CHAPTER XXXVIII

AT CAMP SUPPLY

There are yet living in that great Southwest those who will retell the
story of Hamlin's ride from the banks of the Washita to Camp Supply.
It remains one of the epics of the plains, one of the proud traditions
of the army. To the man himself those hours of danger, struggle and
weariness, were more a dream than a reality. He passed through them
almost unconsciously, a soldier performing his duty in utter
forgetfulness of self, nerved by the discipline of years of service, by
the importance of his mission, and by memory of Molly McDonald. Love
and duty held him reeling in the saddle, brought him safely to the
journey's end.

Let the details pass unwritten. Beneath the darkening skies of early
evening, the Sergeant and the Osage guide rode forth into the peril and
mystery of the shrouded desert. Beyond the outmost picket, moving as
silently as two spectres, they found at last a coulee leading upward
from the valley to the plains above. To their left the Indian fires
swept in half circle, and between were the dark outlines of savage
foes. From rock to rock echoed guttural voices, but, foot by foot,
unnoted by the keen eyes, the two crept steadily on through the
midnight of that sheltering ravine, dismounted, hands clasping the
nostrils of their ponies, feeling through the darkness for each step,
halting breathless at every crackle of a twig, every crunch of snow
under foot. Again and again they paused, silent, motionless, as some