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.