CHAPTER XIX

A FULL CONFESSION

There were two more dances scheduled on the program. The last of these had begun before the infantry sergeant returned, and, apologizing for his long absence, resumed his duties at the door. Across the room, Hamlin's eyes met those of Miss McDonald, where she danced with an unknown officer; then he turned and elbowed his way to the street. The hotel opposite was all bustle and confusion, the bar-room crowded with the thirsty emergency waiters who had rushed about the hall completing final preparations. The Sergeant, intent on his purpose, and aware that the band had ceased playing, dodged past these and entered the parlor. It was already occupied by four men, who were playing cards at a small, round table and smoking vigorously, entirely engrossed in their game.

None of them so much as glanced up, and the intruder hesitated an instant, quickly determining his course of action. There was little choice left. The girl would never make an appointment with him except through necessity, and it was manifestly his duty to protect her from observation. Two of the men sitting there were strangers; the others he knew merely by sight, a tin-horn gambler called Charlie, and a sutler's clerk. His decision was swift, and characteristic.

"Gents," he said, stepping up, and tapping the table sharply, "you 'll have to vamoose from here."

"What the h.e.l.l--" the gambler looked up into the gray eyes, and stopped.

"That's all right, Charlie," went on Hamlin coolly, one hand at his belt.

"Those are my orders, and they go. Hire a room upstairs if you want to keep on with the game. Pick up the stuff, you fellows."

"But see here," the speaker was upon his feet protesting. "The old man told us we could come in here."

"The old man's word don't go for this floor to-night, partner. It's rented by the post officers. Now mosey right along, and don't come back unless you are looking for trouble--you too, Fatty."

Right or wrong there was plainly no use continuing the argument, for Hamlin's fingers were upon the b.u.t.t of his revolver, and his eyes hardened at the delay. The gambler's inclination was to oppose this summary dismissal, but a glance at his crowd convinced him he would have to play the hand alone, so he yielded reluctantly, swept the chips into the side pocket of his coat and departed, leaving behind a trail of profanity. The Sergeant smiled, but remained motionless until they disappeared.

"The bluff works," he thought serenely, "unless they make a kick at the office; some peeved, Charlie was."

He stepped over to the window, and held back the curtain. A burly figure occupied the bench, with feet upon the rail. Even in that outside dimness could be distinguished a black beard. The very man, and the Sergeant chuckled grimly with a swiftly born hope that the fellow might create a row. Nothing at that moment could have pleased him more. He blew out the parlor light, partially closed the door, and stepped forth on to the porch.

"Say, you," he said gruffly, dropping one hand heavily on the other's shoulder. "Did you hear what I said to those fellows inside? Well, it goes out here the same. Pack up, and clear the deck."

"Reb" dropped his feet to the floor and stood up, his bearded lips growling profanity, but Hamlin gripped his wrist, and the man stopped, with mouth still open, staring into the Sergeant's face. All bravado seemed to desert him instantly.

"Who--who says so?" and he stepped back farther into the shadow.

"I do, if you need to know," pleasantly enough. "Sergeant Hamlin, Seventh Cavalry."

"Oh!" the exclamation came from between clenched teeth. "h.e.l.l, man, you startled me."

"So I see; nervous disposition, I reckon. Well, are you going quietly, or shall I hoist you over the rail?"

"I had an appointment here."

"Can't help that, partner. This porch is going to be vacant inside of one minute, or there is a declaration of war. Your easiest way out is through that window, but you can go by rail if you prefer."

The black beard wasted half his allowed time in an effort at bl.u.s.ter; then, to Hamlin's utter disgust, slunk through the open window and across the darkened parlor.

"The pusillanimous cuss," the latter muttered, "he 's worse than a cur dog. Blamed if he was n't actually afraid of me. A gun-fighter--pugh!"

He lifted his voice, as "Reb" paused in the light of the hall beyond and glanced back, a fist doubled and uplifted. "Oh, go on! Sure, you 'll get me? You are the brave boy, now," and Hamlin strode toward the door threateningly. "Lope along, son, and don't turn around again until you face the bar."

He drew the door partially to again, and sat down facing the opening, where a stray beam of light fell across the floor. Thus far the adventure had scarcely proven interesting. The last encounter had been a distinct disappointment. The dispersal of the card-players was, as antic.i.p.ated, easily managed, but the reputation of "Reb" as killer and bad man had given him hope of resistance. But instead he had proven a perfect lamb. Hamlin crossed his legs and waited, his mind divided in wonder between what Miss McDonald might want, and the cowardice of the fellow just driven out. The man was actually afraid--afraid to start a row. Yet he had got to his feet with that intention; it was only after he had looked into Hamlin's face and asked his name, that he began to hedge and draw back. Could he have recognized him? Could Mrs. Dupont have warned him of danger in his direction? That would seem impossible, for the woman had not been with him for even a minute since their conversation. She had given him a swift signal at the door of the dance hall, but that could scarcely account for his present desire to avoid trouble. An engagement? Probably with Mrs. Dupont. But what was the use of speculating? Perhaps when the girl came she would have some light to throw on these matters. Surely her sudden determination to see him privately must have connection with this affair.

These thoughts came swiftly, for his period of waiting proved to be but a short one. He heard the laughter and talk as the merry-makers came into the hotel from the dance hall, crowding the pa.s.sage, and thronging in to where the tables were set. Then a rattle of dishes, and the steady shuffling of waiters rushing back and forth. Occasionally he could distinguish a shadow out in the hall, but never changed his motionless posture, or removed his eyes from the aperture, until she slipped noiselessly through and stood there panting slightly, her hand clasping the k.n.o.b of the door. Apparently in the semi-darkness of the room she was uncertain of his presence, while her white dress touched by the outside reflection made her clearly visible.

"It is all right, Miss McDonald," he murmured hastily, arising. "There is nothing to fear."

"You are here--alone?"

"Yes," smiling in memory. "There were occupants when I first arrived, but they were persuaded to depart. I had a suspicion you might prefer it that way."

"Yes," puzzled by his manner, yet softly pushing the door back so as to exclude the light. "I can see better now. Are--are you sure no one can overhear? I have something to tell you--something important."

"There is no one else here, yet some one might stumble into this room.

It is not private, you know. We shall be safer on the porch outside.

Will you take my hand, and let me guide you?"

She did so unhesitatingly, but her fingers were cold, and he could feel the twitching of her nerves.

"You are frightened--not of me, surely?"

"Oh, no!" a slight catch in her voice, "but I am running such a risk venturing here. I--I had to pretend a sick-headache to get away. You must not condemn me until you hear why I came."

"I condemn? Hardly, Miss McDonald. I am merely a soldier receiving orders; 'mine not to question why.' Here is the window; now sit down on this bench. I 'll keep guard, and listen." His voice sank lower, a little touch of tenderness in it impossible to disguise. "Are you in trouble? Is it something I can aid you to overcome?"

She did not answer at once but rested her chin in one hand, and turned her eyes away. Her breath came swiftly, as though she had not yet recovered from fright, and her face in the dim light looked white and drawn.

"Yes, you can," she began slowly, "I am sure you can. I--I came to you because there was no one else in whom I felt the same confidence. I know that sounds strange, but I cannot explain--only it seems natural to trust some people even when you do not know them very well. I do not suppose I know you very well; just those few hours we were together, but--somehow I think you are true."

"I certainly hope so," he put in earnestly. "I couldn't very well help being--with you."

"I believe that," and she lifted her eyes to his face.

"Yet I do not wish you to think me bold, or--or indiscreet. You do not think so, do you?"

"That idea has never once occurred to me, Miss McDonald. I am only too glad to be of service."

"It is good of you to say that; you see, there was no one else."

"Your father?" he suggested.

"But that is the very trouble," she insisted, rejoicing that he had thus unconsciously opened the way to her confession. "It is because my father is involved, is completely in her toils, that I am compelled to appeal to you. He will not listen to a word against her."

"Her? You refer to Mrs. Dupont?"

"Of course; why, I hadn't mentioned her name! How did you guess?"

"Because I am not entirely ignorant of conditions," he answered soberly.

"Although I have only been at the post a short time, I have managed to see and hear a good deal. You know I chanced to become involved in the shooting of Lieutenant Gaskins, and then I saw you riding with Mrs.

Dupont, and recognized her."

"Recognized?" in surprise. "Do you actually mean you knew her before?"

"Not as Mrs. Dupont, but as Vera Carson, years ago. She knew me at once, and sent your driver over to the barracks with a note."