Randall Parrish - Molly McDonald

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Dragged from his horse at the first fierce shock, his revolver empty,
his broken sabre a jagged piece of steel, Hamlin hacked his way through
the first line of warriors, and found refuge behind a dead horse.
Here, with two others, he made a stand, gripping a carbine. It was all
the work of a moment. About him were skurrying figures, infuriated
faces, threatening weapons, yells of agony, cries of rage. The three
fought like fiends, standing back to back, and striking blindly at
leaping bodies and clutching hands. Out of the mist, the mad confusion
of breathless combat, one face alone seemed to confront the Sergeant.
At first it was a delirium; then it became a reality. He saw the
shagginess of a buffalo coat, the gleam of a white face. All else
vanished in a fierce desire to kill. He leaped forward, crazed with
sudden hate, hurled aside the naked bodies in the path, and sent his
whirling carbine stock crashing at Dupont. Even as it struck he fell,
clutched by gripping hands, and over all rang out the cheer of the
charging troopers. Hamlin staggered to his knees, spent and
breathless, and smiled grimly down at the dead white man in that ring
of red.

It was over, yet that little body of troopers dared not remain. About
them still, although demoralized and defeated, circled an overwhelming
mass of savages capable of crushing them to death, when they again
rallied and consolidated. Custer did the only thing possible. Turning
loose the pony herd, gathering his captives close, he swung his compact
command into marching column. Before the scattered tribes could rally
for a second attack, with flankers out, and skirmishers in advance, the
cavalrymen rode straight down the valley toward the retreating
hostiles. It was a bold and desperate move, the commander's object
being to impress upon the Indian chiefs the thought of his utter
fearlessness, and to create the impression that the Seventh would never
dare such a thing if they did not have a larger force behind. With
flags unfurled, and the band playing, the troopers swept on. The very
mad audacity of the movement struck terror into the hearts of the
warriors, and they broke and fled. As darkness fell the survivors of
the Seventh rode alone, amid the silent desolation of the plains.

Halting a moment for rest under shelter of the river bank, Custer
hastily wrote his report and sent for Hamlin. The latter approached
and stood motionless in the red glare of the single camp-fire. The
impetuous commander glanced up inquiringly.

"Sergeant, I must send a messenger to Camp Supply. Are you fit to go?"

"As much so as any one, General Custer," was the quiet response. "I
have no wounds of consequence."

"Very well. Take the freshest horse in the command, and an Osage
guide. You know the country, but he will be of assistance. I have
written a very brief report; you are to tell Sheridan personally the
entire story. We shall rest here two hours, and then proceed slowly
along the trail. I anticipate no further serious fighting. You will
depart at once."

"Very well, sir," the Sergeant saluted, and turned away, halting an
instant to ask, "You have reported the losses, I presume?"

"Yes, the dead and wounded. There are some missing, who may yet come
in. Major Elliott and fourteen others are still unaccounted for." He
paused. "By the way, Sergeant, while you are with Sheridan, explain to
him who you are--he may have news for you. Good-night, and good luck."

He stood up and held out his hand. In surprise, his eyes suddenly
filling with tears, Hamlin felt the grip of his fingers. Then he
turned, unable to articulate a sentence, and strode away into the night.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

AT CAMP SUPPLY

There are yet living in that great Southwest those who will retell the
story of Hamlin's ride from the banks of the Washita to Camp Supply.
It remains one of the epics of the plains, one of the proud traditions
of the army. To the man himself those hours of danger, struggle and
weariness, were more a dream than a reality. He passed through them
almost unconsciously, a soldier performing his duty in utter
forgetfulness of self, nerved by the discipline of years of service, by
the importance of his mission, and by memory of Molly McDonald. Love
and duty held him reeling in the saddle, brought him safely to the
journey's end.

Let the details pass unwritten. Beneath the darkening skies of early
evening, the Sergeant and the Osage guide rode forth into the peril and
mystery of the shrouded desert. Beyond the outmost picket, moving as
silently as two spectres, they found at last a coulee leading upward
from the valley to the plains above. To their left the Indian fires
swept in half circle, and between were the dark outlines of savage
foes. From rock to rock echoed guttural voices, but, foot by foot,
unnoted by the keen eyes, the two crept steadily on through the
midnight of that sheltering ravine, dismounted, hands clasping the
nostrils of their ponies, feeling through the darkness for each step,
halting breathless at every crackle of a twig, every crunch of snow
under foot. Again and again they paused, silent, motionless, as some
apparition of savagery outlined itself between them and the sky, yet
slowly, steadily, every instinct of the plains exercised, they passed
unseen.

In the earliest gray of dawn the two wearied men crept out upon the
upper plateau, dragging their horses. Behind, the mists of the night
still hung heavy and dark over the valley, yet with a new sense of
freedom they swung into their saddles, faced sternly the chill wind of
the north, and rode forward across the desolate snow fields. It was no
boys' play! The tough, half-broken Indian ponies kept steady stride,
leaping the drifts, skimming rapidly along the bare hillsides. From
dawn to dark scarcely a word was uttered. By turns they slept in the
saddle, the one awake gripping the others' rein. Once, in a strip of
cottonwood, beside a frozen creek, they paused to light a fire and make
a hasty meal. Then they were off again, facing the frosty air, riding
straight into the north. Before them stretched the barren snow-clad
steppes, forlorn and shelterless, with scarcely a mark of guidance
anywhere, a dismal wilderness, intersected by gloomy ravines and frozen
creeks. Here and there a river, the water icy cold and covered with
floating ice, barred their passage; down in the valleys the drifted
snow turned them aside. Again and again the struggling ponies
floundered to their ears, or slid head-long down some steep declivity.
Twice Hamlin was thrown, and once the Osage was crushed between
floating cakes and submerged in the icy stream. Across the open
barrens swept the wind into their faces, a ceaseless buffeting,
chilling to the marrow; their eyes burned in the snow-glare. Yet they
rode on and on, voiceless, suffering in the grim silence of despair,
fit denizens of that scene of utter desolation.

At the Cimarron the half-frozen Indian collapsed, falling from his
saddle into the snow utterly exhausted. Staggering himself like a
drunken man, the Sergeant dragged the nerveless body into a crevice of
the bluff out of the wild sweep of the wind, trampled aside the snow
into a wall of shelter, built a hasty fire, and poured hot coffee
between the shivering lips. With the earliest gray of another dawn,
the white man caught the strongest pony, and rode on alone. He never
knew the story of those hours--only that his trail led straight into
the north. He rode erect at first, then leaning forward clinging to
the mane; now and then he staggered along on foot dragging his pony by
the rein. Once he stopped to eat, breaking the ice in a creek for
water. It began to snow, the thick fall of flakes blotting out the
horizon, leaving him to stumble blindly through the murk. Then
darkness came, wrapping him in a cloak of silence in the midst of that
unspeakable desert. His limbs stiffened, his brain reeled from intense
fatigue. He dragged himself back into the saddle, pressing the pony
into a slow trot. Suddenly out of the wall of gloom sprang the yellow
lights of Camp Supply. Beneath these winking eyes of guidance there
burst the red glare of a fire. Even as he saw it the pony fell, but
the exhausted man had forgotten now everything but duty. The knowledge
that he had won the long struggle brought him new strength. He
wrenched his feet free from the stirrups, and ran forward, calling to
the guard. They met him, and he stood straight before them, every
nerve taut--a soldier.

"I bring despatches from Custer," he said slowly, holding himself firm.
"Take me to General Sheridan."

The corporal walked beside him, down the trampled road, questioning
eagerly as they passed the line of shacks toward the double log house
where the commander was quartered. Hamlin heard, and answered briefly,
yet was conscious only of an effort to retain his strength. Once
within, he saw only the short, sturdy figure sitting behind a table,
the shaggy gray beard, the stern, questioning eyes which surveyed him.
He stood there straight, motionless, his uniform powdered with snow,
his teeth clinched so as not to betray weakness, his face roughened by
exposure, grimy with dirt, and disfigured by a week's growth of beard.
Sheridan stared at him, shading his eyes from the glow of the lamp.

"You are from Custer?"

"Yes, sir."

He drew the papers from within his overcoat, stepped forward and laid
them on the table. Sheridan placed one hand upon them, but did not
remove his gaze from Hamlin's face.

"When did you leave?"

"The evening of the 27th, sir. I was sent back with an Osage guide to
bring you this report."

"And the guide?"

"He gave out on the Cimarron and I came on alone."

"And Custer? Did he strike Black Kettle?"

"We found his camp the evening of the 26th, and attacked at daybreak
the next morning. There were more Indians with him than we expected to
find--between two and three thousand, warriors from all the southern
tribes. Their tepees were set up for ten miles along the Washita. We
captured Black Kettle's village, and destroyed it; took his pony herd,
and released a number of white prisoners, including some women and
children. There was a sharp fight, and we lost quite a few men; I left
too early to learn how many."

"And the command--is it in any danger?"

"I think not, sir. General Custer was confident he could retire
safely. The Indians were thoroughly whipped, and apparently had no
chief under whom they could rally."

The General opened the single sheet of paper, and ran his eyes slowly
down the lines of writing. Hamlin, feeling his head reel giddily,
reached out silently and grasped the back of a chair in support.
Sheridan glanced up.

"General Custer reports Major Elliott as missing and several officers
badly wounded."

"Yes, sir."

"What Indians were engaged, and under what chiefs?"

"Mostly Cheyennes, although there were bands of Arapahoes, Kiowas,
Comanches, and a few Apaches. Little Rock was in command after Black
Kettle was killed--that is of the Cheyennes. Little Raven, and
Santanta led the others."

"A fiend, that last. But, Sergeant, you are exhausted. I will talk
with you to-morrow. The officer of the day will assign you quarters."

Hamlin, still clinging to the chair with one hand, lifted the other in
salute.

"General Sheridan," he said, striving to control his voice, "General
Custer's last words to me were that I was to tell you who I am. I do
not know what he meant, but he said you would have news for me."

"Indeed!" in surprise, stiffening in his chair.

"Yes, sir--my name is Hamlin."

"Hamlin! Hamlin!" the General repeated the word. "I have no
recollection--why, yes, by Gad! You were a Confederate colonel."

"Fourth Texas Infantry."

"That's it! I have it now; you were court-martialed after the affair
at Fisher's Hill, and dismissed from the service--disobedience of
orders, or something like that. Wait a minute."

He rapped sharply on the table, and the door behind, leading into the
other room, instantly opened to admit the orderly. In the dim light of
the single lamp Hamlin saw the short, stocky figure of a soldier,
bearded, and immaculately clean. Even as the fellow's gloved hand came
sharply up to his cap visor, Sheridan snapped out:

"Orderly, see if you recognize this man."

Erect, the very impersonation of military discipline, the soldier
crossed the room, and stared into the unshaven face of the Sergeant.
Suddenly his eyes brightened, and he wheeled about as if on a pivot,
again bringing his gloved hand up in salute.

"Eet vas Colonel Hamlin, I tink ya," he said in strong German accent.
"I know heem."

The Sergeant gripped his arm, bringing his face about once more.

"You are Shultz--Sergeant-Major Shultz!" he cried. "What ever became
of you? What is it you know?"

"Wait a minute, Hamlin," said Sheridan quickly, rising to his feet. "I
can explain this much better than that Dutchman. He means well enough,
but his tongue twists. It seems Custer met you once in the Shenandoah,
and later heard of your dismissal from the service. One night he spoke
about the affair in my quarters. Shultz was present on duty and
overheard. He spoke up like a little man; said he was there when you
got your orders, that they were delivered verbally by the staff
officer, and he repeated them for us word for word. He was taken
prisoner an hour later, and never heard of your court-martial. Is that
it, Shultz?"

"Mine Gott, ya; I sa dot alreatty," fervently. "He tell you not
reconnoisance--_charge_! I heard eet twice. Gott in Himmel, vat a
hell in der pines!"

"Hamlin," continued Sheridan quietly, "there is little enough we can do
to right this wrong. There is no way in which that Confederate
court-martial can be reconvened. But I shall have Shultz's deposition
taken and scattered broadcast. We will clear your name of stain. What
became of that cowardly cur who lied?"

Hamlin pressed one hand against his throbbing temples, struggling
against the faintness which threatened mastery.

"He--he paid for it, sir," he managed to say. "He--he died three days
ago in Black Kettle's camp."

"You got him!"

"Yes--I--I got him."

"I have forgotten--what was the coward's name?"

"Eugene Le Fevre, but in Kansas they called him Dupont."

"Dupont! Dupont!" Sheridan struck the table with his closed fist.
"Good Lord, man! Not the husband of that woman who ran off with
Lieutenant Gaskins, from Dodge?"

"I--I never heard--"

The room whirled before him in mist, the faces vanished; he heard an
exclamation from Shultz, a sharp command from Sheridan, and then seemed
to crumble up on the floor. There was the sharp rustle of a woman's
skirt, a quick, light step, the pressure of an arm beneath his head.

"Quick, orderly, he 's fainted," it was the General's voice, sounding
afar off. "Get some brandy, Shultz. Here, Miss McDonald, let me hold
the man's head."

She turned slightly, her soft hand pressing back the hair from Hamlin's
forehead.

"No," she protested firmly, "he is my soldier."

And the Sergeant, looking past the face of the girl he loved saw tears
dimming the stern eyes of his commander.

THE END

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