"BRICK" HAMLIN
The two officers looked up with some eagerness, McDonald 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 sure will," returned the Sergeant, gathering up his reins.
"Good-bye to you."
"Good-bye and good luck," and McDonald put out his hand, which the
other took hesitatingly. The next instant he was in the saddle, and
with a wild leap the startled mustang rounded the edge of the bluff,
flying into the night.
All had occurred so quickly that Hamlin's mind had not yet fully
adjusted itself to all the details. He was naturally a man of few
words, deciding on a course of action quietly, yet not apt to deviate
from any conclusion finally reached. But he had been hurried, pressed
into this adventure, and now welcomed an opportunity to think it all
out coolly. At first, for a half mile or more, the plunging buckskin
kept him busy, bucking viciously, rearing, leaping madly from side to
side, practising every known equine trick to dislodge the grim rider in
the saddle. The man fought out the battle silently, immovable as a
rock, and apparently as indifferent. Twice his spurs brought blood,
and once he struck the rearing head with clenched fist. The light of
the stars revealed the faint lines of the trail, and he was content to
permit the maddened brute to race forward, until, finally mastered, the
animal settled down into a swift gallop, but with ears laid back in
ugly defiance. The rider's gray eyes smiled pleasantly as he settled
more comfortably into the saddle, peering out from beneath the stiff
brim of his scouting hat; then they hardened, and the man swore softly
under his breath.
The peculiar nature of this mission which he had taken upon himself had
been recalled. He was always doing something like that--permitting
himself to become involved in the affairs of others. Now why should he
be here, riding alone through the dark to prevent this unknown girl
from reaching Devere? She was nothing to him--even that glimpse of her
pictured face had not impressed him greatly; rather interesting, to be
sure, but nothing extraordinary; besides he was not a woman's man, and,
through years of isolation, had grown to avoid contact with the
sex--and he was under no possible obligation to either McDonald or
Travers. Yet here he was, fully committed, drawn into the vortex, by a
hasty ill-considered decision. He was tired still from his swift
journey across the desert from Fort Union, and now faced another three
days' ride. Then what? A headstrong girl to be convinced of danger,
and controlled. The longer he thought about it all, the more intensely
disagreeable the task appeared, yet the clearer did he appreciate its
necessity. He chafed at the knowledge that it had become his
work--that he had permitted himself to be ensnared--yet he dug his
spurs into the mustang and rode steadily, grimly, forward.
The real truth was that Hamlin comprehended much more fully than did
the men at Devere the danger menacing travellers along the main trail
to Santa Fé. News reached Fort Union much quicker than it did that
isolated post up on the Cimarron. He knew of the fight in Raton Pass,
and that two stages within ten days had been attacked, one several
miles east of Bent's Fort. This must mean that a desperate party of
raiders had succeeded in slipping past those scattered army details
scouting into the Northwest. Whether or not these warriors were in any
considerable force he could not determine--the reports of their
depredations were but rumors at Union when he left--yet, whether in
large body or small, they would have a clear run in the Arkansas Valley
before any troops could be gathered together to drive them out.
Perhaps even now, the stages had been withdrawn, communication with
Santa Fé abandoned. This had been spoken of as possible at Union the
night he left, for it was well known there that there was no cavalry
force left at Dodge which could be utilized as guards. The wide map of
the surrounding region spread out before him in memory; he felt its
brooding desolation, its awful loneliness. Nevertheless he must go
on--perhaps at the stage station near the ford of the Arkansas he could
learn the truth. So he bent lower over the buckskin's neck and rode
straight through the black, silent night.
It was a waterless desert stretching between the Cimarron and the
Arkansas, consisting of almost a dead level of alkali and sand,
although toward the northern extremity the sand had been driven by the
ceaseless wind into grotesque hummocks. The trail, cut deep by
traders' wagons earlier in the spring, was still easily traceable for a
greater part of the distance, and Hamlin as yet felt no need of
caution--this was a country the Indians would avoid, the only danger
being from some raiding party from the south. At early dawn he came
trotting down into the Arkansas Valley, and gazed across at the
greenness of the opposite bank. There, plainly in view, were the deep
ruts of the main trail running close in against the bluff. His tired
eyes caught no symbol of life either up or down the stream, except a
thin spiral of blue smoke that slowly wound its way upward. An instant
he stared, believing it to be the fire of some emigrant's camp; then
realized that he looked upon the smouldering débris of the stage
station.