CHAPTER XXXV

THE INDIAN TRAIL

The weather became colder as the day advanced.  Scattered pellets of snow in the air lashed the faces of the troopers, who rode steadily forward, the capes of their overcoats thrown over their heads for protection.  The snow of the late storm lay in drifts along the banks of the narrow stream, and the horses picked their passage higher up where the wind had swept the brown earth clear, at the same time keeping well below the crest.  As they thus toiled slowly forward, Hamlin related his story to the Major in detail, carefully concealing all suspicion of McDonald’s connection with the crime.  It was growing dusk when the company emerged into the valley of the Canadian.  All about them was desolation and silence, and as they were still miles away from the position assigned for Black Kettle’s encampment, the men were permitted to build fires and prepare a warm meal under shelter of the bluffs.  Two hours later the main column arrived and also went into camp.  It was intensely cold but the men were cheerful as they ate their supper of smoky and half-roasted buffalo meat, bacon, hard-tack, and coffee.

In response to orders the Sergeant went down the line of tiny fires to report in person to Custer.  He found that commander ensconced in a small tent, hastily erected in a little grove of cottonwoods, which afforded a slight protection from the piercing wind.  Before him on the ground from which the snow had been swept lay a map of the region, while all about, pressed tightly into the narrow quarters, were his troop officers.  As Hamlin was announced by the orderly, conversation ceased, and Custer surveyed the newcomer an instant in silence.

“Step forward, Sergeant,” he said quietly.  “Ah, yes; I had forgotten your name, but remember your face,” he smiled about on the group.  “We have been so scattered since our organization, gentlemen, that we are all comparative strangers.”  He stood up, lifting in one hand a tin cup of coffee.  “Gentlemen, all we of the Seventh rejoice in the honor of the service, whether it be upheld by officer or enlisted man.  I bid you drink a toast with me to Sergeant Hamlin.”

“But, General, I have done nothing to deserve—­”

“Observe the modesty of a real hero.  Yet wait until I am through.  With due regard for his achievements as a soldier, I propose this toast in commemoration of a greater deed of gallantry than those of arms—­the capture of Miss Molly McDonald!”

There was a quick uplifting of cups, a burst of laughter, and a volley of questions, the Sergeant staring about motionless, his face flushed.

“What is it, General?”

“Tell us the story!”

“Give us the joke!”

“But I assure you it is no joke.  I have it direct from the fair lips of the lady.  Brace yourselves, gentlemen, for the shock.  You young West Pointers lose, and yet the honor remains with the regiment.  Miss Molly McDonald, the toast of old Fort Dodge, whose bright eyes have won all your hearts, has given hers to Sergeant Hamlin of the Seventh.  And now again, boys, to the honor of the regiment!”