“You are from Fort Union, Captain Travers tells me?”

“Yes, sir,” the reply slow, deliberate, as though the speaker had no desire to waste words.  “I brought despatches; they were delivered to Captain Travers.”

“Yes, I know; but I may require you for other service.  What were your orders?”

“To return at convenience.”

“Good.  I know Hawley, and do not think he would object.  What is your regiment?”

“Seventh Cavalry.”

“Oh, yes, just organized; before that?”

“The Third.”

“I see you are a non-com—­corporal?”

“Sergeant, sir, since my transfer.”

“Second enlistment?”

“No, first in the regulars—­the Seventh was picked from other commands.”

“I understand.  You say first in the regulars.  Does that mean you saw volunteer service?”

“Three years, sir.”

“Ah!” his eyes brightening instantly.  “Then how does it happen you failed to try for a commission after the war?  You appear to be intelligent, educated?”

The Sergeant smiled.

“Unfortunately my previous service had been performed in the wrong uniform, sir,” he said quietly.  “I was in a Texas regiment.”

There was a moment’s silence, during which Travers smoked, and the Major seemed to hesitate.  Finally the latter asked: 

“What is your name, Sergeant?”

“Hamlin, sir.”

The pipe came out of Travers’ mouth, and he half arose to his feet.

“By all the gods!” he exclaimed.  “That’s it!  Now I ’ve got you placed—­you ’re—­you ’re ‘Brick’ Hamlin!”

The man unconsciously put one hand to his hair, his eyes laughing.

“Some of the boys call me that—­yes,” he confessed apologetically.

Travers was on his feet now, gesticulating with his pipe.

“Damn!  I knew I’d seen your face somewhere.  It was two years ago at Washita.  Say, Dan, this is the right man for you; better than any fledgling West Pointer.  Why, he is the same lad who brought in Dugan—­you heard about that!”

The Major shook his head.

“No!  Oh, of course not.  Nothing that goes on out here ever drifts east of the Missouri.  Lord!  We might as well be serving in a foreign country.  Well, listen:  I was at Washita then, and had the story first-hand.  Dugan was a Lieutenant in ‘D’ Troop, out with his first independent command scouting along the Canadian.  He knew as much about Indians as a cow does of music.  One morning the young idiot left camp with only one trooper along—­Hamlin here—­and he was a ‘rookie,’ to follow up what looked like a fresh trail.  Two hours later they rode slap into a war party, and the fracas was on.  Dugan got a ball through the body at the first fire that paralyzed him.  He was conscious, but could n’t move.  The rest was up to Hamlin.  You ought to have heard Dugan tell it when he got so he could speak.  Hamlin dragged the boy down