Out of the buzz of conversation and the hearty words of congratulation, Hamlin emerged bewildered, finding himself again facing Custer, whose manner had as swiftly changed into the brusque note of command.

“I have met you before, Sergeant,” he said slowly, “before your assignment to the Seventh, I think.  I am not sure where; were you in the Shenandoah?”

“I was, sir.”

“At Winchester?”

“I saw you first at Cedar Creek, General Custer; I brought a flag.”

“That’s it; I have the incident clearly before me now.  You were a lieutenant-colonel?”

“Of the Fourth Texas, sir.”

“Exactly; I think I heard later—­but never mind that now.  Sheridan remembers you; he even mentioned your name to me a few weeks ago.  No doubt that was what caused me to recognize your face again after all these years.  How long have you been in our service?”

“Ever since the war closed.”

For a moment the two men looked into each others’ faces, the commander smiling, the enlisted man at respectful attention.

“I will talk with you at some future time, Sergeant,” Custer said at last, resuming his seat on a log.  “Now we shall have to consider the to-morrow’s march.  Were you within sight of Black Kettle’s camp?”

“No, sir; only of his pony herd out in the valley of the Canadian.”

“Where would you suppose the camp situated?”

“Above, behind the bluffs, about the mouth of Buffalo Creek.”

Custer drew the map toward him, scrutinizing it carefully.

“You may be right, of course,” he commented, his glance on the faces of the officers, “but this does not agree with the understanding at Camp Supply, nor the report of our Indian scouts.  We supposed Black Kettle to be farther south on the Washita.  How large was the pony herd?”

“We were not near enough to count the animals, sir, but there must have been two hundred head.”

“A large party then, at least.  What do you say, Corbin?”

The scout addressed, conspicuous in his buffalo skin coat, leaned against the tent-pole, his black whiskers moving industriously as he chewed.

“Wal, Gineral,” he said slowly, “I know this yere ‘Brick’ Hamlin, an’ he ’s a right smart plainsman, sojer ’er no sojer.  If he says he saw thet pony herd, then he sure did.  Thet means a considerable bunch o’ Injuns thar, er tharabouts.  Now I know Black Kettle’s outfit is down on the Washita, so the only conclusion is that this yere band thet the Sergeant stirred up is some new tribe er other, a-driftin’ down frum the north.  I reckon if we ride up ther valley we ’ll hit their trail, an’ it ’ll lead straight down to them Cheyennes.”

Custer took time to consider this explanation, spreading the field map out on his knees, and measuring the distance between the streams.  No one in the little group spoke, although several leaned forward eagerly.  The chief was not a man to ask advice; he preferred to decide for himself.  Suddenly he straightened up and threw back his head to look about.