ANOTHER MESSAGE
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 final _dénouement_ might 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. It _was_ a 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."