They recrossed the stream carefully, the horses restless and hard to control in the current, the men riding on either side, grasping the bit of the girl's mount. Others had joined the little squad of troopers on the bank, and welcomed them with a cheer. The Lieutenant dismounted. At sight of the girl's face he whipped off his hat, and came forward.
"Miss McDonald," he said, pleasantly greeting her, "I am Lieutenant Gaskins, and I have met your father—of the Sixth Infantry, is he not? So glad to be of service, you know. You were in the stage, I understand; a most remarkable escape."
"I owe it all to Sergeant Hamlin," she replied, turning to glance toward the latter. "He bore me away unconscious in his arms. Indeed, I scarcely realized what happened. Do you know anything regarding my father?"
"Oh, yes, I can put your mind at ease so far as he is concerned. I presume you were endeavoring to reach his post when this unfortunate affair occurred."
"Yes."
"Sheridan has ordered Devere abandoned for the present, and the Major's troops are to return to Dodge. No doubt we shall be in the field within a week or two. But we can cultivate acquaintance later; now I must straighten out this affair." He bowed again, and turned stiffly toward Hamlin, who had dismounted, his manner instantly changing. He was a short, heavily built man, cleanly shaven, with dark, arrogant eyes, and prominent chin.
"You are a sergeant of the Seventh, you said," he began brusquely. "What were you doing here?"
"My troop is stationed at Fort Union," was the quiet response. "I carried despatches to Devere, and while there was requested by Major McDonald to intercept his daughter and turn her back."
"Were you subject to Major McDonald's orders?"
"It was not an order, but a request."
"Oh, indeed; a mere pleasure excursion."
"It has hardly turned out that way, sir, and conditions seemed to justify my action."
"That is for others to determine. When was the attack made?"
"Just before sundown last evening. The driver and guard escaped on the lead horses, and the wheelers ran away, wrecking the coach."
"There were four passengers?"
"Yes; we fought them off until after dark, although the Mexican was killed by the first fire. I don't know when the other man got his."
"Who were they?"
"Gonzales ran a high-ball game at Santa Fé; the other, Moylan, was post-sutler at Fort Marcy."
"How many Indians? Who were they?"
"About thirty; we must have killed five or six. It was hardly more than daylight when they left, and I could not tell just how many bodies they strapped on the ponies. They were a mixed bunch of young bucks, principally Arapahoes, led by Roman Nose."
"Went west, hey?"
"Yes, sir."
The Lieutenant turned his gaze up the river, and then looked at Wasson, who remained seated in the saddle.
"Must be the same lot Maxwell told us about up on Pawnee Fork, Sam," he said at last. "He will be likely to cut their trail some time to-day. We knew a bunch had headed south, but did n't suppose they had got as far as this already. Better leave Maxwell to run them in, I suppose? Our orders are to return to Dodge."
"They have n't three hours the start," ventured Hamlin in surprise, "and cannot travel fast with so many of their ponies doubly loaded."
"That is for me to decide," staring insolently, "and I understand my duty without any advice. Is there any damage done west of here?"
"The station at the crossing is burned; two dead men there; I don't know what became of the third."
"Then it is just as I thought; those fellows will turn north before they get that far, and will run straight into Maxwell. What do you say, Sam?"
The scout lolled carelessly in the saddle, his eyes on the river, his lean, brown face expressionless.
"I reckon as how it don't make no great difference what I say," he answered soberly. "Yer ain't taken no advice frum me yit, fur as I remember. But if yer really want ter know, this time, my notion is them bucks will most likely hide in the bluffs till night, an' then sneak past Maxwell after it gits good an' dark. If this yere wus my outfit now, I 'd just naturally light on to the trail fast, orders er no orders. I reckon it's Injuns we cum out after, an' I don't suppose the War Department would find any fault if we found a few."
The blood surged into the Lieutenant's face, but opposition only served to increase his obstinacy.
"I prefer to rely on my own judgment," he said tartly. "From what this man reports they are in stronger force than we are. Besides my instructions were not to provoke hostilities."
Wasson grinned, revealing his yellow teeth.
"Sure not; they are so damned peaceable themselves."
"I prefer leaving Captain Maxwell to deal with the situation," Gaskins went on pompously, ignoring the sneer, "as he outranks me, and I am under strict instructions to return at once to the fort. Two of our horses are disabled already, and Smiley is too sick to be left alone. There are only sixteen men fit for duty, and three of those would have to be detailed to look after him. I 'll not risk it. Well," he broke off suddenly, and addressing a corporal who had just ridden up and saluted, "have you buried the bodies?"
"Yes, sir; found these papers on them."
The Lieutenant thrust these into his jacket pocket.
"Very well, Hough. Form the men into column. Miss McDonald, you will retain the horse you have, and I should be very glad to have you ride with me. Oh, Corporal, was everything in the coach destroyed? Nothing saved belonging to this lady?"
"Only the ironwork is left, sir."
"So I thought; exceedingly sorry, Miss McDonald. The ladies at Dodge will have to fit you out when we get in. I am a bachelor, you know," he added, glancing aside into her face, "but can promise every attention."
Her eyes sought Hamlin where he stood straight and motionless, respectfully waiting an opportunity to speak.
"Is—is this what I ought to do?" she questioned, leaning toward him. "I am so confused I hardly know what is best."
"Why, of course," broke in the Lieutenant hastily. "You may trust me to advise."
"But my question was addressed to Sergeant Hamlin," she interposed, never glancing aside. "He understands the situation better than you."
The Sergeant held his hat in his hand, his eyes meeting her own frankly, but with a new light in them. She had not forgotten now the danger was over; she meant him to realize her friendship.
"It seems to me the only safe course for you to take, Miss McDonald," he said slowly, endeavoring to keep the note of triumph out of his voice. "Your father is perfectly safe, and will join you within a few days. I would not dare attempt your protection farther west."
"You are not going with us then?" she questioned in surprise.
"Not if Lieutenant Gaskins will furnish me with horse and rifle. I must report at Union, and, on the way, tell your father where you are."
"But the danger! oh, you mustn't attempt such a ride alone!"
"That is nothing; the valley is swept clean, and I shall do most of my riding at night. Any plainsman could do the trick—hey, Sam?"
Wasson nodded, chewing solemnly on the tobacco in his cheek.
"He 'll make the trip all right, miss," he drawled lazily. "Wish I was goin' long. I 'm sure tired o' this sorter scoutin', I am. Down below the Cimarron is the only place ye 'll have ter watch out close, 'Brick.' Them Comanches an' Apaches are the worst lot."
"I know—night riders themselves, but I know the trail. Can you outfit me, Lieutenant?"
Gaskins smiled grimly, but with no trace of humor. His eyes were upon the girl, still leaning over her pommel.
"I 'll outfit you all right," he said brusquely, "and with no great regret, either. And I shall report finding you here in disobedience to orders."
"Very well, sir."
Molly's brown eyes swept to the Lieutenant's face, her form straightening in the saddle, her lips pressed tightly together. Gaskins fronted the Sergeant, stung into anger by the man's quiet response.
"I shall prefer charges, you understand," almost savagely. "Helm, give this fellow that extra rifle, and ammunition belt. McMasters, you will let him have your horse."
Wasson rolled out of his saddle, muttering something indistinctly, which might have been an oath.
"I ain't goin' ter stand fer that, Leftenant," he said defiantly. "Bein' as I ain't no enlisted man, an' this yere is my hoss, 'Brick' Hamlin don't start on no such ride on that lame brute o' McMasters'. Here, you 'Brick,' take this critter. Oh, shut up! I'll git to Dodge all right. Won't hurt me none to walk."
The eyes of the two men met understandingly, and Hamlin took the rein in his hand. Gaskins started to speak, but thought better of it. A moment he stood, irresolute, and then swung up into saddle, his glance ignoring the Sergeant.
"Attention! company," he commanded sharply. "By column four—march!"
The girl spurred her horse forward, and held out her hand.
"Good-bye," she said, falteringly, "you—will be careful."
"Of course," and he smiled up into her eyes. "Don't worry about me—I am an old hand."
"And I am to see you again?"
"I shall never run away, surely, and I hope for the best—"
"Miss McDonald," broke in Gaskins impatiently, "the men are already moving."
"Yes," her eyes still upon the Sergeant's uncovered face, "I am coming. Don't imagine I shall ever forget," she murmured hastily, "or that I will not be glad to meet you anywhere."
"Some time I may put you to the test," he answered soberly. "If any trouble comes, trust Wasson—he is a real man."
He stood there, one arm thrown over the neck of the horse, watching them ride away up the trail. The Lieutenant and the girl were together at the rear of the short column, and he seemed to be talking earnestly. Hamlin never moved, or took his eyes from her until they disappeared over the ridge. Just as they dipped down out of sight she turned and waved one hand. Then the man's gaze swept over the débris of the burned stage, and the two mounds of earth. Even these mute evidences of tragedy scarcely sufficed to make him realize all that had occurred in this lonely spot. He could not seem to separate his thought from the cavalcade which had just departed, leaving behind the memory of that farewell wave of the hand. To him it marked the end of a dream, the return to a life distasteful and lonely.
Mechanically the Sergeant loaded his rifle, and strapped the old Confederate haversack to his saddle pommel, staring again, half unbelieving, at the faded inscription underneath the flap. Yet the sight of those letters awoke him, bringing to his bronzed face a new look of determination. He swung into the saddle, and, rifle across his knees, his eyes studying the desolate distance, rode westward along the deserted trail.
The swiftly speeding weeks of that war-summer on the plains had brought many changes to the hard-worked troops engaged in the campaign or garrisoning the widely scattered posts south of the Platte. Scouting details, although constantly in the saddle, failed to prevent continued Indian depredations on exposed settlements. Stage routes were deserted, and the toiling wagons of the freighters vanished from the trails. Reports of outrages were continuous, and it became more and more evident that the various tribes were at length united in a desperate effort to halt the white advance. War parties broke through the wide-strung lines of guard, and got safely away again, leaving behind death and destruction. Only occasionally did these Indian raiders and the pursuing troops come into actual contact. The former came and went in swift forays, now appearing on the Pawnee, again on the Saline, followed by a wild ride down the valley of the Arkansas. Scattered in small bands, well mounted and armed, no one could guess where the next attack might occur. Every day brought its fresh report of horror. From north and south, east and west, news of outrages came into Sheridan's headquarters at Fort Wallace.
Denver, at the base of the mountains, was practically in state of siege, provisioned only by wagon trains sent through under strong guard; the fringe of settlement along the water ways was deserted, men and women fleeing to the nearest government posts for protection and food. The troops, few in number and widely scattered in small detachments, many being utilized as scouts and guards, were unequal to the gigantic task of protecting so wide a frontier. Skirmishes were frequent, but the Indians were wary and resourceful, and only once during the entire summer were they brought into real decisive battle. The last of August, Major Forsythe, temporarily commanding a company of volunteer scouts, was suddenly attacked by over a thousand warriors under command of Roman Nose. A four days' fight resulted, with heavy loss on both sides, the Indians being finally driven from the field by the opportune arrival of fresh troops.
The general condition of affairs is well shown by the reports reaching Fort Wallace in September. Governor Hunt wrote from Denver: "Just returned. Fearful condition of things here. Nine persons murdered by Indians yesterday, within radius of nine miles." A few days later, acting Governor Hall reported: "The Indians have again attacked our settlements in strong force, obtaining possession of the country to within twelve miles of Denver. They are more bold, fierce, and desperate in their assaults than ever before. It is impossible to drive them out and protect the families at the same time, for they are better armed, mounted, disciplined, and better officered than our men. Each hour brings intelligence of fresh barbarities, and more extensive robberies." This same month Governor Crawford, of Kansas, telegraphed, "Have just received a despatch from Hays, stating that Indians attacked, captured, and burned a train at Pawnee Fork; killed, scalped, and burned sixteen men; also attacked another train at Cimarron Crossing, which was defended until ammunition was exhausted, when the men abandoned the train, saving what stock they could. Similar attacks are of almost daily occurrence."
South of the Cimarron all was desolation, and war raged unchecked from the Platte to the Pecos. Sheridan determined upon a winter campaign, although he understood well the sufferings entailed upon the troops by exposure on the open plains at that season. Yet he knew the habits of Indians; that they would expect immunity from attack and would gather in villages, subject to surprise. He, therefore, decided that the result would justify the necessary hardships involved. To this end smaller posts were abandoned, and the widely scattered soldiers ordered to central points in preparation for the contemplated movement. Devere had been deserted earlier, and Major McDonald had marched his men to Dodge, where Molly awaited his coming. Retained there on garrison duty, the two occupied a one-story, yellow stone structure fronting the parade ground. In October, orders to march reached "M" troop, Seventh Cavalry, at Fort Union, and the ragged, bronzed troopers, who all summer long had been scouting the New Mexican plains, turned their horses' heads to the northeast in hopefulness of action. With them up the deserted Santa Fé trail, past burned stations and wrecks of wagon trains, rode Sergeant Hamlin, silent and efficient, the old Confederate haversack fastened to his saddle, and his mind, in spite of all effort, recurring constantly to the girl who had gone to Dodge early in the summer. Was she still there? If so, how would she greet him now after these months of absence? The little cavalry column, dust-covered and weary, seemed fairly to creep along, as day by day he reviewed every word, every glance, which had passed between them; and at night, under the stars, he lay with head on his saddle, endeavoring to determine his course of action, both as to their possible meeting, and with regard to the following of the clue offered by the haversack. The time he had hoped for was at hand, but he could not decide the best course of action. He could only wait, and permit Fate to interfere.
Certain facts were, however, sufficiently clear, and the Sergeant faced them manfully. Not merely the fact that he was in the ranks, great as that handicap was, could have prevented an attempt at retaining the friendship of Molly McDonald. But he was in the ranks because of disgrace—hiding away from his own people, keeping aloof from his proper station in life, out of bitter shame. If he had felt thus before, he now felt it a thousand times more acutely in memory of the comradeship of her whose words had brought him a new gleam of hope. Never before had loneliness seemed so complete, and never before had he realized how wide was the chasm between the old and the new life. This constantly recurrent memory embittered him, and made him restless. Yet out of it all, there grew a firmer determination to win back his old position in the world, to stamp out the lie through which that Confederate court-martial had condemned him. If Le Fevre were alive, he meant now to find him, face him, and compel him to speak the truth. The discovery of that haversack gave a point from which to start, and his mind centred there with a fixed purpose which obscured all else.
It was after dark when "M" troop, wearied by their long day's march across the brown grass, rode slowly up the face of the bluff, and into the parade ground at Fort Dodge. The lights of the guard-house revealed the troopers' faces, while all about them gleamed the yellow lamps, as the garrison came forth to welcome their arrival. Guided by a corporal of the guard the men led their horses to the stables, and, as they passed the row of officers' houses Hamlin caught a furtive glimpse in a radius of light that gave his pulses a sudden throb. She was here then—here! He had hardly dared hope for this. They would meet again; that could scarcely be avoided in such narrow quarters. But how? On what terms? He ventured the one swift glimpse at her—a slender, white-robed figure, one among a group of both men and women before an open door, through which the light streamed—heard her ask, "Who are they? What cavalry troop is that?" caught the response in a man's voice, "'M' of the Seventh, from Fort Union," and then passed by, his eyes looking straight ahead, his hand gripping his horse's bit.
Thirty minutes later in the great barn-like barracks, he hung his accoutrements over the bed assigned him in the far corner, and, revolver belt still buckled about his waist, stood at the open window, striving to determine which of those winking lights shone from the house where he had seen her. There had been something in the eagerness of her voice which he could not forget, nor escape from. She had seemed to care, to feel an interest deeper than mere curiosity. The Sergeant's heart beat rapidly, even while he sternly told himself he was a fool. A hand touched his shoulder, and he wheeled about to grip Wasson's hand.
"Well, 'Brick,' old boy," said the scout genially, although his thin face was as solemn as ever; "so you fellows have come back to be in the shindy?"
"We 've been in it all summer, Sam," was the reply. "It's been lively enough south of the Cimarron, the Lord knows. I 've been riding patrol for months now. But what's up? No one seems to know why we were ordered in."
"It's all guess-work here," and Wasson sat down on the narrow bed and lit his pipe. "But the 'old man' is getting something under way, consolidating troops. Your regiment is going to be used, that's certain. I 've been carryin' orders between here an' Wallace for three weeks now, an' I 've heard Sheridan explode once or twice. He 's tired of this guerilla business, an' wants to have one good fight."
"It is getting late."
"That's the way he figures it out, accordin' to my notion. We 've always let those fellows alone during the bad weather, an' they 've got so they expect it. The 'old man' figures he 'll give 'em a surprise."
"A winter campaign?"
"Why not? We can stand it if they can. O' course, I 'm just guessin'; there 's no leak at headquarters. But Custer 's up there," with a wave of the hand to the north, "and they 've got the maps out."
"What maps?"
"I only got a glimpse of them out of the tail of my eye, but I reckon they was of the kintry south of the Arkansas, along the Canadian."
Hamlin sat down beside him, staring across the big room.
"Then it's Black Kettle; his band is down on the Washita," he announced. "I hope it's true."
"They 're arrangin' supply depots, anyhow; six companies of infantry are on Monument Creek, and five troops of cavalry on the North Canadian a'ready. Wagon trains have been haulin' supplies. There 's some stiff work ahead when the snow flies, or I miss my guess."
Hamlin sat silent, thinking, and the scout smoked quietly, occasionally glancing toward his companion. Finally he spoke again, his voice barely audible.
"That little girl you sent in with us is here yet."
The Sergeant was conscious that his cheeks flamed, but he never looked up.
"Yes, I saw her as we came in."
"She 's asked me about you once or twice; don't seem to forget what you did for her."
"Sorry to hear that."
"No, yer not; could n't no man be sorry to have a girl like that take an interest in him. 'T ain't in human nature. What did yer tell her about me?"
"Tell her!" surprised. "Why, I only advised her to hang close to you if anything happened. I didn't exactly like the style of the Lieutenant."
"Thet's wat I thought. Well, she's done it, though thet has n't pried her loose from Gaskins. He 's hauntin' her like a shadow. It 's garrison talk they 're engaged, but I ain't so sure 'bout thet. She an' I hev got to be pretty good friends, though, o' course, it's strictly on the quiet. I ain't got no invite to officers' row yit. She 's asked me a lot 'bout you."
"Interesting topic."
"Well, I reckon as how she thinks it is, enyhow. Yesterday she asked me 'bout thet scrimmage yer hed down on the Canadian. She 'd heerd 'bout it somehow, an' wanted the story straight. So I told her all I knowed, an' yer oughter seed her eyes shine while I wus sorter paintin' it up."
"Oh, hell; let's drop it," disgustedly. "The Lieutenant here yet?"
"Sure; his company is down on Monument, but he got special detail. He 's got a pull, Gaskins has."
"How is that?"
"His old man is Senator, or something, an' they say, has scads o' money. Enyway, the kid finds the army a soft snap. First scoutin' detail he ever had when you met him. Did n't hunt no danger then, so fur as I could see. Nice little dude, with a swelled head, but popular with the ladies. I reckon McDonald ain't objectin' none to his chasin' after Miss Molly; thet's why he 's let her stay in this God-forsaken place so long. Well, 'Brick,' I reckon I 've told all the news, and hed better move 'long."
"Hold on a minute, Sam," and Hamlin, suddenly recalled to earth, reached for the haversack hanging on the iron bedpost. "Moylan, the fellow who was killed in the coach with us, had this bag. According to Miss McDonald, he bought it here just before starting on the trip. See this inscription; those are the initials of an old acquaintance of mine I 'd like to trace. Any idea where Moylan found it?"
Wasson held the bag to the light studying the letters.
"Fourth Texas—hey? That your regiment?"
The Sergeant nodded, his lips tightly pressed together.
"Must hev come from Dutch Charlie's outfit," the scout went on slowly. "He picks up all that sorter truck."
"Where is that?"
"In town thar, under the bluff. We 'll look it up to-morrow."
One by one the barrack lights went out as the tired troopers sought their beds. Hamlin extinguished his also, and only one remained burning, left for emergency near the door, which flung a faint glow over the big room. But the Sergeant's reflections kept him awake, as he sat on the foot of his bed, and stared out of the open window into the darkness. There was little upon which to focus his eyes, a few yellow gleams along officers' row, where callers still lingered, and the glow of a fire in front of the distant guard-house, revealing occasionally the black silhouette of a passing sentinel. Few noises broke the silence, except the strains of some distant musical instrument, and a voice far away saying good-night. Once he awoke from revery to listen to the call of the guards, as it echoed from post to post, ceasing with "All well, Number Nine," far out beyond the stables.
The familiar sound served to recall him to the reality of his position. What was the use? What business had he to dream? For months now he had kept that girl's face before him, in memory of a few hours of happiness when he had looked into her dark eyes and heard her pleasant speech. Yet from the first he had known the foolishness of it all. He was nothing to her, and could never become anything. Even if he cleared his past record and stepped out of the ranks into his old social position, the chances were she would never overlook what he had been. Her gratitude meant little, nor her passing interest in his army career. All that was the natural result of his having saved her life. He possessed no egotism which permitted him to think otherwise. Years of discipline had drilled into him a consciousness of the impassable gulf between the private and the officer's daughter. The latter might be courteous, kindly disposed, even grateful for services rendered, but it must end there. The Major would see that it did, would resent bitterly any presumption. No, there was nothing else possible. If they met—as meet they must in that contracted post—it would be most formal, a mere exchange of reminiscence, gratitude expressed by a smile and pleasant word. He could expect no more; might esteem himself fortunate, indeed, to receive even that recognition. Meanwhile he would endeavor to strike Le Fevre's trail. There were other interests in the world to consider besides Molly McDonald, and his memory drifted away to a home he had not visited in years. But thought would not concentrate there, and there arose before him, as he lay there, the face of Lieutenant Gaskins, wearing the same expression of insolent superiority as when they had parted out yonder on the Santa Fé trail.
"The cowardly little fool," he muttered bitterly under his breath, gripping the window frame. "It will require more than his money to bring her happiness, and I 'll never stand for that. Lord! She 's too sensible ever to love him. Good God—what's that!"
It leaped out of the black night—-three flashes, followed instantly by the sharp reports. Then a fourth—this time unmistakably a musket—barked from behind officers' row. In the flare, Hamlin thought he saw two black shadows running. A voice yelled excitedly, "Post Six! Post Six!" With a single leap the Sergeant was across the sill, and dropped silently to the ground. Still blinded by the light he ran forward, jerking his revolver from the belt. As he passed the corner of the barracks the sentry fired again, the red flash cleaving the night in an instant's ghastly vividness. It revealed a woman shrinking against the yellow stone wall, lighted up her face, then plunged her again into obscurity.
The Sergeant caught the glimpse, half believing the vision a phantasy of the brain; he had seen her face, white, frightened, agonized, yet it could not have been real. He tripped over the stone wall and half fell, but ran on, his mind in a turmoil, but certain some one was racing before him down the dark ravine. There had been a woman there! He could not quite blot that out—but not she; not Molly McDonald. If—if it were she; if he had really seen her face in the flare, if it was no dream, then what? Why, he must screen her from discovery, give her opportunity to slip away. This was the one vague, dim thought which took possession of the man. It obscured all else; it sent him blindly crashing over the edge of the ravine. He heard the sentry at his right cry hoarsely, he heard excited shouts from the open windows of the barracks; then his feet struck a man's body, and he went down headlong.
Almost at the instant the sentry was upon him, a gun-muzzle pressing him back as he attempted to rise.
"Be still, ye hell hound," was the gruff order, "or I 'll blow yer to kingdom come! Sergeant of the guard, quick here! Post Number Six!"
Hamlin lay still, half stunned by the shock of his fall, yet conscious that the delay, this mistake of the sentry, would afford her ample chance for escape. He could hear men running toward them, and his eyes caught the yellow, bobbing light of a lantern. His hand reached out and touched the body over which he had fallen, feeling a military button, and the clasp of a belt—it was a soldier then who had been shot. Could she have done it? Or did she know who did? Whatever the truth might be, he would hold his tongue; let them suppose him guilty for the time being; he could establish innocence easily enough when it came to trial. These thoughts flashed through his mind swiftly; then the light of the lantern gleamed in his eyes, and he saw the faces clustered about.
"All right, Mapes," commanded the man with the light. "Let the fellow up until I get a look at him. Who the hell are you?"
"Sergeant Hamlin, Seventh Cavalry."
"Darned if it ain't. Say, what does all this mean, anyhow? Who's shot? Turn the body over, somebody! By God! It's Lieutenant Gaskins!"
Hamlin's heart seemed to leap into his throat and choke him; for an instant he felt faint, dazed, staring down into the still face ghastly under the rays of the lantern. Gaskins! Then she was concerned in the affair; he really had seen her hiding there against the wall. And the man's eyes were open, were staring in bewilderment at the faces. The Sergeant of the guard thrust the lantern closer.
"Lift his head, some o' yer, the man's alive. Copley, get some water, an' two of yer run fer the stretcher—leg it now. We 'll have yer out o' here in a minute, Lieutenant. What happened, sir? Who shot yer?"
Gaskins' dulled eyes strayed from the speaker's face, until he saw Hamlin, still firmly gripped by the sentry. His lips drew back revealing his teeth, his eyes narrowing.
"That's the one," he said faintly. "You 've got him!"
One hand went to his side in a spasm of pain, and he fainted. The Sergeant laid him back limp on the grass, and stood up.
"Where is your gun, Hamlin?"
"I dropped it when I fell over the Lieutenant's body. It must be back of you."
Some one picked the weapon up, and held it to the light, turning the chambers.
"Two shots gone, Sergeant."
"We heard three; likely the Lieutenant got in one of them. Sentry, what do you know about this?"
Mapes scratched his head, the fingers of his other hand gripping the prisoner's shoulder.
"Not so awful much," he replied haltingly, "now I come ter think 'bout it. 'T was a mighty dark night, an' I never saw, ner heard, nuthin' till the shootin' begun. I wus back o' officers' row, an' them pistols popped up yere, by the corner o' the barracks. I jumped an' yelled; thought I heerd somebody runnin' an' let drive. Then just as I got up yere, this feller come tearin' 'long, an' I naturally grabbed him. That's the whole of it."
"What have you got to say, Hamlin?"
"Nothing."
"Well, yer better. Yer in a mighty bad box, let me tell yer," angered by the other's indifference. "What was the row about?"
The cavalryman stood straight, his face showing white in the glow of the lantern.
"I told you before I had nothing to say. I will talk to-morrow," he returned quietly. "I submit to arrest."
"I reckon yer will talk to-morrow, and be damn glad o' the chance. Corporal, take this fellow to the guard-house, an' stay there with him. Here comes the stretcher, an' the doctor."
Hamlin marched off silently through the black night, surrounded by a detail of the guard. It had all occurred so suddenly that he was bewildered yet, merely retaining sufficient consciousness of the circumstances to keep still. If they were assured he was guilty, then no effort would be made to trace any others connected with the affair. Why Gaskins should have identified him as the assassin was a mystery—probably it was merely the delirium of a sorely wounded man, although the fellow may have disliked him sufficiently for that kind of revenge, or have mistaken him for another in the poor light. At any rate the unexpected identification helped him to play his part, and, if the Lieutenant lived, he would later acknowledge his mistake. There was no occasion to worry; he could clear himself of the charge whenever the time came; half his company would know he was in barracks when the firing began. There were women out on the walk, their skirts fluttering as they waited anxiously to learn the news, but he could not determine if she was among them. Voices asked questions, but the corporal hurried him along, without making any reply. Then he was thrust roughly into a stone-lined cell, and left alone. Outside in the corridor two guards were stationed. Hamlin sat down on the iron bed, dazed by the silence, endeavoring to collect his thoughts. The nearest guard, leaning on his gun, watched carefully.
Voices reached him from outside, echoing in through the high, iron-barred window, but they were distant, the words indistinguishable. As his brain cleared he gave no further thought to his own predicament, only considering how he could best divert suspicion from her. It was all a confused maze, into the mystery of which he was unable to penetrate. That it was Molly McDonald shrinking there in the dark corner of the barracks wall he had no doubt. She might not have recognized him, or imagined that he saw her, but that spear of light had certainly revealed a face not to be mistaken. White as it was, haggard with terror, half concealed by straggling hair, the identification was nevertheless complete. The very piteousness of expression appealed to him. She was not a girl easily frightened; no mere promiscuous shooting, however startling, would have brought that look to her face. He had seen her in danger before, had tested her coolness under fire. This meant something altogether different. What? Could it be that Gaskins had wronged the girl, had insulted her, and that she, in response, had shot him down? In the darkness of conjecture there seemed no other adequate explanation. The two were intimate; the rumor of an engagement was already circulating about the garrison. And the stricken man had endeavored to shift the blame on him. Hamlin could not believe this was done through any desire to injure; the Lieutenant had no cause for personal dislike which would account for such an accusation. They had only met once, and then briefly. There was no rivalry between them, no animosity. To be sure, Gaskins had been domineering, threatening to report a small breach of discipline, but in this his words and actions had been no more offensive than was common among young officers of his quality. The Sergeant had passed all memory of that long ago. It never occurred to him now as of the slightest importance. Far more probable did it appear that Gaskins' only motive was to shield the girl from possible suspicion. When he had realized that Hamlin was a prisoner, that for some reason he had been seized for the crime, he had grasped the opportunity to point him out as the assassin, and thus delay pursuit. The chances were the wounded man did not even recognize who the victim was—he had blindly grasped at the first straw.
But suppose he had been mistaken? Suppose that woman hiding there was some one else? Suppose he had imagined a resemblance in that sudden flash of revealment? What then? Would she care enough to come to him when she learned of the arrest? He laughed at the thought, yet it was a bitter laugh, for it brought back a new realization of the chasm between them. Major McDonald's daughter interesting herself in a guard-house prisoner! More than likely she would promptly forget that she had ever before heard his name. He must be growing crazy to presume that she permitted him to remain on her list of friendship.
He got up and paced the cell, noting as he did so how closely he was watched by the guard.
"Have you heard how badly the Lieutenant was hurt?" he asked, approaching the door.
The sentry glanced down the corridor.
"He 'll pull out, all right," he replied confidentially, his lips close to the door. "Nothin' vital punctured. You better go to bed, an' forget it till mornin'."
"All right, pardner," and Hamlin returned to the cot. "Turn the light down a little, will you? There, that's better. My conscience won't trouble me, but that glare did."
With his face to the stone wall he fell asleep.
It was late in the forenoon when the heavily armed guard marched Hamlin across to the commandant's office. He had been surprised at the delay, but had enjoyed ample opportunity to plan a course of action, and decide how best to meet the questions which would be asked. He could clear himself without involving her, without even a mention of her presence, and this knowledge left him confident and at ease.
There were half a dozen officers gathered in the small room, the gray-bearded Colonel in command, sitting behind a table, with Major McDonald at his right, and the others wherever they could find standing room. Hamlin saluted, and stood at attention, his gray eyes on the face of the man who surveyed him across the table.
"Sergeant," the Colonel said rather brusquely, "you came in last night with 'M' troop, did you not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Had you ever met Lieutenant Gaskins before?"
"Once; he pulled me out of a bad scrape with a bunch of Indians out on the trail a few months ago."
"The same affair I spoke to you about," commented McDonald quietly. "The attack on the stage."
The Colonel nodded, without removing his eyes from the Sergeant's face.
"Yes, I know about that," he said. "And that was the only occasion of your meeting?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, Sergeant Hamlin, I purpose being perfectly frank with you. There are two or three matters not easily explained about this affair. I am satisfied of your innocence; that you were not directly concerned in the shooting of Lieutenant Gaskins. Men of your troop state that you were in barracks when the shots were fired, and the wound was not made by a service revolver, but by a much smaller weapon. Yet there are circumstances which puzzle us, but which, no doubt, you can explain. Two shots had been fired from your revolver," and he pushed the weapon across the table.
"I rode ahead of the troop in march yesterday," Hamlin explained, "and fired twice at a jack-rabbit. I must have neglected to replace the cartridges. Private Stone was with me."
"Why did you submit to arrest so easily, without any attempt to clear yourself?"
The Sergeant's gray eyes smiled, but his response was quietly respectful.
"I was condemned before I really knew what had occurred, sir. The sentry, the Sergeant of the guard, and the Lieutenant all insisted that I was guilty. They permitted me no opportunity to explain. I thought it just as well to remain quiet, and let the affair straighten itself out."
"Yet your action threw us completely off the trail," broke in McDonald impatiently. "It permitted the really guilty parties to escape. Did you see any one?"
"Black smudges merely, Major, apparently running toward the ravine. My eyes were blinded, leaping from a lighted room."
McDonald leaned forward eagerly, one hand tapping the table.
"Was one of them a woman?" he questioned sharply.
Hamlin's heart leaped into his throat, but he held himself motionless.
"They were indistinguishable, sir; mere shadows. Have you reason to suspect there may have been a woman involved?"
The Major leaned back in his chair, but the commandant, after a glance at his officer, answered:
"The pistol used was a small one, such as a woman might carry, and there are marks of a woman's shoe plainly visible at the edge of the ravine. Lieutenant Gaskins was alone when he left the officers' club five minutes before the firing began. You are sure you have never had any controversy with this officer?"
"Perfectly sure, sir. We have never met except on the one occasion already referred to, and then scarcely a dozen words were exchanged."
"How then, Sergeant," and the Colonel spoke very soberly, "do you account for his denouncing you as his assassin?"
"I presumed he was influenced by my arrest, sir; that the shock had affected his brain."
"That supposition will hardly answer. The Lieutenant is not severely wounded, and this morning appears to be perfectly rational. Yet he insists you committed the assault; even refers to you by name."
The accused man pressed one hand to his forehead in bewilderment.
"He still insists I shot him?"
"Yes; to be frank, he 's rather bitter about it, and no facts we have brought to bear have any apparent weight. He swears he recognized your face in the flare of the first discharge."
The Sergeant stood silent, motionless, his gaze on the Colonel's face.
"I do not know what to say, sir," he answered finally. "I was not there, and you all know it from the men of my troop. There has been no trouble between Lieutenant Gaskins and myself, and I can conceive of no reason why he should desire to involve me in this affair—unless," he paused doubtfully; "unless, sir, he really knows who shot him, and is anxious to shift the blame elsewhere to divert suspicion."
"You mean he may be seeking to shield the real culprit?"
"That is the only explanation that occurs to me, sir."
The Colonel stroked his beard nervously, his glance wandering to the faces of the other officers.
"That might be possible," he acknowledged regretfully, "although I should dislike to believe any officer of my command would be deliberately guilty of so despicable an act. However, all we can do now is endeavor to uncover the truth. You are discharged from arrest, Sergeant Hamlin, and will return to your troop."
Hamlin passed out the door into the sunshine, dimly conscious that his guarded answers had not been entirely satisfactory to those left behind. Yet he had said all he could say, all he dared say. More and more firmly there had been implanted in his mind a belief that Molly McDonald was somehow involved in this unfortunate affair, and that her name must be protected at all hazard. This theory alone would seem to account for Gaskins' efforts to turn suspicion, and when this was connected with the already known presence of a woman on the scene, and the smallness of the weapon used, the evidence seemed conclusive.
As far as his own duty was concerned, the Sergeant felt no doubt. Whatever might be the cause, there was no question in his mind but that she was fully justified in her action. Disliking the Lieutenant from the first, and as strongly attracted by the girl, his sympathies were now entirely with her. If she had shot him, then it was for some insult, some outrage, and he was ready to protect her with his life. He stopped, glancing back at the closed door, tempted to return and ask permission to interview Gaskins personally. Then the uselessness of such procedure recurred to him; the fact that nothing could result from their meeting but disappointment and recrimination. The man evidently disliked him, and would resent any interference; he had something to conceal, something at stake for which he would battle strenuously. It would be better to let him alone at present, and try to uncover a clue elsewhere. Later, with more facts in his possession, he could face the Lieutenant and compel his acknowledgment. These considerations caused him to turn sharply and walk straight toward the ravine. Yet his investigations there brought few results. On the upper bank were the marks of a woman's shoe, a slender footprint clearly defined, but the lower portion of the ravine was rocky, and the trail soon lost. He passed down beyond the stables, realizing how easily the fugitives, under cover of darkness, could have escaped. The stable guard could have seen nothing from his station, and just below was the hard-packed road leading to the river and the straggling town. There was nothing to trace, and Hamlin climbed back up the bluff completely baffled but desperately resolved to unlock the mystery. The harder the solution appeared, the more determined he became to solve it. As he came out, opposite the barrack entrance, a carriage drove in past the guard-house, the guard presenting arms, and circled the parade in the direction of officers' row. It contained a soldier driver and two ladies, and the Sergeant's face blushed under its tan as he recognized Miss McDonald. Would she notice him—speak to him? The man could not forbear lifting his eyes to her face as the carriage swept by. He saw her glance toward him, smile, with a little gesture of recognition, and stood there bareheaded, his heart throbbing wildly. With that look, that smile, he instantly realized two facts of importance—she was willing to meet him on terms of friendship, and she had not recognized him the evening previous as he ran past her in the dark.
Hamlin, his thoughts entirely centred upon Miss McDonald, had scarcely noted her companion, yet as he lingered while the carriage drew up before the Major's quarters, he seemed to remember vaguely that she was a strikingly beautiful blonde, with face shadowed by a broad hat. Although larger, and with light fluffy hair and blue eyes, the lady's features were strangely like those of her slightly younger companion. The memory of these grew clearer before the Sergeant—the whiteness of the face, the sudden lowering of the head; then he knew her; across the chasm of years her identity smote him as a blow; his breath came quickly and his fingers clenched.
"My God!" he muttered, unconsciously. "That was Vera! She has changed, wonderfully changed, but—but she knew me. What, in Heaven's name, can she be doing here, and—with Molly?"
With straining eyes he stared after them until they both disappeared together within the house. Miss McDonald glanced back toward him once almost shyly, but the other never turned her head. The carriage drove away toward the stables. Feeling as though he had looked upon a ghost, Hamlin turned to enter the barracks. An infantry soldier leaned negligently in the doorway smoking.
"You 're the sergeant who saved that girl down the trail, ain't yer?" he asked indolently. "Thought so; I was one o' Gaskins' men."
Hamlin accepted the hand thrust forth, but with mind elsewhere.
"Do you happen to know who that was with Miss McDonald?" he asked.
"Did n't see 'em, only their backs as they went in—nice lookin' blonde?"
"Yes, rather tall, with very light hair."
"Oh, that's Mrs. Dupont."
"Mrs. Dupont?" the name evidently a surprise; "wife of one of the officers?"
"No, she 's no army dame. Husband's a cattleman. Got a range on the Cowskin, south o' here, but I reckon the missus don't like that sorter thing much. Lives in St. Louis mostly, but has been stoppin' with the McDonalds fer a month er two now. Heerd she wus a niece o' the Major's, an' reckon she must be, er thar 'd been a flare up long ago. She 's a high flyer, she is, an' she 's got the Leftenant goin' all right."
"Gaskins?"
"Sure; he's a lady-killer, but thet 's 'bout all the kind o' killer he is, fer as I ever noticed—one o' yer he-flirts. Thar ain't hardly an officer in this garrison thet ain't just achin' fer ter kick that squirt, but ther women—oh, Lord; they think he's a little tin god on wheels. Beats hell, don't it, what money will do fer a damn fool."
Hamlin stood a moment silent, half inclined to ask another question, but crushing back the inclination. Then he walked down the hall to the quarters assigned "M" Troop, and across to his own bed in the far corner. There were only a few of the men present, most of whom were busily engaged at a game of cards, and he sat down where he could gaze out the window and think. Here was a new complication, a fresh puzzle to be unravelled. He had never expected this woman to come into his life again; she had become a blurred, unpleasant memory, a bit of his past which he had supposed was blotted out forever. Mrs. Dupont—then she had not married Le Fevre after all. He dully wondered why, yet was not altogether surprised. Even as he turned this fact over and over in his mind, speculating upon it, he became aware of a man leaving the rear door of McDonald's quarters, and advancing back of officers' row toward the barracks. As the fellow drew near, Hamlin recognized the soldier who had been driving the carriage. A moment later the man entered the room, spoke to the group of card players, and then came straight across toward him.
"Sergeant Hamlin?"
"Yes."
"I was asked to hand you this note; there is no answer."
Hamlin held it unopened until the fellow disappeared, hesitating between hope and dread. Which of the two women had ventured to write him? What could be the unexpected message? At last his eyes scanned the three short lines:
"You recognized me, and we must understand each other. At ten to-night ask the Clerk of the Occidental—V."