all. I did not care what they thought--for my soldier had come home
from the wars."

"Sweetheart," the deep voice faltering, "may--may I kiss you?"

"Of course you may."

Their lips met, and she clung to him, as his arms held her closely. It
was like a dream to him, this sudden, unexpected surrender. Perhaps
she read this in his eyes.

"Do not misunderstand," she urged softly. "I do not come to you
because of what has happened, because I am alone and helpless. If you
had stepped from the ranks that night at Dodge, I would have answered
even as I do now."

"You love me?--love me?" he repeated.

"Yes."

Even as he looked down into her upturned face, there was borne back
upon him a realization of their predicament. His eyes swept over the
surrounding desolation, the two dead bodies lying motionless in the
snow, the stiffening pony, the drear hillside which shut them in. The
sight brought him back to consciousness with a shock. Minutes might
mean much now. Dupont had disappeared over that ridge to the right, in
the direction of Black Kettle's camp. How far away that might be was
altogether guess-work, yet what would inevitably occur when the
fugitive arrived among his friends, and told his story, could be
clearly conceived. Even if the man believed Hamlin killed, he would