ACROSS THE RIVER
He dropped his hand upon hers, clasping the clinging fingers tightly.
"Yes, we can make it," he answered confidently. "Wait until I make
sure what is out there."
He had slight recollection of the stream at this point, although he had
crossed it often enough at the known fords, both above and below. Yet
these crossings had always been accomplished with a horse under him,
and a knowledge of where the trail ran. But he knew the stream, its
peculiarities and dangers. It was not the volume of water, nor its
depth he feared, for wide as it appeared stretching from bank to bank,
he realized its shallow sluggishness. The peril lay in quicksand, or
the plunging into some unseen hole, where the sudden swirl of water
might pull them under. Alone he would have risked it recklessly, but
with her added weight in his arms, he realized how a single false step
would be fatal. The farther shore was invisible; he could perceive
nothing but the slight gleam of water lapping the sand at his feet, as
it flowed slowly, noiselessly past, and beyond, the dim outline of a
narrow sand ridge. Even this, however, was encouragement, proving the
shallowness of the stream. He turned about, his face so close he could
see her eyes.
"We shall have to try it, Miss McDonald; you must permit me to carry
you."
"Yes."
"And whatever happens do not scream--just cling tight to me."
"Yes," a little catching in her throat. "Tell me first, please, just
what it is you fear."
"Quicksand principally; it is in all these western rivers, and the two
of us together on one pair of feet will make it harder to pull out of
the suck. If I tell you to get down, do so quickly."
"Yes."
"Then there may be holes out there in the bottom. I don't mind those
so much, although these cavalry boots are no help in swimming."
"I can swim."
"Hardly in your clothes; but I am glad to know it, nevertheless. You
could keep afloat at least, and the holes are never very large. Are
you ready now?"
She gave him her hands and stood up. The Sergeant drew in a long
breath and transferred the haversack to her shoulder.
"We 'll try and keep that from getting soaked, if we can," he
explained. "There is no hotel over in those sand-hills. Now hold on
tight."
He swung her easily to his broad shoulder, clasping her slender figure
closely with one arm.
"That's it! Now get a firm grip. I 'll carry you all right."
To the girl, that passage was never more than a dim memory. Still
partially dazed from the severe blow on her head, she closed her eyes
as Hamlin stepped cautiously down into the stream and clung to him
desperately, expecting each moment to be flung forward into the water.
But the Sergeant's mind was upon his work, and every detail of the
struggle left its impress on his memory. He saw the dark sweep of the
water, barely visible in the gleam of those few stars unobscured by
cloud, and felt the sluggish flow against his legs as he moved. The
bottom was soft, yet his feet did not sink deeply, although it was
rather difficult wading. However, the clay gave him more confidence
than sand underfoot, and there was less depth of water even than he had
anticipated. He was wet only to the thighs when he toiled up on to the
low spit of sand, and put the girl down a moment to catch a fresh
breath and examine the broader stretch of water ahead. They could see
both shores now, that which they had just left, a black, lumping, dim
outline. Except for the lapping of the water at their feet, all was
deathly still. Even the Indian fire had died out, and it was hard to
conceive that savages were hidden behind that black veil, and that they
two were actually fleeing for their lives. To the girl it was like
some dreadful delirium of sleep, but the man felt the full struggle.
There was a star well down in the south he chose to guide by, but
beyond that he must trust to good fortune. Without a word he lifted
her again to his shoulder, and pushed on.
The water ran deeper, shelving off rapidly, until it rose well above
his waist, and with sufficient current do that he was compelled to lean
against it to maintain balance, scarcely venturing forward a foot at a
time. Once he stumbled over some obstruction, barely averting a fall;
he felt the swift clutch of her fingers at his throat, the quick
adjustment of her body, but her lips gave no utterance of alarm. His
groping feet touched the edge of a hole, and he turned, facing the
current, tracing his way carefully until he found a passage on solid
bottom. A bit of driftwood swirled down out of the night; a
water-soaked limb, striking against him before it was even seen,
bruised one arm, and then dodged past like a wild thing, leaving a
glitter of foam behind. The sand-dunes grew darker, more distinct, the
water began to grow shallow, the bottom changing from mud to sand. He
slipped and staggered in the uncertain footing, his breath coming in
quicker gasps, yet with no cessation of effort. Once he felt the
dreaded suck about his ankles, and broke into a reckless run, splashing
straight forward, falling at the water's edge, yet not before the girl
was resting safely on the soft sand.
Strong as Hamlin was, his muscles trained by strenuous out-door life,
he lay there for a moment utterly helpless, more exhausted from the
nervous strain indeed, than the physical exertion. He had realized
fully the desperate nature of that passage, expecting every step to be
engulfed, and the reaction, the knowledge that they had actually
attained the shore safely, left him weak as a child, hardly able to
comprehend the fact. The girl was upon her feet first, alarmed and
solicitous, bending down to touch him with her hand.
"Sergeant, you are not hurt?" she questioned. "Tell me you are not
hurt?"
"Oh, no," dragging himself up the bank, yet panting as he endeavored to
speak cheerfully. "Only that was a rather hard pull, the last of it,
and I am short of breath. I shall be all right in a moment."
There was a sand-dune just beyond, and he seated himself and leaned
against it.
"I am beginning to breathe easier already," he explained. "Sit down
here, Miss McDonald. We are safe enough now in this darkness."
"You are all wet, soaking wet."
"That is nothing; the sand is warm yet from yesterday's sun, and my
clothes will dry fast enough. It is beginning to grow light in the
east."
The faces of both turned in that direction where appeared the first
twilight approach of dawn. Already were visible the dark lines of the
opposite shore, across the gleam of water, and beyond appeared the dim
outlines of the higher bluffs. The slope between river and hill,
however, remained in impenetrable darkness. The minds of both
fugitives reverted to the same scene--the wrecked stage with its dead
passengers within, its savage watchers without. She lifted her head,
and the soft light reflected on her face.
"I--I thank God we are not over there now," she said falteringly.
"Yes," he admitted. "They will be creeping in closer; they will not
wait much longer. Hard as I have worked, I can't realize yet that we
are out of those toils."
"You did not expect to succeed?"
"No; frankly I did not; all I could do was hope--take the one chance
left. The slightest accident meant betrayal. I am ashamed of being so
weak just now, but it was the strain. You see," he explained
carefully, "I 've been scouting through hostile Indian country mostly
day and night for nearly a week, and then this thing happened. No
matter how iron a man is his nerve goes back on him after a while."
"I know."
"It was n't myself," he went on doggedly, "but it was the knowledge of
having to take care of you. That was what made me worry; that, and
knowing a single misstep, the slightest noise, would bring those devils
on us, where I could n't fight, where there was just one thing I could
do."
There was silence, her hands pressed to her face, her eyes fixed on
him. Then she questioned him soberly.
"You mean, kill me?"
"Sure," he answered simply, without looking around; "I would have had
to do it--just as though you were a sister of mine."
Her hands reached out and clasped his, and he glanced aside at her
face, seeing it clearly.
"I--I thought you would," she said, her voice trembling. "I--I was
going to ask you once before I was hurt, but--but I could n't, and
somehow I trusted you from the first, when you got in." She hesitated,
and then asked, "How did you know I was Molly McDonald? You never
asked."
The Sergeant's eyes smiled, turning away from her face to stare out
again across the river.
"Because I had seen your picture."
"My picture? But you told us you were from Fort Union?"
"Yes; that is my station, only I had been sent to the cantonment on the
Cimarron with despatches. Your father was in command there, and
worried half to death about you. He could not leave the post, and the
only officer remaining there with him was a disabled cavalry captain.
Every man he could trust was out on scouting service. He took a chance
on me. Maybe he liked my looks, I don't know; more probably, he judged
I would n't be a sergeant and entrusted with those despatches I 'd just
brought in, if I was n't considered trustworthy. Anyhow I had barely
fallen asleep when the orderly called me, and that was what was
wanted--that I ride north and head you off."
"But you were not obliged to go?"
"No; I was not under your father's orders. I doubt if I would have
consented if I had n't been shown your picture. I could n't very well
refuse then."
She sat with hands clasped together, her eyes shadowed by long lashes.
"I should have thought there would have been some soldiers there--his
own men."
"There were," dryly, "but the army just now is recruited out of pretty
tough material. To be in the ranks is almost a confession of
good-for-nothingness. You are an officer's daughter and understand
this to be true."
"Yes," she answered doubtfully. "I have been brought up thinking so;
only, of course, there are exceptions."
"No doubt, and I hope I am already counted one."
"You know you are. My father trusted you, and so do I."
"I have wondered some times," he said musingly, watching her face
barely visible in the dawn, "whether those of your class actually
considered us as being really human, as anything more valuable than
mere food for powder. I came into the regular army at the close of the
war from the volunteer service. I was accustomed to discipline and all
that, and knew my place. But I never suspected then that a private
soldier was considered a dog. Yet that was the first lesson I was
compelled to learn. It has been pretty hard sometimes to hold in, for
there was a time when I had some social standing and could resent an
insult."
She was looking straight at him, surprised at the bitterness in his
voice.
"They carry it altogether too far," she said. "I have often thought
that--mostly the young officers, the West Pointers--and yet you know
that the majority of enlisted men are--well, dragged from the slums.
My father says it has been impossible to recruit a good class since the
war closed, that the right kind had all the army they wanted."
"Which is true enough, but there are good men nevertheless, and every
commander knows it. A little considerate treatment would make them
better still."
She shook her head questioningly.
"I do not know," she admitted. "I suppose there are two viewpoints.
You were in the volunteers, you said. Why did you enlist in the
regulars?"
"Largely because I liked soldiering, or thought I did. I knew there
would be plenty of fighting out here, and, I believed, advancement."
"You mean to a commission?"
"Yes. You see, I did not understand then the impossibility, the great
gulf fixed. I dreamed that good fortune might give me something to do
worth while."
"And fate has been unkind?"
"In a way, yes," and he laughed rather grimly. "I had my
chance--twice; honorable mention, and all that, but that ended it.
There is no bridge across the chasm. An enlisted man is not held fit
for any higher position; if that was not sufficient to bar me, the fact
that I had fought for the South would."
"You were in the Confederate army? You must have been very young."
"Oh, no; little more than a boy, of course, but so were the majority of
my comrades. I was in my senior college year when the war broke out.
But, Miss McDonald, this will never do! See how light it is growing.
There, they have begun firing already. We must get back out of sight
behind the sand-dunes."