Part 39 (2/2)
”Mine Gott, ya; I sa dot alreatty,” fervently. ”He tell you not reconnoisance--_charge_! I heard eet twice. Gott in Himmel, vat a h.e.l.l in der pines!”
”Hamlin,” continued Sheridan quietly, ”there is little enough we can do to right this wrong. There is no way in which that Confederate court-martial can be reconvened. But I shall have Shultz's deposition taken and scattered broadcast. We will clear your name of stain. What became of that cowardly cur who lied?”
Hamlin pressed one hand against his throbbing temples, struggling against the faintness which threatened mastery.
”He--he paid for it, sir,” he managed to say. ”He--he died three days ago in Black Kettle's camp.”
”You got him!”
”Yes--I--I got him.”
”I have forgotten--what was the coward's name?”
”Eugene Le Fevre, but in Kansas they called him Dupont.”
”Dupont! Dupont!” Sheridan struck the table with his closed fist.
”Good Lord, man! Not the husband of that woman who ran off with Lieutenant Gaskins, from Dodge?”
”I--I never heard--”
The room whirled before him in mist, the faces vanished; he heard an exclamation from Shultz, a sharp command from Sheridan, and then seemed to crumble up on the floor. There was the sharp rustle of a woman's skirt, a quick, light step, the pressure of an arm beneath his head.
”Quick, orderly, he 's fainted,” it was the General's voice, sounding afar off. ”Get some brandy, Shultz. Here, Miss McDonald, let me hold the man's head.”
She turned slightly, her soft hand pressing back the hair from Hamlin's forehead.
”No,” she protested firmly, ”he is my soldier.”
And the Sergeant, looking past the face of the girl he loved saw tears dimming the stern eyes of his commander.
THE END
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