“Dan,” he said swiftly, “how about that fellow who came in with despatches from Union just before dark?  He looked like a real man.”

“I did n’t see him.  I was down river with the wood-cutters all day.”

Travers got up and paced the floor.

“I remember now.  What do you say?  Let’s have him in, anyhow.  They never would have trusted him for that ride if he had n’t been the right sort.”  He strode over to the door, without waiting an answer.  “Here, Carter,” he called, “do you know where that cavalryman is who rode in from Fort Union this afternoon?”

A face appeared in the glow of light, and a gloved hand rose to salute.

“He’s asleep in ‘B’s’ shack, sir,” the orderly replied.  “Said he ’d been on the trail two nights and a day.”

“Reckon he had, and some riding at that.  Rout him out, will you; tell him the Major wants to see him here at once.”

The man wheeled as if on a pivot, and disappeared.

“If Carter could only ride,” began McDonald, but Travers interrupted impatiently.

“If!  But we all know he can’t.  Worst I ever saw, must have originally been a sailor.”  He slowly refilled his pipe.  “Now, see here, Dan, it’s your daughter that’s to be looked after, and therefore I want you to size this man up for yourself.  I don’t pretend to know anything about him, only he looks like a soldier, and they must think well of him at Union.”

McDonald nodded, but without enthusiasm; then dropped his head into his hands.  In the silence a coyote howled mournfully not far away; then a shadow appeared on the log step, the light of the candle flashing on a row of buttons.

“This is the man, sir,” said the orderly, and stood aside to permit the other to enter.

CHAPTER II

“Brick” Hamlin

The two officers looked up with some eagerness, McDonald straightening in his chair, and returning the cavalryman’s salute instinctively, his eyes expressing surprise.  He was a straight-limbed fellow, slenderly built, and appearing taller than he really was by reason of his erect, soldierly carriage; thin of waist, broad of chest, dressed in rough service uniform, without jacket, just as he had rolled out of the saddle, rough shirt open at the throat, patched, discolored trousers, with broad yellow stripe down the seam, stuck into service riding boots, a revolver dangling at his left hip, and a soft hat, faded sadly, crushed in one hand.

The Major saw all this, yet it was at the man’s uncovered face he gazed most intently.  He looked upon a countenance browned by sun and alkali, intelligent, sober, heavily browed, with eyes of dark gray rather deeply set; firm lips, a chin somewhat prominent, and a broad forehead, the light colored hair above closely trimmed; the cheeks were darkened by two days’ growth of beard.  McDonald unclosed, then clenched his hand.