Wasson held the bag to the light studying the letters.

“Fourth Texas—­hey?  That your regiment?”

The Sergeant nodded, his lips tightly pressed together.

“Must hev come from Dutch Charlie’s outfit,” the scout went on slowly.  “He picks up all that sorter truck.”

“Where is that?”

“In town thar, under the bluff.  We ’ll look it up to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XIV

UNDER ARREST

One by one the barrack lights went out as the tired troopers sought their beds.  Hamlin extinguished his also, and only one remained burning, left for emergency near the door, which flung a faint glow over the big room.  But the Sergeant’s reflections kept him awake, as he sat on the foot of his bed, and stared out of the open window into the darkness.  There was little upon which to focus his eyes, a few yellow gleams along officers’ row, where callers still lingered, and the glow of a fire in front of the distant guard-house, revealing occasionally the black silhouette of a passing sentinel.  Few noises broke the silence, except the strains of some distant musical instrument, and a voice far away saying good-night.  Once he awoke from revery to listen to the call of the guards, as it echoed from post to post, ceasing with “All well, Number Nine,” far out beyond the stables.

The familiar sound served to recall him to the reality of his position.  What was the use?  What business had he to dream?  For months now he had kept that girl’s face before him, in memory of a few hours of happiness when he had looked into her dark eyes and heard her pleasant speech.  Yet from the first he had known the foolishness of it all.  He was nothing to her, and could never become anything.  Even if he cleared his past record and stepped out of the ranks into his old social position, the chances were she would never overlook what he had been.  Her gratitude meant little, nor her passing interest in his army career.  All that was the natural result of his having saved her life.  He possessed no egotism which permitted him to think otherwise.  Years of discipline had drilled into him a consciousness of the impassable gulf between the private and the officer’s daughter.  The latter might be courteous, kindly disposed, even grateful for services rendered, but it must end there.  The Major would see that it did, would resent bitterly any presumption.  No, there was nothing else possible.  If they met—­as meet they must in that contracted post—­it would be most formal, a mere exchange of reminiscence, gratitude expressed by a smile and pleasant word.  He could expect no more; might esteem himself fortunate, indeed, to receive even that recognition.  Meanwhile he would endeavor to strike Le Fevre’s trail.  There were other interests in the world to consider besides Molly McDonald, and his memory drifted away to a home he had not visited in years.  But thought would not concentrate there, and there arose before him, as he lay there, the face of Lieutenant Gaskins, wearing the same expression of insolent superiority as when they had parted out yonder on the Santa Fe trail.