“That is why you enlisted?”

“Largely; there is no better place to hide one’s past than in the ranks out here on the plains.  I—­I could not remain at home with that disgrace hanging over me.”

“You must tell me all about it.”

Her head lifted suddenly as she gazed out across the river, shading her eyes.  “Why, what are those?” she exclaimed eagerly, “there, moving on the bluffs opposite?”

His glance swept to the northward, and he was as instantly the soldier again.  Far away on the upper plateau, clearly outlined against the blue of the distant sky, appeared a number of dark figures.  For a moment he believed them buffaloes, but in another instant decided instead they were horsemen riding two by two.

“Get down lower, Miss McDonald,” he commanded.  “Now we can see, and not be seen.  They must be cavalrymen, the way they ride, but we can take no chances.”

They watched the black specks pass east to where the bluff circled in toward the river.  It was from there those distant riders first observed the dim spiral of smoke still curling up from the burning stage, for they halted, bunching together, and then disappeared slowly down a gash in the side of the hill.  Emerging on the lower flat they turned in the direction of the fire, spurring their horses into a swift trot.  There was no longer any doubt of their being troopers, and Hamlin stood upright on the sand hummock waving his hat.  They were gathered about the fire, a few dismounted beside the dead bodies, before his signal was observed.  Then a field glass flashed in the sunlight, and three or four of the party rode down to the bank of the river.  One of these, the glasses still held in his hand, his horse’s hoofs in the water, shouted across the stream.

“Who are you over there?”

“White people,” answered Hamlin, using his hands for a trumpet.  “We escaped from the stage last night.  I am a sergeant, Seventh Cavalry, and the lady with me is the daughter of Major McDonald at Fort Devere.”

“How did you get across?”

“Waded in the dark; there is good bottom.  Send a man over with a couple of horses.”

The officer turned and spoke to the others grouped beside him; then raised his voice again.

“Are you sure there is no quicksand?”

“None to hurt; come straight over the end of that sand spit, and then swerve about a dozen feet to the right to keep out of a hole.  The water won’t go to a horse’s belly.  Try it, Wasson, you ought to know me.”

“You ’re ‘Brick’ Hamlin, ain’t you?”

“A good guess, Sam; come on.”

Two troopers left their saddles, and the third man, the one answering the last hail, gathered the reins in one hand, and spurred his horse confidently into the brown water.  Following the Sergeant’s shouted directions, the three animals plunged forward and came dripping up the low sand bank.  The rider, a sallow-faced man clad in rough corduroy, patched and colorless, leaned over and held out his hand.