“I was not so terribly afraid last night; I hardly had time to realize what was being done, did you?”

“Well, yes; it was risky business.  Awfully treacherous bottom and I was trusting to good luck.”

The Sergeant ate heartily, speaking occasionally so as to divert her mind, but for the most part, busily thinking and endeavoring to decide his next move.  He sat facing the river, continually lifting his head to scan the opposite shore.  There was probably a scouting detail somewhere near at hand, either approaching from the east, alarmed by the report of the fleeing stage crew, or else a detachment tracking Roman Nose’s warriors across those plains extending into the north.  The latter contingency was the more probable, judging from the Indians’ flight, and his own knowledge of the small reserve force left at Dodge.  Besides, ride as they might those two fleeing cowards of yesterday could hardly have yet reached that shelter of safety and might not confess the truth of their desertion even when they did arrive.  A pursuing force was the only real hope for escaping the necessity of a hard tramp back over the trail.  Well, the girl looked fit, and he glanced toward her appreciatively.

In spite of the sad experiences of the past night she was a pleasant spectacle, her eyes bright with excitement, her cheeks flushed under the morning sun which flecked her dark, disordered hair with odd color.  Hers was a winsome face, with smiling lips, and frank good nature in its contour.  He was surprised to note how fresh and well she looked.

“Are you tired?”

“Not very.  It seems more as though I had dreamed all this than actually passed through the experience.  Perhaps when I do realize, the reaction will set in.  But now I am strong, and—­and not at all frightened.”

“Nor hungry?”

“It is hard to eat, but I am often that way.”  Her hand strayed to the emptied haversack, and she turned it carelessly over, where it lay beside her on the sand.  “Why, this is an old Confederate sack, isn’t it?  I hadn’t noticed before; see, the ‘C.  S. A.’ is on the flap.”

“So it is; perhaps Moylan served in the South.”

“I think not.  I am sure this was never his, for he bought it at Dodge.  I remember he told me he would have to find something to carry our lunch in.”  She pushed the flap farther back, then held it up to the sunlight.  “There are some other letters, but they are hardly decipherable.  I cannot read the first line at all, but the second is somewhat plainer—­’Fourth Texas Infantry.’”

Hamlin reached out his hand swiftly, and grasped the haversack, forgetting everything else in suddenly aroused interest.  The girl, surprised, stared up into his face, as he closely studied the faded inscription, his face expressing unconcealed amazement.

“Good God!” he ejaculated breathlessly.  “It was Gene’s.  What can this mean?”

“You—­you knew the soldier?”