.

"What is it?" she questioned.

"A moving column of horsemen, soldiers from their formation, for Indians never march in column of fours. They are too far away for me to be certain yet. What troops can be away out here?"

"Wasn't there to be a winter campaign against Black Kettle?" she questioned. "It was the rumor at Dodge. Perhaps—"

"Why, yes, that must be it," he interrupted eagerly. "Custer and the Seventh. What luck! And I'll be in it with the boys after all."

"Shall we not ride to meet them?"

"Soon, yes; only we need to be certain first."

"Are you not?" and she rose in her stirrups. "I am sure they are cavalrymen. Now you can see clearly as they climb the hill."

"There is no doubt," he admitted, "a single troop ahead of the main body; the others will be beyond the bend in the stream."

He stepped back, where he could look directly into her face.

"They are soldiers all right, but that was not what I wanted to be so certain about. When we ride down there, Molly girl, we shall be swallowed up into the old life once more, the old army life."

"Yes."

"Perhaps you do not realize how different it will all be from out here alone together."

"Why should it be different?"

"I shall be again a soldier in the ranks, under orders, and you Major McDonald's daughter."

"But—but—" her eyes full of appeal.

"No, little girl," he explained quickly, reaching up and touching her gently; "we are never going to say anything about that to those down there—his comrades in arms. It is going to be our secret. I am glad you told me; it has brought us together as, perhaps, nothing else could, but there is no reason why the world should ever know. Let them think he died defending his trust. Perhaps he did; what you overheard might have been said for a purpose, but, even if it were true, he had been driven to it by a merciless woman. It is ours to defend, not blacken his memory."

She bent slowly down until her cheek touched his.

"I—I thought you would say that," she returned slowly, "but what else you said is not so—there will never again be a barrier of rank between us." She straightened in the saddle, looking down into his eyes. "Whoever the officer may be in command of that detachment, I want you to tell him all."

"All?"

"Yes, that we are engaged; I am proud to have them know."

The truth was shining in her eyes, glowing on her cheeks. She leaned forward.

"Kiss me, and believe!"

"Molly, Molly," he whispered. "Never will I doubt again."

They could perceive the blue of the overcoats as they rode over the ridge, and at their sudden appearance the little column of horsemen came to a halt. Hamlin flung up one hand in signal, and the two urged their ponies down the side of the hill. Three men spurred forth to meet them, spreading out slightly as though still suspicious of some trick, but, as they drew near, the leader suddenly waved his hand, and they dashed forward.

"Hamlin! Glad to see you again," the first rider greeted the Sergeant cordially. "Can this be Major McDonald's daughter."

"Yes, Major Elliott; I can repeat the story as we ride along, sir. You are the advance of Custer's expedition, I presume?"

"We are; the others are some miles behind, moving slowly so that the wagons can keep within touch. Wonderful the way those wagons have pushed ahead over the rough country. Have only missed camp twice since we left Dodge."

"When was that, sir?"

"Before the blizzard all except your troop were at Camp Supply; they had joined since, and it was then we heard about your trip down here. What became of your men, Sergeant?"

"Wasson and one private were killed, sir; the other private was frozen so badly I had to leave him in shelter on the Cimarron."

"By gad, it sounds interesting; and so you tackled the villains alone, and had some fight at that before rescuing Miss McDonald. Well, the story will keep until we make camp again. However," and he bent low over the lady's hand, "I must congratulate Miss McDonald on her escaping without any serious injury."

"That is not all I should be congratulated upon, Major Elliott," she said quietly.

"No—eh—perhaps I do not understand."

"I desire that you shall; I refer to my engagement to Sergeant Hamlin."

The officer glanced in some bewilderment from her face to that of the silent trooper.

"You—you mean matrimonial?" he stammered, plainly embarrassed, unable so suddenly to grasp the peculiar situation. "Hamlin, what—what does this mean?"

"Miss Molly and I have known each other for some time," explained the Sergeant bluntly. "Out here alone we discovered we were more than friends. That is all, sir."

For an instant Elliott hesitated, held by the strange etiquette of rank, then the gentleman conquered the soldier, and he drew off his glove, and held out his hand.

"I can congratulate you, Miss McDonald," he exclaimed frankly. "I have known Sergeant Hamlin for two years; he is a soldier and a gentleman."

The red blood swept into her cheeks, her eyes brightening.

"He is my soldier," she replied softly, "and the man I love."

They rode together down the steep hillside covered with its mantle of snow to join the little body of troopers halted in the valley. Only once did Elliott speak.

"You know Black Kettle's camp, Sergeant?"

"We were almost within sight of it, sir. I saw his pony herd distinctly."

"Where was that?"

"On the Canadian, close to the mouth of Buffalo Creek."

"Did you learn anything as to the number of Indians with him?"

"Nothing definite, but it is a large encampment, not all Cheyennes."

"So we heard, but were unable to discover the exact situation. We have been feeling our way forward cautiously. I fear it is going to be my unpleasant duty to separate you and Miss McDonald. We shall need your services as guide, and the lady will be far better off with the main column. Indeed some of the empty wagons are to be sent back to Camp Supply to-night, and probably Custer will deem it best that she return with them. This winter campaigning is going to be rough work, outside of the fighting. You know Custer, and his style; besides Sheridan is himself at Camp Supply in command."

"You hear, Molly?"

"Yes; of course, I will do whatever General Custer deems best. Are there any women at Camp Supply, Major?"

"Yes, a few; camp women mostly, although there may be also an officer's wife or two—19th Kansas volunteers."

"Then it will be best for me to go there, if I can," she smiled. "I am desperately in need of clothes."

"I suspected as much. I will arrange to give you a guard at once. And you, Sergeant? As you are still under special orders, I presume I have no authority to detain you in my command."

"I prefer to remain, sir," grimly. "Dupont, Miss McDonald's captor, is alive and in Black Kettle's camp. We still have a feud to settle."

"Good; then that is arranged; ah, Miss McDonald, allow me to present Lieutenant Chambers. Lieutenant, detail three men to guard the lady back to the main column. Have her taken to General Custer at once."

"Very well, sir; and the command?"

Elliott looked at the Sergeant inquiringly.

"That is for Sergeant Hamlin to determine; he has just been scouting through that country, and will act as guide."

The Sergeant stood for a moment motionless beside his horse studying the vista of snow-draped hillside. The region beyond the crest of the ridge unrolled before his memory.

"Then we will keep directly on up this valley, sir," he said at last. "It's Wolf Creek, is it not? We shall be safer to keep out of sight to-day, and this depression must lead toward the Canadian. May I exchange mounts with one of those men going back, Major? I fear my pony is about done."

"Certainly."

There was no opportunity for anything save a simple grasp of the hand, ere Molly rode away with her escort. Then the little column of troopers moved on, and Hamlin, glancing backward as he rode past, took his place in advance beside Major Elliott.



CHAPTER XXXV

THE INDIAN TRAIL

The weather became colder as the day advanced. Scattered pellets of snow in the air lashed the faces of the troopers, who rode steadily forward, the capes of their overcoats thrown over their heads for protection. The snow of the late storm lay in drifts along the banks of the narrow stream, and the horses picked their passage higher up where the wind had swept the brown earth clear, at the same time keeping well below the crest. As they thus toiled slowly forward, Hamlin related his story to the Major in detail, carefully concealing all suspicion of McDonald's connection with the crime. It was growing dusk when the company emerged into the valley of the Canadian. All about them was desolation and silence, and as they were still miles away from the position assigned for Black Kettle's encampment, the men were permitted to build fires and prepare a warm meal under shelter of the bluffs. Two hours later the main column arrived and also went into camp. It was intensely cold but the men were cheerful as they ate their supper of smoky and half-roasted buffalo meat, bacon, hard-tack, and coffee.

In response to orders the Sergeant went down the line of tiny fires to report in person to Custer. He found that commander ensconced in a small tent, hastily erected in a little grove of cottonwoods, which afforded a slight protection from the piercing wind. Before him on the ground from which the snow had been swept lay a map of the region, while all about, pressed tightly into the narrow quarters, were his troop officers. As Hamlin was announced by the orderly, conversation ceased, and Custer surveyed the newcomer an instant in silence.

"Step forward, Sergeant," he said quietly. "Ah, yes; I had forgotten your name, but remember your face," he smiled about on the group. "We have been so scattered since our organization, gentlemen, that we are all comparative strangers." He stood up, lifting in one hand a tin cup of coffee. "Gentlemen, all we of the Seventh rejoice in the honor of the service, whether it be upheld by officer or enlisted man. I bid you drink a toast with me to Sergeant Hamlin."

"But, General, I have done nothing to deserve—"

"Observe the modesty of a real hero. Yet wait until I am through. With due regard for his achievements as a soldier, I propose this toast in commemoration of a greater deed of gallantry than those of arms—the capture of Miss Molly McDonald!"

There was a quick uplifting of cups, a burst of laughter, and a volley of questions, the Sergeant staring about motionless, his face flushed.

"What is it, General?"

"Tell us the story!"

"Give us the joke!"

"But I assure you it is no joke. I have it direct from the fair lips of the lady. Brace yourselves, gentlemen, for the shock. You young West Pointers lose, and yet the honor remains with the regiment. Miss Molly McDonald, the toast of old Fort Dodge, whose bright eyes have won all your hearts, has given hers to Sergeant Hamlin of the Seventh. And now again, boys, to the honor of the regiment!"

Out of the buzz of conversation and the hearty words of congratulation, Hamlin emerged bewildered, finding himself again facing Custer, whose manner had as swiftly changed into the brusque note of command.

"I have met you before, Sergeant," he said slowly, "before your assignment to the Seventh, I think. I am not sure where; were you in the Shenandoah?"

"I was, sir."

"At Winchester?"

"I saw you first at Cedar Creek, General Custer; I brought a flag."

"That's it; I have the incident clearly before me now. You were a lieutenant-colonel?"

"Of the Fourth Texas, sir."

"Exactly; I think I heard later—but never mind that now. Sheridan remembers you; he even mentioned your name to me a few weeks ago. No doubt that was what caused me to recognize your face again after all these years. How long have you been in our service?"

"Ever since the war closed."

For a moment the two men looked into each others' faces, the commander smiling, the enlisted man at respectful attention.

"I will talk with you at some future time, Sergeant," Custer said at last, resuming his seat on a log. "Now we shall have to consider the to-morrow's march. Were you within sight of Black Kettle's camp?"

"No, sir; only of his pony herd out in the valley of the Canadian."

"Where would you suppose the camp situated?"

"Above, behind the bluffs, about the mouth of Buffalo Creek."

Custer drew the map toward him, scrutinizing it carefully.

"You may be right, of course," he commented, his glance on the faces of the officers, "but this does not agree with the understanding at Camp Supply, nor the report of our Indian scouts. We supposed Black Kettle to be farther south on the Washita. How large was the pony herd?"

"We were not near enough to count the animals, sir, but there must have been two hundred head."

"A large party then, at least. What do you say, Corbin?"

The scout addressed, conspicuous in his buffalo skin coat, leaned against the tent-pole, his black whiskers moving industriously as he chewed.

"Wal, Gineral," he said slowly, "I know this yere 'Brick' Hamlin, an' he 's a right smart plainsman, sojer 'er no sojer. If he says he saw thet pony herd, then he sure did. Thet means a considerable bunch o' Injuns thar, er tharabouts. Now I know Black Kettle's outfit is down on the Washita, so the only conclusion is that this yere band thet the Sergeant stirred up is some new tribe er other, a-driftin' down frum the north. I reckon if we ride up ther valley we 'll hit their trail, an' it 'll lead straight down to them Cheyennes."

Custer took time to consider this explanation, spreading the field map out on his knees, and measuring the distance between the streams. No one in the little group spoke, although several leaned forward eagerly. The chief was not a man to ask advice; he preferred to decide for himself. Suddenly he straightened up and threw back his head to look about.

"In my judgment Corbin is right, gentlemen," he said impetuously. "I had intended crossing here, but instead we will go further up stream. There is doubtless a ford near Buffalo Creek, and if we can strike an Indian trail leading to the Washita, we can follow easily by night, or day, and it is bound to terminate at Black Kettle's camp. Return to your troops, and be ready to march at daybreak. Major Elliott, you will take the advance again, at least three hours ahead of the main column. Move with caution, your flankers well out; both Hamlin and Corbin will go with you. Are there any questions?"

"Full field equipment?" asked a voice.

"Certainly, although in case of going into action the overcoats will be discarded. Look over your ammunition carefully to-night."

They filed out of the tent one by one, some of the older officers pausing a moment to speak with Hamlin, his own captain extending his hand cordially, with a warm word of commendation. The Sergeant and Major Elliott alone remained.

"If I strike a fresh trail, General," asked the latter, "am I to press forward or wait for the main body?"

"Send back a courier at once, but advance cautiously, careful not to expose yourselves. There is to be no attack except in surprise, and with full force. This is important, Major, as we are doubtless outnumbered, ten to one. Was there something else, Sergeant?"

"I was going to ask about Miss McDonald, sir."

"Oh, yes; she is safely on her way to Camp Supply, under ample guard. The convoy was to stop on the Cimarron, and pick up the frozen soldier you left there, and if possible, find the bodies of the two dead men."

Long before daylight Elliott's advance camp was under arms, the chilled and sleepy troopers moving forward through the drifted snow of the north bank; the wintry wind, sweeping down the valley, stung their faces and benumbed their bodies. The night had been cold and blustery, productive of little comfort to either man or beast, but hope of early action animated the troopers and made them oblivious to hardship. There was little grumbling in the ranks, and by daybreak the head of the long column came opposite the opening into the valley wherein Hamlin had overtaken the fugitives. With Corbin beside him, the Sergeant spurred his pony aside, but there was little to see; the bodies of the dead lay as they had fallen, black blotches on the snow, but there were no fresh trails to show that either Dupont, or any Indian ally, had returned to the spot.

"That's evidence enough, 'Brick,'" commented the scout, staring about warily, "that thar wus no permanent camp over thar," waving his hand toward the crest of the ridge. "Them redskins was on the march, an' that geezer had ter follow 'em, er else starve ter death. He 'd a bin back afore this, an' on yer trail with a bunch o' young bucks."

From the top of the ridge they could look down on the toiling column of cavalrymen below in the bluff shadow, and gaze off over the wide expanse of valley, through which ran the half-frozen Canadian. Everywhere stretched the white, wintry desolation.

"Whar wus thet pony herd?"

Hamlin pointed up the valley to the place where the swerve came in the stream.

"Just below that point; do you see where the wind has swept the ground bare?"

"Sure they were n't buffalo?"

"They were ponies all right, and herded."

The two men spurred back across the hills, and made report to Elliott. There was no hesitancy in that officer. The leading squadron was instantly swung into formation as skirmishers, and sent forward. From river-bank to crest of bluff they ploughed through the drifts, overcoats strapped behind and carbines flung forward in readiness for action, but as they climbed to that topmost ridge, eager, expectant, it was only to gaze down upon a deserted camp, trampled snow, and blackened embers of numerous fires. Hamlin was the first to scramble down the steep bluff, dismount, and drag his trembling horse sliding after. Behind plunged Corbin and Elliott, anxious to read the signs, to open the pages of this wilderness book. A glance here and there, a testing of the blackened embers, a few steps along the broad trail, and these plainsmen knew the story. The Major straightened up, his hand on his horse's neck, his eyes sweeping those barren plains to the southward, and then turned to where his troopers were swarming down the bluff.

"Corbin," he said sharply, "ride back to General Custer at top speed. Tell him we have discovered a Cheyenne camp here at the mouth of Buffalo Creek of not less than a hundred and fifty warriors, deserted, and not to exceed twenty-four horses. Their trail leads south toward the Washita. Report that we shall cross the river in pursuit at once, and keep on cautiously until dark. Take a man with you; no, not Sergeant Hamlin, I shall need him here."

The scout was off like a shot, riding straight down the valley, a trooper pounding along behind him. Major Elliott ran his eyes over the little bunch of cavalrymen.

"Captain Sparling, send two of your men to test the depth or water there where those Indians crossed. As soon as ascertained we will ford the river."



CHAPTER XXXVI

READY TO ATTACK

There was a ford but it was rocky and dangerous, and so narrow that horse after horse slipped aside into the swift current, bearing his rider with him into the icy water. Comrades hauled the unfortunate ones forth, and fires were hastily built under shelter of the south bank. Those who reached the landing dry shared their extra clothing with those water-soaked, and hot coffee was hastily served to all alike. Eager as the men were to push forward, more than an hour was lost in passage, for the stream was bank full, the current rapid and littered with quantities of floating ice. Some of these ice cakes startled the struggling horses and inflicted painful wounds, and it was only by a free use of ropes and lariats that the entire command finally succeeded in attaining the southern shore. Shivering with the cold, the troopers again found their saddles and pressed grimly forward on the trail. Hamlin, with five others, led the way along a beaten track which had been trampled by the passing herd of Indian ponies and plainly marked by the trailing poles of numerous wicky-ups.

This led straight away into the south across the valley of the Canadian, on to the plains beyond. The snow here was a foot deep on a level, and in places the going was heavy. As they advanced, the weather moderated somewhat, and the upper crust became soft. Before them stretched the dreary level of the plains, broken by occasional ravines and little isolated patches of trees. No sign of Indians was seen other than the-deserted trail, and confident that the band had had fully twenty-four hours' start their pursuers advanced as rapidly as the ground would permit. The very clearness of the trail was evidence that the Indians had no conception that they were being followed. Confident of safety in their winter retreat, they were making no effort to protect their rear, never dreaming there were soldiers within hundreds of miles. Whatever report Dupont had made, it had awakened no alarm. Why should it? So far as he knew there were but two men pursuing him into the wilderness, and both of these he believed lying dead in the snow.

Steadily, mile after mile, they rode, and it was after dark when the little column was finally halted beside a stream, where they could safely hide themselves in a patch of timber. Tiny fires were built under protection of the steep banks of the creek, and the men made coffee, and fed their hungry horses. The silence was profound. It was a dark night, although the surrounding snow plains yielded a spectral light. Major Elliott, drinking coffee and munching hard-tack with the troop captain, sent for Sergeant Hamlin.

The latter advanced within the glow of the fire, and saluted.

"We have been gaining on those fellows, Sergeant," the Major began, "and must be drawing close to the Washita."

"We are travelling faster than they did, sir," was the reply, "because they had to break trail, and there were some women and children with them. I have no knowledge of this region, but the creek empties into the Washita without doubt."

"That would be my judgment. Sparling and I were just talking it over. I shall wait here until Custer comes up; my force is too small to attack openly, and my orders are not to bring on an engagement. Custer has some Osage scouts with him who will know this country."

"But, Major," ventured Hamlin, "if the General follows our trail it will be hours yet before he can reach here, and then his men will be completely exhausted."

"He will not follow our trail. He has Corbin and 'California Joe' with him. They are plainsmen who know their business. He 'll cross the Canadian, and strike out across the plains to intercept us. In that way he will have no farther to travel than we have had. In my judgment we shall not wait here long alone. Have you eaten?"

"No, sir; I have been stationing the guard."

"Then sit down here and share what little we have. We can waive formality to-night."

It was after nine o'clock when the sentries challenged the advance of Custer's column, as it stole silently out of the gloom. Ten minutes later the men were hovering about the fires, absorbing such small comforts as were possible, while the General and Major Elliott discussed the situation and planned to push forward. An hour later the fires were extinguished, the horses quietly saddled, and noiselessly the tired cavalrymen moved out once more and took up the trail. The moon had risen, lighting up the desert, and the Osage guides, together with the two scouts, led the way. At Custer's request Hamlin rode beside him in lead of the troopers. Not a word was spoken above a whisper, and strict orders were passed down the line prohibiting the lighting of a match or the smoking of a pipe. Canteens were muffled and swords thrust securely under saddle flaps. Like a body of spectres they moved silently across the snow in the moonlight, cavalry capes drawn over their heads, the only sound the crunching of horses' hoofs breaking through the crust.

The trail was as distinct as a road, and the guides pushed ahead as rapidly as by daylight, yet with ever increasing caution. Suddenly one of the Osages signalled for a halt, averring that he smelled fire. The scouts dismounted and crept forward, discovering a small campfire, deserted but still smouldering, in a strip of timber. Careful examination made it certain that this fire must have been kindled by Indian boys, herding ponies during the day, and probably meant that the village was very close at hand. The Osage guides and the two white scouts again picked up the trail, the cavalry advancing slowly some distance behind. Custer, accompanied by Hamlin, rode a yard to the rear and joined the scouts, who were cautiously feeling their way up a slight declivity.

The Osage in advance crept through the snow to the crest of the ridge and looked carefully down into the valley below. Instantly his hand went up in a gesture of caution and he hurriedly made his cautious way back to where Custer sat his horse waiting.

"What is it? What did you see?"

"Heap Injuns down there!"

The General swung down from his saddle, motioned the Sergeant to follow, and the two men crept to the crest and looked over. The dim moonlight was confusing, while the shadow of timber rendered everything indistinct. Yet they were able to make out a herd of ponies, distinguished the distant bark of a dog and the tinkle of a bell. Without question this was the Indians' winter camp, and they had reached it undiscovered. Custer glanced at his watch—the hour was past midnight. He pressed Hamlin's sleeve, his lips close to the Sergeant's ear.

"Creep back, and bring my officers up here," he whispered. "Have them take off their sabres."

As they crept, one after the other, to where he lay in the snow, the General, whose eyes had become accustomed to the moon-gleam, pointed out the location of the village and such natural surroundings as could be vaguely distinguished. The situation thus outlined in their minds, they drew silently back from the crest, leaving there a single Osage guide on guard, and returned to the waiting regiment, standing to horse less than a mile distant. Custer's orders for immediate attack came swiftly, and Hamlin, acting as his orderly, bore them to the several commands. The entire force was slightly in excess of eight hundred men, and there was every probability that the Indians outnumbered them five to one. Scouts had reported to Sheridan that this camp of Black Kettle's was the winter rendezvous not only of Cheyennes, but also of bands of fighting Arapahoes, Kiowas, Comanches, and even some Apaches, the most daring and desperate warriors of the plains. Yet this was no time to hesitate, to debate; it was a moment for decisive action. The blow must be struck at once, before daylight, with all the power of surprise.

The little body of cavalrymen was divided into four detachments. Two of these were at once marched to the left, circling the village silently in the darkness, and taking up a position at the farther extremity. A third detachment moved to the right, and found their way down into the valley, where they lay concealed in a strip of timber. Custer, with the fourth detachment under his own command, remained in position on the trail. The sleeping village was thus completely surrounded, and the orders were for those in command of the different forces to approach as closely as possible without running risk of discovery, and then to remain absolutely quiet until daybreak. Not a match was to be lighted nor a shot fired until the charge was sounded by the trumpeter who remained with Custer. Then all were to spur forward as one man.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE BATTLE WITH THE INDIANS

Corbin had gone with the detachment circling to the left, and "California Joe" was with the other in the valley, but Hamlin remained with the chief. About them was profound silence, the men standing beside their horses. There was nothing to do but wait, every nerve at high tension. The wintry air grew colder, but the troopers were not allowed to make the slightest noise, not even to swing their arms or stamp their feet. After the last detachment swept silently out into the night, there still remained four hours until daylight. No one knew what had occurred; the various troops had melted away into the dark and disappeared. No word, no sound had come back. They could only wait in faith on their comrades. The men were dismounted, each one holding his own horse in instant readiness for action. Not a few, wearied with the day's work, while still clinging to their bridles, wrapped the capes of their overcoats over their heads and threw themselves down in the snow, and fell asleep.

At the first sight of dawn Hamlin was sent down the line to arouse them. Overcoats were taken off, and strapped to the saddles, carbines loaded and slung, pistols examined and loosened in their holsters, saddles recinched, and curb chains carefully looked after. This was the work of but a few moments, the half-frozen soldiers moving with an eagerness that sent the hot blood coursing fiercely through numbed limbs. To the whispered command to mount, running from lip to lip along the line, the men sprang joyously into their saddles, their quickened ears and eager eyes ready for the signal.

Slowly, at a walk, Custer led them forward toward the crest of the hill, where the Osage guide watched through the spectral light of dawn the doomed village beneath. To the uplift of a hand the column halted, and Custer and his bugler went forward. A step behind crouched the Sergeant, grasping the reins of three horses, while a little to the right, beyond the sweep of the coming charge, waited the regimental band.

Peering over the crest, the leader saw through the dim haze, scarcely five hundred yards distant, dotting the north bank of the Washita for more than a quarter of a mile, the Indian village. There was about it scarcely a sign of human life. From the top of two or three of the tepees light wreaths of smoke floated languidly out on the wintry air, and beyond the pony herd was restlessly moving. Even as he gazed, half convinced that the Indians had been warned, the village deserted, the sharp report of a rifle rang out in the distance.

Hamlin saw the General spring upright, his lips uttering the sharp command, "Sound the charge!" Even while the piercing blare of the bugle cut the frosty air, there was a jingle of steel as the troopers behind spurred forward. Almost at the instant the three dismounted men were in saddle. Custer waved his hand at the band, shouted "Play!" and to the rollicking air of "Garry Owen," the eager column of horsemen broke into a mad gallop, and with ringing cheers and mighty rush, swept over the ridge straight down into the startled village. To Hamlin, at Custer's side, reins in his teeth, a revolver in either hand, what followed was scarcely a memory. It remained afterward as a blurred, indistinct picture of action, changing so rapidly as to leave no definite outlines. He heard the answering call of three bugles; the deafening thud of horses' hoofs; the converging cheers of excited troopers; the mingling ring of revolver shots; a sharp order cleaving the turmoil; the wild neigh of a stricken horse; the guttural yells of Indians leaping from their tepees into the open. Then he was in the heart of the village, firing with both hands; before him, about him, half-naked savages fighting desperately, striking at him with knives, firing from the shelter of tepees, springing at him with naked hands in a fierce effort to drag him from the saddle. It was all confusion, chaos, a babble of noise, his eyes blinded by glint of steel and glare of fire. The impetus of their rush carried them irresistibly forward; over and through tents they rode, across the bodies of living and dead; men reeled and fell from saddle; riderless horses swept on unguided; revolvers emptied were flung aside, and hands closed hard on sabre hilts. Foot by foot, yard by yard, they drove the wedge of their charge, until they swept through the fringe of tepees, out into the stampeded pony herd.

The bugle rang again, and they turned, facing back, and charged once more, no longer in close formation, but every trooper fighting as he could. Complete as the surprise had been, the men of the Seventh realized now the odds against them, the desperate nature of the fight. Out from the sheltering tepees poured a flood of warriors; rifles in hand they fought savagely. The screams of women and children, the howling and baying of Indian dogs, the crack of rifles, the wild war cries, all mingled into an indescribable din. Black Kettle was almost the first to fall, but other chiefs rallied their warriors, and fought like fiends, yielding ground only by inches, until they found shelter amid the trees, and under the river bank.

In the cessation of hand to hand fighting the detachments came together, reforming their ranks, and reloading their arms. Squads of troopers fired the tepees, and gathering their prisoners under guard, hastened back to the ranks again at the call of the bugle. By now Custer comprehended his desperate position, and the full strength of his Indian foes. Fresh hordes were before him, already threatening attack. Hamlin, bleeding from two flesh wounds, rode in from the left flank where he had been borne by the impetus of the last charge, with full knowledge of the truth. Their attack had been centred on Black Kettle's village, but below, a mile or two apart, were other villages, representing all the hostile tribes of the southern plains. Already these were hurrying up to join those rallying warriors under shelter of the river bank. Even from where Custer stood at the outskirts of the devastated village he could distinguish the warbonnets of Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Kiowas and Comanches mingled together in display of savagery.

His decision was instant, that of the impetuous cavalry leader, knowing well the inherent strength and weakness of his branch of the service. He could not hope to hold his position before such a mass of the enemy, with the little force at his disposal. His only chance of escape, to come off victor, was to strike them so swiftly and with such force as to paralyze pursuit. Already the reinforcing warriors were sweeping forward to attack, two thousand strong, led fiercely by Little Raven, an Arapahoe; Santanta, a Kiowa, and Little Rock, a Cheyenne. Dismounting his men he prepared for a desperate resistance, although the troopers' ammunition was running low. Suddenly, crashing through the very Indian lines, came a four-mule wagon. The quartermaster was on the box, driving recklessly. Only Hamlin and a dozen other men were still in saddle. Without orders they dashed forward, spurring maddened horses into the ranks of the Indians, hurling them left and right, firing into infuriated red faces, and slashing about with dripping sabres. Into the lane thus formed sprang the tortured mules, sweeping on with their precious load of ammunition. Behind closed in the squad of rescuers, struggling for their lives amid a horde of savages. Then, with one wild shout, the dismounted troopers leaped to the rescue, hurling back the disorganized Indian mass, and dragging their comrades from the rout. It was hand to hand, clubbed carbine against knife and spear, a fierce, breathless struggle. Behind eager hands ripped open the ammunition cases; cartridges were jammed into empty guns, and a second line of fighting men leaped forward, their front tipped with fire.

Dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty, his broken sabre a jagged piece of steel, Hamlin hacked his way through the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse. Here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine. It was all the work of a moment. About him were skurrying figures, infuriated faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage. The three fought like fiends, standing back to back, and striking blindly at leaping bodies and clutching hands. Out of the mist, the mad confusion of breathless combat, one face alone seemed to confront the Sergeant. At first it was a delirium; then it became a reality. He saw the shagginess of a buffalo coat, the gleam of a white face. All else vanished in a fierce desire to kill. He leaped forward, crazed with sudden hate, hurled aside the naked bodies in the path, and sent his whirling carbine stock crashing at Dupont. Even as it struck he fell, clutched by gripping hands, and over all rang out the cheer of the charging troopers. Hamlin staggered to his knees, spent and breathless, and smiled grimly down at the dead white man in that ring of red.

It was over, yet that little body of troopers dared not remain. About them still, although demoralized and defeated, circled an overwhelming mass of savages capable of crushing them to death, when they again rallied and consolidated. Custer did the only thing possible. Turning loose the pony herd, gathering his captives close, he swung his compact command into marching column. Before the scattered tribes could rally for a second attack, with flankers out, and skirmishers in advance, the cavalrymen rode straight down the valley toward the retreating hostiles. It was a bold and desperate move, the commander's object being to impress upon the Indian chiefs the thought of his utter fearlessness, and to create the impression that the Seventh would never dare such a thing if they did not have a larger force behind. With flags unfurled, and the band playing, the troopers swept on. The very mad audacity of the movement struck terror into the hearts of the warriors, and they broke and fled. As darkness fell the survivors of the Seventh rode alone, amid the silent desolation of the plains.

Halting a moment for rest under shelter of the river bank, Custer hastily wrote his report and sent for Hamlin. The latter approached and stood motionless in the red glare of the single camp-fire. The impetuous commander glanced up inquiringly.

"Sergeant, I must send a messenger to Camp Supply. Are you fit to go?"

"As much so as any one, General Custer," was the quiet response. "I have no wounds of consequence."

"Very well. Take the freshest horse in the command, and an Osage guide. You know the country, but he will be of assistance. I have written a very brief report; you are to tell Sheridan personally the entire story. We shall rest here two hours, and then proceed slowly along the trail. I anticipate no further serious fighting. You will depart at once."

"Very well, sir," the Sergeant saluted, and turned away, halting an instant to ask, "You have reported the losses, I presume?"

"Yes, the dead and wounded. There are some missing, who may yet come in. Major Elliott and fourteen others are still unaccounted for." He paused. "By the way, Sergeant, while you are with Sheridan, explain to him who you are—he may have news for you. Good-night, and good luck."

He stood up and held out his hand. In surprise, his eyes suddenly filling with tears, Hamlin felt the grip of his fingers. Then he turned, unable to articulate a sentence, and strode away into the night.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

AT CAMP SUPPLY

There are yet living in that great Southwest those who will retell the story of Hamlin's ride from the banks of the Washita to Camp Supply. It remains one of the epics of the plains, one of the proud traditions of the army. To the man himself those hours of danger, struggle and weariness, were more a dream than a reality. He passed through them almost unconsciously, a soldier performing his duty in utter forgetfulness of self, nerved by the discipline of years of service, by the importance of his mission, and by memory of Molly McDonald. Love and duty held him reeling in the saddle, brought him safely to the journey's end.

Let the details pass unwritten. Beneath the darkening skies of early evening, the Sergeant and the Osage guide rode forth into the peril and mystery of the shrouded desert. Beyond the outmost picket, moving as silently as two spectres, they found at last a coulee leading upward from the valley to the plains above. To their left the Indian fires swept in half circle, and between were the dark outlines of savage foes. From rock to rock echoed guttural voices, but, foot by foot, unnoted by the keen eyes, the two crept steadily on through the midnight of that sheltering ravine, dismounted, hands clasping the nostrils of their ponies, feeling through the darkness for each step, halting breathless at every crackle of a twig, every crunch of snow under foot. Again and again they paused, silent, motionless, as some apparition of savagery outlined itself between them and the sky, yet slowly, steadily, every instinct of the plains exercised, they passed unseen.

In the earliest gray of dawn the two wearied men crept out upon the upper plateau, dragging their horses. Behind, the mists of the night still hung heavy and dark over the valley, yet with a new sense of freedom they swung into their saddles, faced sternly the chill wind of the north, and rode forward across the desolate snow fields. It was no boys' play! The tough, half-broken Indian ponies kept steady stride, leaping the drifts, skimming rapidly along the bare hillsides. From dawn to dark scarcely a word was uttered. By turns they slept in the saddle, the one awake gripping the others' rein. Once, in a strip of cottonwood, beside a frozen creek, they paused to light a fire and make a hasty meal. Then they were off again, facing the frosty air, riding straight into the north. Before them stretched the barren snow-clad steppes, forlorn and shelterless, with scarcely a mark of guidance anywhere, a dismal wilderness, intersected by gloomy ravines and frozen creeks. Here and there a river, the water icy cold and covered with floating ice, barred their passage; down in the valleys the drifted snow turned them aside. Again and again the struggling ponies floundered to their ears, or slid head-long down some steep declivity. Twice Hamlin was thrown, and once the Osage was crushed between floating cakes and submerged in the icy stream. Across the open barrens swept the wind into their faces, a ceaseless buffeting, chilling to the marrow; their eyes burned in the snow-glare. Yet they rode on and on, voiceless, suffering in the grim silence of despair, fit denizens of that scene of utter desolation.

At the Cimarron the half-frozen Indian collapsed, falling from his saddle into the snow utterly exhausted. Staggering himself like a drunken man, the Sergeant dragged the nerveless body into a crevice of the bluff out of the wild sweep of the wind, trampled aside the snow into a wall of shelter, built a hasty fire, and poured hot coffee between the shivering lips. With the earliest gray of another dawn, the white man caught the strongest pony, and rode on alone. He never knew the story of those hours—only that his trail led straight into the north. He rode erect at first, then leaning forward clinging to the mane; now and then he staggered along on foot dragging his pony by the rein. Once he stopped to eat, breaking the ice in a creek for water. It began to snow, the thick fall of flakes blotting out the horizon, leaving him to stumble blindly through the murk. Then darkness came, wrapping him in a cloak of silence in the midst of that unspeakable desert. His limbs stiffened, his brain reeled from intense fatigue. He dragged himself back into the saddle, pressing the pony into a slow trot. Suddenly out of the wall of gloom sprang the yellow lights of Camp Supply. Beneath these winking eyes of guidance there burst the red glare of a fire. Even as he saw it the pony fell, but the exhausted man had forgotten now everything but duty. The knowledge that he had won the long struggle brought him new strength. He wrenched his feet free from the stirrups, and ran forward, calling to the guard. They met him, and he stood straight before them, every nerve taut—a soldier.

"I bring despatches from Custer," he said slowly, holding himself firm. "Take me to General Sheridan."

The corporal walked beside him, down the trampled road, questioning eagerly as they passed the line of shacks toward the double log house where the commander was quartered. Hamlin heard, and answered briefly, yet was conscious only of an effort to retain his strength. Once within, he saw only the short, sturdy figure sitting behind a table, the shaggy gray beard, the stern, questioning eyes which surveyed him. He stood there straight, motionless, his uniform powdered with snow, his teeth clinched so as not to betray weakness, his face roughened by exposure, grimy with dirt, and disfigured by a week's growth of beard. Sheridan stared at him, shading his eyes from the glow of the lamp.

"You are from Custer?"

"Yes, sir."

He drew the papers from within his overcoat, stepped forward and laid them on the table. Sheridan placed one hand upon them, but did not remove his gaze from Hamlin's face.

"When did you leave?"

"The evening of the 27th, sir. I was sent back with an Osage guide to bring you this report."

"And the guide?"

"He gave out on the Cimarron and I came on alone."

"And Custer? Did he strike Black Kettle?"

"We found his camp the evening of the 26th, and attacked at daybreak the next morning. There were more Indians with him than we expected to find—between two and three thousand, warriors from all the southern tribes. Their tepees were set up for ten miles along the Washita. We captured Black Kettle's village, and destroyed it; took his pony herd, and released a number of white prisoners, including some women and children. There was a sharp fight, and we lost quite a few men; I left too early to learn how many."

"And the command—is it in any danger?"

"I think not, sir. General Custer was confident he could retire safely. The Indians were thoroughly whipped, and apparently had no chief under whom they could rally."

The General opened the single sheet of paper, and ran his eyes slowly down the lines of writing. Hamlin, feeling his head reel giddily, reached out silently and grasped the back of a chair in support. Sheridan glanced up.

"General Custer reports Major Elliott as missing and several officers badly wounded."

"Yes, sir."

"What Indians were engaged, and under what chiefs?"

"Mostly Cheyennes, although there were bands of Arapahoes, Kiowas, Comanches, and a few Apaches. Little Rock was in command after Black Kettle was killed—that is of the Cheyennes. Little Raven, and Santanta led the others."

"A fiend, that last. But, Sergeant, you are exhausted. I will talk with you to-morrow. The officer of the day will assign you quarters."

Hamlin, still clinging to the chair with one hand, lifted the other in salute.

"General Sheridan," he said, striving to control his voice, "General Custer's last words to me were that I was to tell you who I am. I do not know what he meant, but he said you would have news for me."

"Indeed!" in surprise, stiffening in his chair.

"Yes, sir—my name is Hamlin."

"Hamlin! Hamlin!" the General repeated the word. "I have no recollection—why, yes, by Gad! You were a Confederate colonel."

"Fourth Texas Infantry."

"That's it! I have it now; you were court-martialed after the affair at Fisher's Hill, and dismissed from the service—disobedience of orders, or something like that. Wait a minute."

He rapped sharply on the table, and the door behind, leading into the other room, instantly opened to admit the orderly. In the dim light of the single lamp Hamlin saw the short, stocky figure of a soldier, bearded, and immaculately clean. Even as the fellow's gloved hand came sharply up to his cap visor, Sheridan snapped out:

"Orderly, see if you recognize this man."

Erect, the very impersonation of military discipline, the soldier crossed the room, and stared into the unshaven face of the Sergeant. Suddenly his eyes brightened, and he wheeled about as if on a pivot, again bringing his gloved hand up in salute.

"Eet vas Colonel Hamlin, I tink ya," he said in strong German accent. "I know heem."

The Sergeant gripped his arm, bringing his face about once more.

"You are Shultz—Sergeant-Major Shultz!" he cried. "What ever became of you? What is it you know?"

"Wait a minute, Hamlin," said Sheridan quickly, rising to his feet. "I can explain this much better than that Dutchman. He means well enough, but his tongue twists. It seems Custer met you once in the Shenandoah, and later heard of your dismissal from the service. One night he spoke about the affair in my quarters. Shultz was present on duty and overheard. He spoke up like a little man; said he was there when you got your orders, that they were delivered verbally by the staff officer, and he repeated them for us word for word. He was taken prisoner an hour later, and never heard of your court-martial. Is that it, Shultz?"

"Mine Gott, ya; I sa dot alreatty," fervently. "He tell you not reconnoisance—charge! I heard eet twice. Gott in Himmel, vat a hell in der pines!"

"Hamlin," continued Sheridan quietly, "there is little enough we can do to right this wrong. There is no way in which that Confederate court-martial can be reconvened. But I shall have Shultz's deposition taken and scattered broadcast. We will clear your name of stain. What became of that cowardly cur who lied?"

Hamlin pressed one hand against his throbbing temples, struggling against the faintness which threatened mastery.

"He—he paid for it, sir," he managed to say. "He—he died three days ago in Black Kettle's camp."

"You got him!"

"Yes—I—I got him."

"I have forgotten—what was the coward's name?"

"Eugene Le Fevre, but in Kansas they called him Dupont."

"Dupont! Dupont!" Sheridan struck the table with his closed fist. "Good Lord, man! Not the husband of that woman who ran off with Lieutenant Gaskins, from Dodge?"

"I—I never heard—"

The room whirled before him in mist, the faces vanished; he heard an exclamation from Shultz, a sharp command from Sheridan, and then seemed to crumble up on the floor. There was the sharp rustle of a woman's skirt, a quick, light step, the pressure of an arm beneath his head.

"Quick, orderly, he 's fainted," it was the General's voice, sounding afar off. "Get some brandy, Shultz. Here, Miss McDonald, let me hold the man's head."

She turned slightly, her soft hand pressing back the hair from Hamlin's forehead.

"No," she protested firmly, "he is my soldier."

And the Sergeant, looking past the face of the girl he loved saw tears dimming the stern eyes of his commander.



THE END