Hamlin's first impulse was to ignore the note, trusting his position in the ranks would be sufficient barrier to prevent any chance meeting, and believing his stay at that garrison would be only a brief one. Sheridan was evidently preparing for an early offensive campaign, and it was rumored on all sides that the Seventh Cavalry had been selected for active field service. Indeed, the urgent orders for the consolidation of the regiment from scattered posts must mean this. Any day might bring orders, and he could easily avoid this Mrs. Dupont until then. Except for a faint curiosity, the Sergeant felt no inclination to meet the woman. Whatever influence she might have once exercised over him had been thoroughly overcome by years and absence. Even the unexpected sight of her again—seemingly as beautiful as ever—had failed to awaken the spell of the past. It was almost with a thrill of delight that Hamlin realized this—that he was in truth utterly free of her influence. There had been times when he had anticipated such a possible meeting with dread; when he had doubted his own heart, the strength of his will to resist. But now he knew he stood absolutely independent and could laugh at her wiles. She who had once been all—trusted, loved, worshipped with all the mad fervor of youth—had become only a dead memory. Between them stretched a chasm never to be bridged.
What could the woman possibly want of him? To explain the past? To justify herself? He knew enough already, and desired to know no more. Could she hope—natural coquette that she was—to regain her hold upon him? The man smiled grimly, confident of his own strength. Yet why should she care for such a conquest, the winning of a common soldier? There must be some better reason, some more subtle purpose. Could it be that she feared him, that she was afraid that he might speak to her injury? This was by far the most likely supposition. Molly McDonald—the woman was aware of their acquaintance, and was already alarmed at its possible result.
Hamlin stood up resolved. He would meet the woman, not from any desire of his own, but to learn her purpose, and protect the girl. The meeting could not injure him, not even bring a swifter beating of the heart, but might give him opportunity to serve the other. And Le Fevre—surely she could tell him something of Le Fevre.
Leave was easily obtained, and the Sergeant, rejoicing in a freshly issued uniform, dressed with all the care possible, his interest reviving at this new point of view. It was not far down the bluff road to the squalid little village which had naturally developed in close proximity to the fort—near enough for protection, yet far enough removed to be lawless—a rough frontier outpost town, of shacks and tents, most of these dispensing vile liquors. Among these, more enterprising spirits—hopeful of future development—had erected larger buildings, usually barn-like, with false fronts facing the single main street, filled with miscellaneous stocks of goods or used for purposes not so legitimate. One of these housed the "Poodle Dog" saloon, with gambling rooms above, while a few doors below was a great dance hall, easily converted into a theatre if occasion arose,—a grotesque, one-storied monstrosity. Below these was the stage office, built against the three-storied wooden hotel, which boasted of a wide porch on two sides, and was a picture of ugliness.
By daylight all was squalor and dirt, dingy tents flapping in the ceaseless wind, unpainted shacks, wooden houses with boards warping under the hot sun, the single street deep in yellow dust, the surrounding prairie littered with tin cans, and all manner of débris. But with the coming of night much of this roughness departed. Soldiers from the garrison on pass, idle plainsmen, bull-whackers, adventurers of all kinds stranded here because of Indian activity, stray cowboys from the nearby valleys, thronged the numerous dives, seeking excitement. Women, gaudy of dress, shrill of voice, flitted from door to door through the jostling crowds. Lamps blazed over the motley assembly, loud-voiced barkers yelled, and a band added its discords to the din. The "Poodle Dog" glared in light, resounded with noise; lamps gleamed from the hotel windows, and the huge dance hall stood wide open. Out from the shacks and tents crept the day's sleepers for a night of revelry; along the trails rode others eager for excitement; it was the harvest-time of those birds of prey in saloon and gambling hell.
Hamlin saw all this, but gave the surroundings little thought. He was of the West, of the frontier, and beheld nothing unique in the scene. Moreover, the purpose for which he was there overshadowed all else, left him indifferent to the noise, the jostling, drunken crowd. Some he met who knew him and called his name, but he passed them with a word, and pressed his way forward. At the hotel he mounted the steps and entered. The office was in one corner of the bar-room. The proprietor himself, a bald-headed Irishman, sat with feet cocked up on the counter, smoking, and barely glancing up as the Sergeant asked for Mrs. Dupont.
"Who are yer?" he asked.
"My name is Hamlin; I am here on the lady's invitation."
"Sure; thet 's ther name all right, me bhoy. Yer ter go out on the east porch there, an' wait a bit whoile I sind her worrd yer here. Oi 'm imaginin' she hed sum doubts about yer comin', the way she spoke."
"How do I get there?"
"Through the winder of the parlur over thar—sure, it 's a noice quiet spot fer a tate-a-tate." He got up, and peered through his glasses across the room. "Here, Moike; damn thet slapy head. Will one o' yer gents wake the lad—that's it. Now come here, Moike. You run over to the Palace an' tell Mrs. Dupont the fellar is here waitin'. Hold on now, not so fast; wait till Oi 'm done tellin' yer. Say thet to her alone—do yer moind thet, ye sap-head; nobody else is to hear whut yer say; stay there till yer git a chance ter whisper it to her. Now skip."
Hamlin hesitated, watching the boy disappear.
"At the Palace—the dance hall across the street?" he asked incredulously.
"Sure," indifferently, relighting his pipe. "Officers' ball; couldn't break in with a can-opener unless you had a invite. Guards at both ends, sergeant taking tickets, an' Third Regiment Band makin' music. Hell of a swell affair; got guests here from Leavenworth, Wallace, and all around. Every room I got is full an' runnin' over—say, there are fellars over thar in them fool swaller-tail coats; damned if there ain't. If the b'ys ever git sight of 'em on the street there 'll be a hot time. Say, ain' that the limit? Injuns out thar thick as fleas on a dog, an' them swells dancin' here in swaller-tails like this yere was Boston."
He was still talking when Hamlin crossed the narrow hall and entered the dimly-lighted, unoccupied parlor. The side window was open, a slight breeze rustled the heavy curtain, and the Sergeant stepped outside on to the dark porch. There was a bench close to the rail and he sat down to wait. A gleam of light from the Palace fell across the western end, but the remainder of the porch lay in shadow, although he could look up the street, and see the people jostling back and forth in front of the Poodle Dog. The sound of mingled voices was continuous, occasionally punctuated by laughter, or an unrestrained outburst of profanity. Once shots echoed from out the din, but created no apparent excitement, and a little later a dozen horsemen spurred recklessly through the street, scattering the crowd, their revolvers sputtering. Some altercation arose opposite and a voice called loudly for the guard, but the trouble soon ceased with the clump of hoofs, dying away in the distance, the regimental band noisily blaring out a waltz. Hamlin, immersed in his own thoughts, scarcely observed the turmoil, but leaned, arms on railing, gazing out into the darkness. Something mysterious from out the past had gripped him; he was wondering how he should greet her when she came; speculating on her purpose in sending for him.
It seemed as though he waited a long time before the curtain at the window was thrust aside and the lady emerged, the slight rustling of her dress apprising him of her presence. The curtain still held slightly back by her hand permitted the light from within to reflect over her figure, revealing in softened outline the beauty of her features, the flossy brightness of her hair. She was in evening dress, a light shawl draping her shoulders. An instant she paused in uncertainty, striving to distinguish his face; then stepped impulsively forward, and held out her hands.
"I have kept you waiting, but you must forgive that, as I came as soon as I could manufacture an excuse. Won't you even shake hands with me?"
"Is it necessary?" he asked, almost wearily. "You have come to me for some purpose surely, but it can hardly be friendship."
"Why should you say that?" reproachfully. "I have deserted a rather brilliant party to meet you here."
"That, perhaps, is why I say it, Mrs. Dupont. If my memory serves, you would not be inclined to leave such friends as you have yonder to rendezvous with a common soldier, unless you had some special object in view. If you will inform me what it is, we can very quickly terminate the interview."
She laughed, a little touch of nervousness in the voice, but drew her skirts aside, and sat down on the bench.
"Do you think you can deceive me by such play-acting?" she asked eagerly. "You are no man of wood. Tell me, is there nothing you care to ask me, after—after all these years?"
Hamlin lifted his eyes and looked at her, stirred into sudden interest by the almost caressing sound of the soft voice.
"Yes," he said slowly, "there are some things I should like to know, if I thought you would answer frankly."
"Try me and see."
"Then why are you Mrs. Dupont, instead of Mrs. Le Fevre?"
"Then my guess is true, and you are not so devoid of curiosity," she laughed. "My answer? Why, it is simplicity itself—because I was never Mrs. Le Fevre, but am rightfully Mrs. Dupont."
"Do you mean you were never married to Le Fevre?"
"What else could I mean?"
"Then he lied."
She shrugged her white shoulders.
"That would not surprise me in the least. 'T was a characteristic of the man you had ample reason to know. How came you to believe so easily?"
"Believe? What else could I believe? Everything served to substantiate his boast. I was in disgrace, practically drummed out of camp. There was nothing left for me to live for, or strive after. I was practically dead. Then your letter confessing came—"
"Wait," she interrupted, "that letter was untrue, false; it was penned under compulsion. I wrote you again, later, but you had gone, disappeared utterly. I wanted to explain, but your own people even did not know where you were—do not know yet."
He leaned his body against the rail, and looked at her in the dim light. Her face retained much of its girlish attractiveness, yet its undoubted charms no longer held the man captive. He smiled coldly.
"The explanation comes somewhat late," he replied deliberately. "When it might have served me it was not offered—indeed, you had conveniently disappeared. But I am not here to criticise; that is all over with, practically forgotten. I came at your request, and presume you had a reason. May I again ask what it was?"
She sat for a moment silent, gazing up the street, but breathing heavily. This was not the reception she had anticipated, and it was difficult to determine swiftly what course she had best pursue. Realizing the hold she had once had upon this man, it had never occurred to her mind that her influence had altogether departed. Her beauty had never failed before to win such victory, and she had trusted now in reviving the old smouldering passion into sudden flame. Yet already she comprehended the utter uselessness of such an expectation—there was no smouldering passion to be fanned; his indifference was not assumed. The discovery angered her, but long experience had brought control; it required only a moment to readjust her faculties, to keep the bitterness out of her voice. When she again faced him it was to speak quietly, with convincing earnestness.
"Yes, I realize it is too late for explanations," she acknowledged, "so I will attempt none. I wished you to know, however, that I did not desert you for that man. This was my principal purpose in sending for you."
"Do you know where he is?"
She hesitated ever so slightly, yet he, watching her closely, noted it.
"No; at the close of the war he came home, commanding the regiment which should have been yours. Within three months he had converted all the family property into cash and departed. There was a rumor that he was engaged in the cattle business."
"You actually expect me to believe all this—that you knew nothing of his plans—were not, indeed, a part of them?"
"I am indifferent as to what you believe," she replied coldly. "But you are ungentlemanly to express yourself so freely. Why should you say that?"
"Because I chance to know more than you suppose. Never mind how the information reached me; had it been less authentic you might find me now more susceptible to your presence, more choice in my language. A carefully conceived plot drove me from the Confederate service, in which you were as deeply involved as Le Fevre. Its double object was to advance him in rank and get me out of the way. The plan worked perfectly; I could have met and fought either object alone, but the two combined broke me utterly. I had no spirit of resistance left. Yet even then—in spite of that miserable letter—I retained faith in you. I returned home to learn the truth from your own lips, only to discover you had already gone. I was a month learning the facts; then I discovered you had married Le Fevre in Richmond; I procured the affidavit of the officiating clergyman. Will you deny now?"
"No," changing her manner instantly—"what is the use? I married the man, but I was deceived, misled. There was no conspiracy in which I was concerned. I did not know where you were; from then until this afternoon I never saw or heard of you. Molly told me of her rescue by a soldier named Hamlin, but I never suspected the truth until we drove by the barracks. Then I yielded to my first mad impulse and sent that note. If you felt toward me with such bitterness, why did you come here? Why consent to meet me again?"
"My yielding was to a second impulse. At first I decided to ignore your note; then came the second consideration—Miss McDonald."
"Oh," and she laughed, "at last I read the riddle. Not satisfied with saving that young lady from savages, you would also preserve her youthful innocence from the contamination of my influence. Quite noble of you, surely. Are you aware of our relationship?"
"I have heard it referred to—garrison rumor."
"Quite true, in spite of your source of information, which accounts, in a measure, for my presence here as well as my intimacy in the McDonald household. And you propose interfering, plan to drive me forth from this pleasant bird's nest. Really you amuse me, Mr. Sergeant Hamlin."
"But I have not proposed anything of that nature," the man said quietly, rising to his feet. "It is, of course, nothing to me, except that Miss McDonald has been very kind and seems a very nice girl. As I knew something of you and your past, I thought perhaps you might realize how much better it would be to retire gracefully."
"You mean that as a threat? You intend to tell her?"
"Not unless it becomes necessary; I am not proud of the story myself."
Their eyes met, and there was no shadow of softness in either face. The woman's lips curled sarcastically.
"Really, you take yourself quite seriously, do you not? One might think you still Major of the Fourth Texas, and heir to the old estate on the Brazos. You talked that way to me once before, only to discover that I had claws with which to scratch. Don't make that mistake again, Mr. Sergeant Hamlin, or there will be something more serious than scratching done. I have learned how to fight in the past few years—Heaven knows I have had opportunity—and rather enjoy the excitement. How far would your word go with Molly, do you think? Or with the Major?"
"That remains to be seen."
"Does it? Oh, I understand. You must still consider yourself quite the lady-killer. Well, let me tell you something—she is engaged to Lieutenant Gaskins."
His hand-grip tightened on the rail, but there was no change in the expression of his face.
"So I had heard. I presume that hardly would have been permitted to happen but for the existence of a Mr. Dupont. By the way, which one of you ladies shot the Lieutenant?"
It was a chance fire, and Hamlin was not sure of its effect, although she drew a quick breath, and her voice faltered.
"Shot—Lieutenant Gaskins?"
"Certainly; you must be aware of that?"
"Oh, I knew he had some altercation, and was wounded; he accused you, did he not? But why bring us into the affair?"
"Because some woman was directly concerned in it. Whoever she may be, the officers of the fort are convinced that she probably fired the shot; that the Lieutenant knows her identity, and is endeavoring to shield her from discovery."
"Why do they think that? What reason can they have for such a conclusion? Was she seen?"
"Her footprints were plainly visible, and the revolver used was a small one—a '36'—such as a woman alone would carry in this country. I have said so to no one else, but I saw her, crouching in the shadow of the barrack wall."
"You—you saw her? Recognized her?"
"Yes."
"And made no attempt at arrest? Have not even mentioned the fact to others? You must have a reason?"
"I have, Mrs. Dupont, but we will not discuss it now. I merely wish you to comprehend that if it is to be war between us, I am in possession of weapons."
She had not lost control of herself, yet there was that about her hesitancy of speech, her quick breathing, which evidenced her surprise at this discovery. It told him that he had played a good hand, had found a point of weakness in her armor. The mystery of it remained unsolved, but this woman knew who had shot Gaskins; knew, and had every reason to guard the secret. He felt her eyes anxiously searching his face, and laughed a little bitterly.
"You perceive, madam," he went on, encouraged by her silence, "I am not now exactly the same unsuspecting youth with whom you played so easily years ago. I have learned some of life's lessons since; among them how to fight fire with fire. It is a trick of the plains. Do you still consider it necessary for your happiness to remain the guest of the McDonalds?"
She straightened up, turning her eyes away.
"Probably not for long, but it is no threat of yours which influences me. It does not even interest me to know who shot Lieutenant Gaskins. He is a vulgar little prig, only made possible by the possession of money. However, when I decide to depart, I shall probably do so without consulting your pleasure." She hesitated, her voice softening as though in change of mood. "Yet I should prefer parting with you in friendship. In asking you to meet me to-night I had no intention of quarrelling; merely yielded to an impulse of regret for the past—"
The heavy curtain draping the window was drawn aside, permitting the light from within to flash upon them, revealing the figure of a man in uniform.
"Pardon my interruption," he explained, bowing, "but you were gone so long, Mrs. Dupont, I feared some accident."
She laughed lightly.
"You are very excusable. No doubt I have been here longer than I supposed."
The officer's eyes surveyed the soldier standing erect, his hand lifted in salute. The situation puzzled him.
"Sergeant Hamlin, how are you here? On leave?"
"Yes, sir."
"Of course this is rather unusual, Captain Barrett," said the lady hastily, tapping the astonished officer lightly with her fan, "but I was once quite well acquainted with Sergeant Hamlin when he was a major of the Fourth Texas Infantry during the late war. He and my husband were intimates. Naturally I was delighted to meet with him again."
The Captain stared at the man's rigid figure.
"Good Lord, I never knew that, Hamlin," he exclaimed. "Glad to know it, my man. You see," he explained lamely, "we get all kinds of fellows in the ranks, and are not interested in their past history. I 've had Hamlin under my command for two years now, and hanged if I knew anything about him, except that he was a good soldier. Were you ready to go, Mrs. Dupont?"
"Oh, yes; we have exhausted all our reminiscences. Good-bye, Sergeant; so glad to have met you again."
She extended her ungloved hand, a single diamond glittering in the light. He accepted it silently, aware of the slight pressure of her fingers. Then the Captain assisted her through the window, and the falling curtain veiled them from view.
Hamlin sank back on the bench and leaned his head on his hand. Had anything been accomplished by this interview? One thing, at least—he had thoroughly demonstrated that the charm once exercised over his imagination by this beautiful woman had completely vanished. He saw her now as she was—heartless, selfish, using her spell of beauty for her own sordid ends. If there had been left a shred of romance in his memory of her, it was now completely shattered. Her coolness, her adroit changing of moods, convinced him she was playing a game. What game? Nothing in her words had revealed its nature, yet the man instinctively felt that it must involve Molly McDonald. Laboriously he reviewed, word by word, each sentence exchanged, striving to find some clue. He had pricked her in the Gaskins affair, there was no doubt of that; she knew, or at least suspected, the party firing the shot. She denied at first having been married to Le Fevre, and yet later had been compelled to acknowledge that marriage. There then was a deliberate falsehood, which must have been told for a purpose. What purpose? Did she imagine it would make any difference with him, or did she seek to shield Le Fevre from discovery? The latter reason appeared the more probable, for the man must have been in the neighborhood lately, else where did that haversack come from?
So engrossed was Hamlin with these thoughts that he hardly realized that some one had lifted the window curtain cautiously. The beam of light flashed across him, disappearing before he could lift his head to ascertain the cause. Then a voice spoke, and he leaned back to listen.
"Not there; gone back to the dance likely, while we were at the bar."
"Nobody out there?" this fellow growled his words.
"Some soldier asleep with his head on the rail; drunk, I reckon. Who was she with this time?"
"Barrett."
"Who? Oh, yes, the fellow who brought in that troop of the Seventh. Lord, the old girl is getting her hooks into him early. Well, as long as Gaskins is laid up, she may as well amuse herself somewhere else. Barrett is rather a good looker, isn't he? Do you know anything about the man? Has he got any stuff?"
"Don't know," answered the gruff voice. "He 's a West Pointer. Vera likes to amuse herself once in a while; that's the woman of it. Heard from Gaskins to-night?"
"Oh, he 's all right," the man laughed. "That little prick frightened him though. Shut up like a clam."
"So I heard. He 'll pay to keep the story quiet, all right. As soon as he is well enough to come down here, we 'll tap his bundle. Swore he was shot by a cavalry sergeant, did n't he?"
"And sticks to it like a mule. Must have it in for that fellow. Well, it helped our get-a-way."
"Yes, we 're safe enough, unless Gaskins talks, and he 's so in love with the McDonald girl he 'll spiel out big rather than have any scandal now. Wish I could get a word with Vera to-night; she ought to see him to-morrow—compassion, womanly sympathy, and all that rot, you know, helps the game. Let's drift over toward the Palace, Dan, and maybe I can give her the sign."
Hamlin caught a glimpse of their backs as they passed out—one in infantry fatigue, the other, a heavier built man, fairly well dressed in citizen's clothes. Inspired by a desire to see their features the Sergeant swung himself over the rail, and dropped lightly to the ground. In another moment he was out on the street, in front of the hotel, watching the open door. The two passed within a few feet of him, clearly revealed in the light streaming from the dance hall. The soldier lagged somewhat behind, an insignificant, rat-faced fellow, but the larger man walked straight, with squared shoulders. He wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, and a black beard concealed the lower portion of his face. Hamlin followed as the two pushed their way up among the idle crowd congregated on the wooden steps, and peered in through the wide doorway. Satisfied that he would recognize both worthies when they met again, and realizing now something of the plot being operated, Hamlin edged in closer toward the sergeant who was guarding the entrance. The latter recognized him with a nod.
"Pretty busy, Masters?"
"Have been, but there will be a lull now; when they come back from supper there 'll be another rush likely. Would you mind taking my job a minute while I go outside?"
"Not in the least; take your time. Let me see what the tickets look like. That 's all right—say, Masters, before you go, do you know that big duffer with a black beard in the front line?"
The other gave a quick glance down the faces.
"I've seen him before; dealt faro at the Poodle Dog a while; said to be a gun-man. Never heard his name. Oh, yes, come to think about it, they called him 'Reb'—Confed soldier, I reckon. Ain't seen him before for a month. Got into some kind off a shootin' scrap up at Mike Kelly's and skipped out ahead of the marshal. Why?"
"Nothing particular—looks familiar, that 's all. Who 's the soldier behind him—the thin-faced runt?"
"Connors. Some river-rat the recruiting officers picked up in New York; in the guard-house most of the time; driver for Major McDonald when he happens to be sober enough."
"That is where I saw him then, driving the ladies. Knew I had seen that mug before."
Left alone, except for the infantry man at the other side of the entrance, and with nothing to do beyond keeping back the little crowd of curious watchers thronging the steps, Hamlin interested himself in the assembly, although keenly conscious of those two men who continued to linger, staring into the brilliantly lighted room. That the two were closely involved with Mrs. Dupont in some money-making scheme, closely verging on crime, was already sufficiently clear to the Sergeant's mind. He had overheard enough to grasp this fact, yet the full nature of the scheme was not apparent. Without doubt it involved Gaskins as a victim; possibly Barrett also, but Hamlin was not inclined to interfere personally for the protection of either of these officers. They could look after themselves, and, if they succumbed to the charms of the lady, and it cost something, why, that was none of his affair. But somehow the suspicion had come to him that he had accidentally stumbled upon a more complicated plot than mere blackmail. Mrs. Dupont's intimacy with Molly, and the use she was making of her distant relationship with the Major to further her ends, made him eager to delve deeper into her real purpose. At least these two, apparently ignorant of their guest's true character, should be warned, or, if that was impossible, protected from imposture. Their open friendliness and social endorsement were the woman's stock in trade at Dodge, and whatever the finaldénouementmight be, McDonald and his daughter would inevitably share in the ensuing disgrace of discovery. Even if they were not also victimized, they would be held largely responsible for the losses of others. Had Hamlin been a commissioned officer he would have known what to do—his plain duty as a friend would have taken form in a frankly spoken warning. But, as it was, the chains of discipline, of social rank, made it seemingly impossible for him to approach either the Major or his daughter openly. He did not actually know enough to venture such an interview, and mere suspicion, even though coupled with his former intimacy with the woman, was not sufficient excuse for his interference. The Major would treat the revelation with indifference, even disbelief, and Miss Molly might even resent his meddling in the affair. Besides he was not altogether convinced that the girl had not been actually present at, and in some manner connected with, the attack on Gaskins. The memory of that face, shrinking behind the corner of the barrack wall, remained clear in his mind. He might be mistaken, but perhaps it would be best to go slow.
It was a huge, bare hall, although the walls were concealed by flags, while other draperies were festooned along the rafters. The band was stationed upon a raised platform at the rear, and a hundred couples occupied the floor. The men present were largely officers attired in dress-uniforms, although there was a considerable sprinkling of civilians, a few conspicuous in garments of the latest cut and style. Evidently invitations had been widely spread, and, considering time and place, liberally responded to. Among the women present the Sergeant saw very few he recognized, yet it was comparatively easy to classify the majority—officers' wives; the frontier helpmates of the more prominent merchants of the town; women from the surrounding ranches, who had deserted their homes until the Indian scare ceased; a scattered few from pretentious small cities to the eastward, and, here and there, younger faces, representing ranchmen's daughters, with a school-teacher or two. Altogether they made rather a brave show, occasionally exhibiting toilets worthy of admiring glances, never lacking ardent partners, and entering with unalloyed enthusiasm into the evening's pleasure. The big room presented a scene of brilliant color, of ceaselessly moving figures; the air was resonant with laughter and trembling to the dashing strains of the band. Primitive as it was in many respects, to Hamlin, long isolated in small frontier posts, the scene was strangely attractive, his imagination responding to the glow of color, the merry chime of voices, the tripping of feet. The smiling faces flashed past, his ears caught whispered words, his eyes followed the flying figures. For the moment the man forgot himself in this new environment of thoughtless pleasure.
From among that merry throng of strangers, his eyes soon distinguished that one in whom he felt special interest—Mrs. Dupont, dancing now with McDonald, the rather corpulent Major exhibiting almost youthful agility under the inspiration of music. The lady talked with animation, as they circled among the others on the floor, her red lips close to her partner's ear, but Hamlin, suspicious and watchful, noted that her eyes were busy elsewhere, scanning the faces. They swept over him apparently unseeing, but as the two circled swiftly by, the hand resting lightly on the Major's shoulder was uplifted suddenly in a peculiar, suggestive movement. He stared after them until they were lost in the crowd, feeling confident that the motion of those white-gloved fingers was meant as a signal of warning. To whom was it conveyed? He glanced aside at the jam of figures in the doorway. Both the black-whiskered man and Connors had disappeared. Itwasa signal then, instantly understood and obeyed.
The Sergeant had scarcely grasped this fact when his attention was diverted by the appearance of Miss McDonald. She was dancing with a civilian, an immaculately dressed individual with ruddy, boyish face. His intense admiration of his partner was plainly evident, and the girl, simply dressed in white, her cheeks flushed, her dark eyes bright with enjoyment, set Hamlin's cool nerves throbbing. He could not resist gazing at her, and, as their eyes met, she bowed, the full red lips parting in a smile of recognition. There was no reservation, no restraint in that quick greeting, as she whirled by; he could not fail to comprehend its full significance—she had not forgotten, had no desire to forget. What he imagined he read in her face swept all else from his mind instantly, and, with eager eyes, he followed her slight, girlish figure as they circled the hall. The music ceased, and he still watched as the lad led her to a seat, himself sinking into a chair beside her. Then the passing out of several men, who desired return checks, claimed his attention. When the last of these had disappeared, he glanced again in her direction. She was alone, and her young partner was walking toward him across the deserted floor. The lad came to the door, which by now contained few loiterers, and stood there a moment gazing out into the street.
"Are you Sergeant Hamlin?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Miss McDonald requested me to hand you this note unobserved. I have no knowledge of its contents."
Hamlin felt the flutter of the paper in his palm, and stood silent, clinging to it, as the other carelessly recrossed the room. She was looking toward him, but he made no motion to unfold the missive, until his eyes, searching the chairs, had located Mrs. Dupont. The very secret of delivery made him cautious, made him suspect it had to do with that woman. She was beside the band-stand, still conversing with the Major, apparently oblivious to any other presence, her face turned aside. Assured of this, he opened the paper, and glanced at the few hastily scribbled lines.
"I trust you, and you must believe I do not do this without cause. During the intermission be in the hotel parlor."
There were two more dances scheduled on the program. The last of these had begun before the infantry sergeant returned, and, apologizing for his long absence, resumed his duties at the door. Across the room, Hamlin's eyes met those of Miss McDonald, where she danced with an unknown officer; then he turned and elbowed his way to the street. The hotel opposite was all bustle and confusion, the bar-room crowded with the thirsty emergency waiters who had rushed about the hall completing final preparations. The Sergeant, intent on his purpose, and aware that the band had ceased playing, dodged past these and entered the parlor. It was already occupied by four men, who were playing cards at a small, round table and smoking vigorously, entirely engrossed in their game. None of them so much as glanced up, and the intruder hesitated an instant, quickly determining his course of action. There was little choice left. The girl would never make an appointment with him except through necessity, and it was manifestly his duty to protect her from observation. Two of the men sitting there were strangers; the others he knew merely by sight, a tin-horn gambler called Charlie, and a sutler's clerk. His decision was swift, and characteristic.
"Gents," he said, stepping up, and tapping the table sharply, "you 'll have to vamoose from here."
"What the hell—" the gambler looked up into the gray eyes, and stopped.
"That's all right, Charlie," went on Hamlin coolly, one hand at his belt. "Those are my orders, and they go. Hire a room upstairs if you want to keep on with the game. Pick up the stuff, you fellows."
"But see here," the speaker was upon his feet protesting. "The old man told us we could come in here."
"The old man's word don't go for this floor to-night, partner. It's rented by the post officers. Now mosey right along, and don't come back unless you are looking for trouble—you too, Fatty."
Right or wrong there was plainly no use continuing the argument, for Hamlin's fingers were upon the butt of his revolver, and his eyes hardened at the delay. The gambler's inclination was to oppose this summary dismissal, but a glance at his crowd convinced him he would have to play the hand alone, so he yielded reluctantly, swept the chips into the side pocket of his coat and departed, leaving behind a trail of profanity. The Sergeant smiled, but remained motionless until they disappeared.
"The bluff works," he thought serenely, "unless they make a kick at the office; some peeved, Charlie was."
He stepped over to the window, and held back the curtain. A burly figure occupied the bench, with feet upon the rail. Even in that outside dimness could be distinguished a black beard. The very man, and the Sergeant chuckled grimly with a swiftly born hope that the fellow might create a row. Nothing at that moment could have pleased him more. He blew out the parlor light, partially closed the door, and stepped forth on to the porch.
"Say, you," he said gruffly, dropping one hand heavily on the other's shoulder. "Did you hear what I said to those fellows inside? Well, it goes out here the same. Pack up, and clear the deck."
"Reb" dropped his feet to the floor and stood up, his bearded lips growling profanity, but Hamlin gripped his wrist, and the man stopped, with mouth still open, staring into the Sergeant's face. All bravado seemed to desert him instantly.
"Who—who says so?" and he stepped back farther into the shadow.
"I do, if you need to know," pleasantly enough. "Sergeant Hamlin, Seventh Cavalry."
"Oh!" the exclamation came from between clenched teeth. "Hell, man, you startled me."
"So I see; nervous disposition, I reckon. Well, are you going quietly, or shall I hoist you over the rail?"
"I had an appointment here."
"Can't help that, partner. This porch is going to be vacant inside of one minute, or there is a declaration of war. Your easiest way out is through that window, but you can go by rail if you prefer."
The black beard wasted half his allowed time in an effort at bluster; then, to Hamlin's utter disgust, slunk through the open window and across the darkened parlor.
"The pusillanimous cuss," the latter muttered, "he 's worse than a cur dog. Blamed if he was n't actually afraid of me. A gun-fighter—pugh!" He lifted his voice, as "Reb" paused in the light of the hall beyond and glanced back, a fist doubled and uplifted. "Oh, go on! Sure, you 'll get me? You are the brave boy, now," and Hamlin strode toward the door threateningly. "Lope along, son, and don't turn around again until you face the bar."
He drew the door partially to again, and sat down facing the opening, where a stray beam of light fell across the floor. Thus far the adventure had scarcely proven interesting. The last encounter had been a distinct disappointment. The dispersal of the card-players was, as anticipated, easily managed, but the reputation of "Reb" as killer and bad man had given him hope of resistance. But instead he had proven a perfect lamb. Hamlin crossed his legs and waited, his mind divided in wonder between what Miss McDonald might want, and the cowardice of the fellow just driven out. The man was actually afraid—afraid to start a row. Yet he had got to his feet with that intention; it was only after he had looked into Hamlin's face and asked his name, that he began to hedge and draw back. Could he have recognized him? Could Mrs. Dupont have warned him of danger in his direction? That would seem impossible, for the woman had not been with him for even a minute since their conversation. She had given him a swift signal at the door of the dance hall, but that could scarcely account for his present desire to avoid trouble. An engagement? Probably with Mrs. Dupont. But what was the use of speculating? Perhaps when the girl came she would have some light to throw on these matters. Surely her sudden determination to see him privately must have connection with this affair.
These thoughts came swiftly, for his period of waiting proved to be but a short one. He heard the laughter and talk as the merry-makers came into the hotel from the dance hall, crowding the passage, and thronging in to where the tables were set. Then a rattle of dishes, and the steady shuffling of waiters rushing back and forth. Occasionally he could distinguish a shadow out in the hall, but never changed his motionless posture, or removed his eyes from the aperture, until she slipped noiselessly through and stood there panting slightly, her hand clasping the knob of the door. Apparently in the semi-darkness of the room she was uncertain of his presence, while her white dress touched by the outside reflection made her clearly visible.
"It is all right, Miss McDonald," he murmured hastily, arising. "There is nothing to fear."
"You are here—alone?"
"Yes," smiling in memory. "There were occupants when I first arrived, but they were persuaded to depart. I had a suspicion you might prefer it that way."
"Yes," puzzled by his manner, yet softly pushing the door back so as to exclude the light. "I can see better now. Are—are you sure no one can overhear? I have something to tell you—something important."
"There is no one else here, yet some one might stumble into this room. It is not private, you know. We shall be safer on the porch outside. Will you take my hand, and let me guide you?"
She did so unhesitatingly, but her fingers were cold, and he could feel the twitching of her nerves.
"You are frightened—not of me, surely?"
"Oh, no!" a slight catch in her voice, "but I am running such a risk venturing here. I—I had to pretend a sick-headache to get away. You must not condemn me until you hear why I came."
"I condemn? Hardly, Miss McDonald. I am merely a soldier receiving orders; 'mine not to question why.' Here is the window; now sit down on this bench. I 'll keep guard, and listen." His voice sank lower, a little touch of tenderness in it impossible to disguise. "Are you in trouble? Is it something I can aid you to overcome?"
She did not answer at once but rested her chin in one hand, and turned her eyes away. Her breath came swiftly, as though she had not yet recovered from fright, and her face in the dim light looked white and drawn.
"Yes, you can," she began slowly, "I am sure you can. I—I came to you because there was no one else in whom I felt the same confidence. I know that sounds strange, but I cannot explain—only it seems natural to trust some people even when you do not know them very well. I do not suppose I know you very well; just those few hours we were together, but—somehow I think you are true."
"I certainly hope so," he put in earnestly. "I couldn't very well help being—with you."
"I believe that," and she lifted her eyes to his face.
"Yet I do not wish you to think me bold, or—or indiscreet. You do not think so, do you?"
"That idea has never once occurred to me, Miss McDonald. I am only too glad to be of service."
"It is good of you to say that; you see, there was no one else."
"Your father?" he suggested.
"But that is the very trouble," she insisted, rejoicing that he had thus unconsciously opened the way to her confession. "It is because my father is involved, is completely in her toils, that I am compelled to appeal to you. He will not listen to a word against her."
"Her? You refer to Mrs. Dupont?"
"Of course; why, I hadn't mentioned her name! How did you guess?"
"Because I am not entirely ignorant of conditions," he answered soberly. "Although I have only been at the post a short time, I have managed to see and hear a good deal. You know I chanced to become involved in the shooting of Lieutenant Gaskins, and then I saw you riding with Mrs. Dupont, and recognized her."
"Recognized?" in surprise. "Do you actually mean you knew her before?"
"Not as Mrs. Dupont, but as Vera Carson, years ago. She knew me at once, and sent your driver over to the barracks with a note."
"Why, how strange. She asked me so many questions, I wondered at the interest shown. Do you mind telling me what the note was about?"
"Not in the least. She referred to the past, and asked me to meet her."
"Were you—very intimate? Great friends?"
"We were engaged to be married," he acknowledged frankly, his eyes upon her face. "That was at the breaking out of the war, and I was in my senior college year. We met at school, and I was supposed to be the heir to a large property. She is a beautiful woman now, and she was a beautiful girl then. I thought her as good and true as she was charming. Since then I have learned her selfishness and deceit, that it was my money which attracted her, and that she really loved another man, a classmate."
She glanced up at him as he paused, but he resumed the story without being interrupted.
"The war came, and I enlisted at once, and received a commission. Almost our entire class went, and the man she really loved was next below me in rank."
"Eugene Le Fevre?"
"Yes; how did you know? Oh, I told you of him out there in the sand-hills. Well, I urged her to marry me before I went to the front, but she made excuses. Later, I understood the reason—she was uncertain as to my inheriting the property of an uncle. We were ordered to the Army of Northern Virginia. Once I went home on furlough, severely wounded. We were to be married then, but I had not sufficiently recovered when I was suddenly ordered back to the front. I did suspect then, for the first time, that she was glad of the respite. I afterwards discovered that during all this time she was in correspondence with Le Fevre, who had been detailed on Early's staff. It was his influence which brought about my sudden, unexpected recall to duty. A few months later I was promoted major, and, at Fisher's Hill, found myself commanding the regiment. Early in the action Le Fevre brought me an order; it was delivered verbally, the only other party present a corporal named Shultz, a German knowing little English. Early's exact words were: 'Advance at once across the creek, and engage the enemy fiercely; a supporting column will move immediately.' Desperate as the duty involved appeared, there was nothing in the order as given to arouse suspicion. In obedience I flung my command forward, leading them on foot. We charged into a trap, and were nearly annihilated, and Shultz was either killed, or made prisoner. Two days later I was arrested under charges, was tried by court-martial, and dismissed from the service in disgrace. Early produced a copy of his written order; it read 'cautiously feel the enemy's position,' and Le Fevre went on the stand, and swore the original had been delivered to me. I had no witnesses."
She watched him with wide-open eyes, her lips parted.
"And she—this Vera Carson?"
The man laughed bitterly.
"Wrote him a letter, which the man actually had the nerve to show me when I was helpless, proving her falsity. I would not believe, and went back seeking her. But she had departed—no one knew where—but had first convinced herself that my name had been erased from my uncle's will. Two months later I heard that she married Le Fevre in Richmond."
"And she—that woman—actually asked you to meet her again to-night?"
"Yes."
"Did you?"
"I must plead guilty."
"Where?"
"Here; just where we are now; we were together half an hour."
She half arose to her feet, her hand grasping the rail.
"But I cannot understand. Why should you? Do you—"
"No; wait," he interrupted, venturing to touch her arm. "I came, not because of any interest in her, Miss Molly—but for you."