“I bring despatches from Custer,” he said slowly, holding himself firm.  “Take me to General Sheridan.”

The corporal walked beside him, down the trampled road, questioning eagerly as they passed the line of shacks toward the double log house where the commander was quartered.  Hamlin heard, and answered briefly, yet was conscious only of an effort to retain his strength.  Once within, he saw only the short, sturdy figure sitting behind a table, the shaggy gray beard, the stern, questioning eyes which surveyed him.  He stood there straight, motionless, his uniform powdered with snow, his teeth clinched so as not to betray weakness, his face roughened by exposure, grimy with dirt, and disfigured by a week’s growth of beard.  Sheridan stared at him, shading his eyes from the glow of the lamp.

“You are from Custer?”

“Yes, sir.”

He drew the papers from within his overcoat, stepped forward and laid them on the table.  Sheridan placed one hand upon them, but did not remove his gaze from Hamlin’s face.

“When did you leave?”

“The evening of the 27th, sir.  I was sent back with an Osage guide to bring you this report.”

“And the guide?”

“He gave out on the Cimarron and I came on alone.”

“And Custer?  Did he strike Black Kettle?”

“We found his camp the evening of the 26th, and attacked at daybreak the next morning.  There were more Indians with him than we expected to find—­between two and three thousand, warriors from all the southern tribes.  Their tepees were set up for ten miles along the Washita.  We captured Black Kettle’s village, and destroyed it; took his pony herd, and released a number of white prisoners, including some women and children.  There was a sharp fight, and we lost quite a few men; I left too early to learn how many.”

“And the command—­is it in any danger?”

“I think not, sir.  General Custer was confident he could retire safely.  The Indians were thoroughly whipped, and apparently had no chief under whom they could rally.”

The General opened the single sheet of paper, and ran his eyes slowly down the lines of writing.  Hamlin, feeling his head reel giddily, reached out silently and grasped the back of a chair in support.  Sheridan glanced up.

“General Custer reports Major Elliott as missing and several officers badly wounded.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What Indians were engaged, and under what chiefs?”

“Mostly Cheyennes, although there were bands of Arapahoes, Kiowas,
Comanches, and a few Apaches.  Little Rock was in command after Black
Kettle was killed—­that is of the Cheyennes.  Little Raven, and
Santanta led the others.”

“A fiend, that last.  But, Sergeant, you are exhausted.  I will talk with you to-morrow.  The officer of the day will assign you quarters.”

Hamlin, still clinging to the chair with one hand, lifted the other in salute.