LITMIR.BIZ

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straightening in his chair, and returning the cavalryman's salute instinctively, his eyes expressing surprise. He was a straight-limbed fellow, slenderly built, and appearing taller than he really was by reason of his erect, soldierly carriage; thin of waist, broad of chest, dressed in rough service uniform, without jacket, just as he had rolled out of the saddle, rough shirt open at the throat, patched, discolored trousers, with broad yellow stripe down the seam, stuck into service riding boots, a revolver dangling at his left hip, and a soft hat, faded sadly, crushed in one hand.

      The Major saw all this, yet it was at the man's uncovered face he gazed most intently. He looked upon a countenance browned by sun and alkali, intelligent, sober, heavily browed, with eyes of dark gray rather deeply set; firm lips, a chin somewhat prominent, and a broad forehead, the light colored hair above closely trimmed; the cheeks were darkened by two days' growth of beard. McDonald unclosed, then clenched his hand.

      "You are from Fort Union, Captain Travers tells me?"

      "Yes, sir," the reply slow, deliberate, as though the speaker had no desire to waste words. "I brought despatches; they were delivered to Captain Travers."

      "Yes, I know; but I may require you for other service. What were your orders?"

      "To return at convenience."

      "Good. I know Hawley, and do not think he would object. What is your regiment?"

      "Seventh Cavalry."

      "Oh, yes, just organized; before that?"

      "The Third."

      "I see you are a non-com—corporal?"

      "Sergeant, sir, since my transfer."

      "Second enlistment?"

      "No, first in the regulars—the Seventh was picked from other commands."

      "I understand. You say first in the regulars. Does that mean you saw volunteer service?"

      "Three years, sir."

      "Ah!" his eyes brightening instantly. "Then how does it happen you failed to try for a commission after the war? You appear to be intelligent, educated?"

      The Sergeant smiled.

      "Unfortunately my previous service had been performed in the wrong uniform, sir," he said quietly. "I was in a Texas regiment."

      There was a moment's silence, during which Travers smoked, and the Major seemed to hesitate. Finally the latter asked:

      "What is your name, Sergeant?"

      "Hamlin, sir."

      The pipe came out of Travers' mouth, and he half arose to his feet.

      "By all the gods!" he exclaimed. "That's it! Now I 've got you placed—you 're—you 're 'Brick' Hamlin!"

      The man unconsciously put one hand to his hair, his eyes laughing.

      "Some of the boys call me that—yes," he confessed apologetically.

      Travers was on his feet now, gesticulating with his pipe.

      "Damn! I knew I'd seen your face somewhere. It was two years ago at Washita. Say, Dan, this is the right man for you; better than any fledgling West Pointer. Why, he is the same lad who brought in Dugan—you heard about that!"

      The Major shook his head.

      "No! Oh, of course not. Nothing that goes on out here ever drifts east of the Missouri. Lord! We might as well be serving in a foreign country. Well, listen: I was at Washita then, and had the story first-hand. Dugan was a Lieutenant in 'D' Troop, out with his first independent command scouting along the Canadian. He knew as much about Indians as a cow does of music. One morning the young idiot left camp with only one trooper along—Hamlin here—and he was a 'rookie,' to follow up what looked like a fresh trail. Two hours later they rode slap into a war party, and the fracas was on. Dugan got a ball through the body at the first fire that paralyzed him. He was conscious, but could n't move. The rest was up to Hamlin. You ought to have heard Dugan tell it when he got so he could speak. Hamlin dragged the boy down into a buffalo wallow, shot both horses, and got behind them. It was all done in the jerk of a lamb's tall. They had two Henry rifles, and the 'rookie' kept them both hot. He got some of the bucks, too, but of course, we never knew how many. There were twenty in the party, and they charged twice, riding their ponies almost to the edge of the wallow, but Hamlin had fourteen shots without reloading, and they could n't quite make it. Dugan said there were nine dead ponies within a radius of thirty feet. Anyhow it was five hours before 'D' troop came up, and that's what they found when they got there—Dugan laid out, as good as dead, and Hamlin shot twice, and only ten cartridges left. Hell," he added disgustedly, "and you never even heard of it east of the Missouri."

      There was a flush of color on the Sergeant's cheeks, but he never moved.

      "There was nothing else to do but what I did," he explained simply. "Any of the fellows would have done the same if they had been up against it the way I was. May I ask," his eyes first upon one and then the other inquiringly, "what it was you wanted of me?"

      McDonald drew a long breath.

      "Certainly, Sergeant, sit down—yes, take that chair."

      He described the situation in a few words, and the trooper listened quietly until he was done. Travers interrupted once, his voice emerging from a cloud of smoke. As the Major concluded, Hamlin asked a question or two gravely.

      "How old is your daughter, sir?"

      "In her twentieth year."

      "Have you a picture of the young lady?"

      The Major crossed over to his fatigue coat hanging on the wall, and extracted a small photograph from an inside pocket.

      "This was taken a year ago," he explained, "and was considered a good likeness then."

      Hamlin took the card in his hands, studied the face a moment, and then placed it upon the table.

      "You figure she ought to leave Ripley on the 18th," he said slowly. "Then I shall need to start at once to make Dodge in time."

      "You mean to go then? Of course, you realize I have no authority to order you on such private service."

      "That's true. I 'm a volunteer, but I 'll ask you for a written order just the same in case my Troop commander should ever object, and I 'll need a fresh horse; I rode mine pretty hard coming up here."

      "You shall have the pick of the stables, Sergeant," interjected the cavalry captain, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "Anything else? Have you had rest enough?"

      "Four hours," and the Sergeant stood up again. "All I require will be two days' rations, and a few more revolver cartridges. The sooner I 'm off the better."

      If he heard Travers' attempt at conversation as the two stumbled together down the dark hill, he paid small attention. At the stables, aided by a smoky lantern, he picked out a tough-looking buckskin mustang, with an evil eye; and, using his own saddle and bridle, he finally led the half-broken animal outside.

      "That buckskin's the devil's own," protested Travers, careful to keep well to one side.

      "I 'll take it out of him before morning," was the reply. "Come on, boy! easy now—easy! How about the rations, Captain?"

      "Carter will have them for you at the gate of the stockade. Do you know the trail?"

      "Well enough to follow—yes."

      McDonald was waiting with Carter, and the dim gleam of the lantern revealed his face.

      "Remember, Sergeant, you are to make her turn back if you can. Tell her I wish her to do so—yes, this letter will explain everything, but she is a pretty high-spirited girl, and may take the bit in her teeth—imagine she 'd rather be here with me, and all that. If she does I suppose you 'll have to let her have her own way—the Lord knows her mother always did. Anyhow you 'll stay with her till she 's safe."

      "I

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