"I "ll take it out of him before morning," was the reply. "Come on, boy! easy now--easy! How about the rations, Captain?"
"Carter will have them for you at the gate of the stockade. Do you know the trail?"
"Well enough to follow--yes."
McDonald was waiting with Carter, and the dim gleam of the lantern revealed his face.
"Remember, Sergeant, you are to make her turn back if you can. Tell her I wish her to do so--yes, this letter will explain everything, but she is a pretty high-spirited girl, and may take the bit in her teeth--imagine she "d rather be here with me, and all that. If she does I suppose you "ll have to let her have her own way--the Lord knows her mother always did. Anyhow you "ll stay with her till she "s safe."
"I sure will," returned the Sergeant, gathering up his reins.
"Good-bye to you."
"Good-bye and good luck," and McDonald put out his hand, which the other took hesitatingly. The next instant he was in the saddle, and with a wild leap the startled mustang rounded the edge of the bluff, flying into the night.
All had occurred so quickly that Hamlin"s mind had not yet fully adjusted itself to all the details. He was naturally a man of few words, deciding on a course of action quietly, yet not apt to deviate from any conclusion finally reached. But he had been hurried, pressed into this adventure, and now welcomed an opportunity to think it all out coolly. At first, for a half mile or more, the plunging buckskin kept him busy, bucking viciously, rearing, leaping madly from side to side, practising every known equine trick to dislodge the grim rider in the saddle. The man fought out the battle silently, immovable as a rock, and apparently as indifferent. Twice his spurs brought blood, and once he struck the rearing head with clenched fist. The light of the stars revealed the faint lines of the trail, and he was content to permit the maddened brute to race forward, until, finally mastered, the animal settled down into a swift gallop, but with ears laid back in ugly defiance. The rider"s gray eyes smiled pleasantly as he settled more comfortably into the saddle, peering out from beneath the stiff brim of his scouting hat; then they hardened, and the man swore softly under his breath.
The peculiar nature of this mission which he had taken upon himself had been recalled. He was always doing something like that--permitting himself to become involved in the affairs of others. Now why should he be here, riding alone through the dark to prevent this unknown girl from reaching Devere? She was nothing to him--even that glimpse of her pictured face had not impressed him greatly; rather interesting, to be sure, but nothing extraordinary; besides he was not a woman"s man, and, through years of isolation, had grown to avoid contact with the s.e.x--and he was under no possible obligation to either McDonald or Travers. Yet here he was, fully committed, drawn into the vortex, by a hasty ill-considered decision. He was tired still from his swift journey across the desert from Fort Union, and now faced another three days" ride. Then what? A headstrong girl to be convinced of danger, and controlled. The longer he thought about it all, the more intensely disagreeable the task appeared, yet the clearer did he appreciate its necessity. He chafed at the knowledge that it had become his work--that he had permitted himself to be ensnared--yet he dug his spurs into the mustang and rode steadily, grimly, forward.
The real truth was that Hamlin comprehended much more fully than did the men at Devere the danger menacing travellers along the main trail to Santa Fe. News reached Fort Union much quicker than it did that isolated post up on the Cimarron. He knew of the fight in Raton Pa.s.s, and that two stages within ten days had been attacked, one several miles east of Bent"s Fort. This must mean that a desperate party of raiders had succeeded in slipping past those scattered army details scouting into the Northwest. Whether or not these warriors were in any considerable force he could not determine--the reports of their depredations were but rumors at Union when he left--yet, whether in large body or small, they would have a clear run in the Arkansas Valley before any troops could be gathered together to drive them out.
Perhaps even now, the stages had been withdrawn, communication with Santa Fe abandoned. This had been spoken of as possible at Union the night he left, for it was well known there that there was no cavalry force left at Dodge which could be utilized as guards. The wide map of the surrounding region spread out before him in memory; he felt its brooding desolation, its awful loneliness. Nevertheless he must go on--perhaps at the stage station near the ford of the Arkansas he could learn the truth. So he bent lower over the buckskin"s neck and rode straight through the black, silent night.
It was a waterless desert stretching between the Cimarron and the Arkansas, consisting of almost a dead level of alkali and sand, although toward the northern extremity the sand had been driven by the ceaseless wind into grotesque hummocks. The trail, cut deep by traders" wagons earlier in the spring, was still easily traceable for a greater part of the distance, and Hamlin as yet felt no need of caution--this was a country the Indians would avoid, the only danger being from some raiding party from the south. At early dawn he came trotting down into the Arkansas Valley, and gazed across at the greenness of the opposite bank. There, plainly in view, were the deep ruts of the main trail running close in against the bluff. His tired eyes caught no symbol of life either up or down the stream, except a thin spiral of blue smoke that slowly wound its way upward. An instant he stared, believing it to be the fire of some emigrant"s camp; then realized that he looked upon the smouldering debris of the stage station.
CHAPTER III
THE NEWS AT RIPLEY
Miss Molly McDonald had departed for the West--carefully treasuring her father"s detailed letter of instruction--filled with interest and enthusiasm. She was an army girl, full of confidence in herself and delighted at the prospect of an unusual summer. Moreover, her natural spirit of adventure had been considerably stimulated by the envious comments of her schoolmates, who apparently believed her wondrously daring to venture such a trip, the apprehensive advice of her teachers, and much reading, not very judiciously chosen, relative to pioneer life on the plains. The possible hardships of the long journey alone did not appall her in the least. She had made similar trips before and had always found pleasant and attentive companionship. Being a wholesome, pleasant-faced girl, with eyes decidedly beautiful, and an attractive personality, the making or new friendships was never difficult. Of course the stage ride would be an entirely fresh and precarious experience, but then her father would doubtless meet her before that, or send some officer to act as escort. Altogether the prospect appeared most delightful and alluring.
The illness of the princ.i.p.al of Sunnycrest had resulted in the closing of the school some few days earlier than had been antic.i.p.ated, and it was so lonely there after the others had departed that Miss Molly hastened her packing and promptly joined the exodus. Why not? She could wait the proper date at Kansas City or Fort Ripley just as well, enjoying herself meanwhile amid a new environment, and no doubt she would encounter some of her father"s army friends who would help entertain her pleasantly. Miss McDonald was somewhat impulsive, and, her interest once aroused, impatient of restraint.
As a result of this earlier departure she reached Ripley some two days in advance of the prearranged schedule, and in spite of her young strength and enthusiasm, most thoroughly tired out by the strain of continuous travel. Her one remaining desire upon arrival was for a bed, and actuated by this necessity, when she learned that the army post was fully two miles from the town, she accepted proffered guidance to the famous Gilsey House and promptly fell asleep. The light of a new day gave her a first real glimpse of the surrounding dreariness as she stood looking out through the grimy gla.s.s of her single window, depressed and heartsick. The low, rolling hills, bare and desolate, stretched to the horizon, the gra.s.s already burned brown by the sun.
The town itself consisted of but one short, crooked street, flanked by rough, ramshackle frame structures, two-thirds of these apparently saloons, with dirty, flapping tents sandwiched between, and huge piles of tin cans and other rubbish stored away behind. The street was rutted and dusty, and the ceaseless wind swirled the dirt about in continuous, suffocating clouds. The hotel itself, a little, squatty, two-storied affair, groaned to the blast, threatening to collapse.
Nothing moved except a wagon down the long ribbon of road, and a dog digging for a bone behind a near-by tent. It was so squalid and ugly she turned away in speechless disgust.
The interior, however, offered even smaller comfort. A rude bedstead, one leg considerably short and propped up by a half brick, stood against the board wall; a single wooden chair was opposite, and a fly-specked mirror hung over a tin basin and pitcher. The floor sagged fearfully and the side walls lacked several inches of reaching the ceiling. Even in the dim candle light of the evening before, the bed coverings had looked so forbidding that Molly had compromised, lying down, half-dressed on the outside; now, in the garish glare of returning day they appeared positively filthy. And this was the best to be had; she realized that, her courage failing at the thought of remaining alone amid such surroundings. As she washed, using a towel of her own after a single glance at the hotel article, and did up her rebellious hair, she came to a prompt decision. She would go directly on--would take the first stage. Perhaps her father, or whomever he sent, would be met with along the route. The coaches had regular meeting stations, so there was small danger of their missing each other. Even if she was compelled to wait over at Fort Dodge, the environment there could certainly be no more disagreeable than this.
The question of possible danger was dismissed almost without serious thought. She had seen no papers since leaving St. Louis, and the news before that contained nothing more definite than rumors of uneasiness among the Plains Indians. Army officers interviewed rather made light of the affair, as being merely the regular outbreak of young warriors, easily suppressed. On the train she had met with no one who treated the situation as really serious, and, if it was, then surely her father would send some message of restraint. Satisfied upon this point, and fully determined upon departing at the earliest opportunity, she ventured down the narrow, creaking stairs in search of breakfast.
The dining-room was discovered at the foot of the steps, a square box of a place, the two narrow windows looking forth on the desolate prairie. There were three long tables, but only one was in use, and, with no waiter to guide her, the girl advanced hesitatingly and took a seat opposite the two men already present. They glanced up, curiously interested, staring at her a moment, and then resumed their interrupted meal. Miss McDonald"s critical eyes surveyed the unsavory-looking food, her lips slightly curving, and then glanced inquiringly toward the men. The one directly opposite was large and burly, with iron-gray hair and beard, about sixty years of age, but with red cheeks and bright eyes, and a face expressive of hearty good nature. His clothing was roughly serviceable, but he looked clean and wholesome. The other was an army lieutenant, but Molly promptly quelched her first inclination to address him, as she noted his red, inflamed face and dissipated appearance. As she nibbled, half-heartedly, at the miserable food brought by a slovenly waiter, the two men exchanged barely a dozen words, the lieutenant growling out monosyllabic answers, finally pushing back his chair, and striding out. Again the girl glanced across at the older man, mustering courage to address him. At the same moment he looked up, with eyes full of good humor and kindly interest.
"Looks rather tough, I reckon, miss," waving a big hand over the table.
"But you "ll have ter git used to it in this kentry."
"Oh, I do not believe I ever could," disconsolately. "I can scarcely choke down a mouthful."
"So I was noticin"; from the East, I reckon?"
"Yes; I--I came last night, and--and really I am afraid I am actually homesick already. It--it is even more--more primitive than I supposed.
Do--do you live here--at Ripley?"
"Good Lord, no!" heartily, "though I reckon yer might not think my home wuz much better. I "m the post-trader down at Fort Marcy, jist out o"
Santa Fe. I "ll be blame glad ter git back thar too, I "m a tellin"
yer."
"That--that is what I wished to ask you about," she stammered. "The Santa Fe stage; when does it leave here? and--and where do I arrange for pa.s.sage?"
He dropped knife and fork, staring at her across the table.
"Good Lord, miss," he exclaimed swiftly. "Do yer mean to say ye "re goin" to make that trip alone?"
"Oh, not to Santa Fe; only as far as the stage station at the Arkansas crossing," she exclaimed hastily. "I am going to join my father; he--he commands a post on the Cimarron--Major McDonald."
"Well, I "ll be d.a.m.ned," said the man slowly, so surprised that he forgot himself. "Babes in the wilderness; what, in Heaven"s name, ever induced yer dad to let yer come on such a fool trip? Is n"t thar no one to meet yer here, or at Dodge?"
"I--I don"t know," she confessed. "Father was going to come, or else send one of his officers, but I have seen no one. I am here two days earlier than was expected, and--and I haven"t heard from my father since last month. See, this is his last letter; won"t you read it, please, and tell me what I ought to do?"
The man took the letter, and read the three pages carefully, and then turned back to note the date, before handing the sheets across the table.
"The Major sure made his instructions plain enough," he said slowly.
"And yer have n"t heard from him since, or seen any one he sent to meet yer?"
The girl shook her head slowly.
"Well, that ain"t to be wondered at, either," he went on. "Things has changed some out yere since that letter was wrote. I reckon yer know we "re havin" a bit o" Injun trouble, an" yer dad is sh.o.r.e to be pretty busy out thar on the Cimarron."
"I--I do not think I do. I have seen no papers since leaving St.
Louis. Is the situation really serious? Is it unsafe for me to go farther?"
The man rubbed his chin, as though undecided what was best to say. But the girl"s face was full of character, and he answered frankly.
"It"s serious "nough, I reckon, an" I certainly wish I wus safe through to Fort Marcy, but I don"t know no reason now why you could n"t finish up your trip all right. I wus out to the fort last evenin" gettin" the latest news, an" thar hasn"t been no trouble to speak of east of old Bent"s Fort. Between thar and Union, thar"s a bunch o" Mescalo Apaches raisin" thunder. One lot got as far as the Caches, an" burned a wagon train, but were run back into the mount"ns. Troops are out along both sides the Valley, an" thar ain"t been no stage held up, nor station attacked along the Arkansas. I reckon yer pa "ll have an escort waitin" at the crossin"?"
"Of course he will; what I am most afraid of is that I might miss him or his messenger on the route."
"Not likely; there"s only two stages a week each way, an" they have regular meeting points."
She sat quiet, eyes lowered to the table, thinking. She liked the man, and trusted him; he seemed kindly deferential. Finally she looked up.
"When do you go?"
"To-day. I was goin" to wait "bout yere a week longer, but am gitting skeered they might quit runnin" their coaches. To tell the truth, miss, it looks some to me like thar wus a big Injun war comin", and I "d like ter git home whar I belong afore it breaks loose."
"Will--will you take me with you?"
He moistened his lips, his hands clasping and unclasping on the table.