Molly McDonald | Page 3

I can send to meet her, or turn her back. If I should go myself it would mean a court-martial."
Travers stared into the darkness through the open door, sucking at his pipe.
"By George, you are in a pickle," he acknowledged slowly. "I supposed she had been headed off long ago. Have n't heard you mention the matter since we first got here. Where do you suppose the lass is by now?"
"Near as I can tell she would leave Ripley the 18th."
"Humph! Then starting to-night, a good rider might intercept her at Fort Dodge. She would be in no danger travelling alone for that distance. The regular stages are running yet, I suppose?"
"Yes; so far as I know."
"Under guard?"
"Only from the Caches to Fort Union; there has been no trouble along the lower Arkansas yet. The troops from Dodge are scouting the country north, and we are supposed to keep things clear of hostiles down this way."
"Supposed to--yes; but we can't patrol five hundred miles of desert with a hundred men, most of them dough-boys. The devils can break through any time they get ready--you know that. At this minute there is n't a mile of safe country between Dodge and Union. If she was my daughter--"
"You 'd do what?" broke in McDonald, jumping to his feet. "I 'd give my life to know what to do!"
"Why, I'd send somebody to meet her--to turn her back if that was possible. Peyton would look after her there at Ripley until you could arrange."
"That's easy enough to say, Travers, but tell me who is there to send? Do you chance to know an enlisted man out yonder who would do--whom you would trust to take care of a young girl alone?"
The Captain bent his head on one hand, silent for some minutes.
"They are a tough lot, Major; that's a fact, when you stop to call the roll. Those recruits we got at Leavenworth were mostly rough-necks--seven of them in the guard-house to-night. Our best men are all out," with a wave of his hand to the south. "It's only the riff-raff we 've got left, at Devere."
"You can't go?"
The Captain rubbed his lame leg regretfully.
"No; I 'd risk it if I could only ride, but I could n't sit a saddle."
"And my duty is here; it would cost me my commission."
There was a long thoughtful silence, both men moodily staring out through the door. Away in the darkness unseen sentinels called the hour. Then Travers dropped one hand on the other's knee.
"Dan," he said swiftly, "how about that fellow who came in with despatches from Union just before dark? He looked like a real man."
"I did n't see him. I was down river with the wood-cutters all day."
Travers got up and paced the floor.
"I remember now. What do you say? Let's have him in, anyhow. They never would have trusted him for that ride if he had n't been the right sort." He strode over to the door, without waiting an answer. "Here, Carter," he called, "do you know where that cavalryman is who rode in from Fort Union this afternoon?"
A face appeared in the glow of light, and a gloved hand rose to salute.
"He's asleep in 'B's' shack, sir," the orderly replied. "Said he 'd been on the trail two nights and a day."
"Reckon he had, and some riding at that. Rout him out, will you; tell him the Major wants to see him here at once."
The man wheeled as if on a pivot, and disappeared.
"If Carter could only ride," began McDonald, but Travers interrupted impatiently.
"If! But we all know he can't. Worst I ever saw, must have originally been a sailor." He slowly refilled his pipe. "Now, see here, Dan, it's your daughter that's to be looked after, and therefore I want you to size this man up for yourself. I don't pretend to know anything about him, only he looks like a soldier, and they must think well of him at Union."
McDonald nodded, but without enthusiasm; then dropped his head into his hands. In the silence a coyote howled mournfully not far away; then a shadow appeared on the log step, the light of the candle flashing on a row of buttons.
"This is the man, sir," said the orderly, and stood aside to permit the other to enter.
CHAPTER II
"BRICK" HAMLIN
The two officers looked up with some eagerness, McDonald straightening in his chair, and returning the cavalryman's salute instinctively, his eyes expressing surprise. He was a straight-limbed fellow, slenderly built, and appearing taller than he really was by reason of his erect, soldierly carriage; thin of waist, broad of chest, dressed in rough service uniform, without jacket, just as he had rolled out of the saddle, rough shirt open at the throat, patched, discolored trousers, with broad yellow stripe down the