With them up the deserted Santa Fe trail, past burned stations and wrecks of wagon trains, rode Sergeant Hamlin, silent and efficient, the old Confederate haversack fastened to his saddle, and his mind, in spite of all effort, recurring constantly to the girl who had gone to Dodge early in the summer.

Was she still there?
If so, how would she greet him now after these months of absence?
The little cavalry column, dust-covered and weary, seemed fairly to creep along, as day by day he reviewed every word, every glance, which had passed between them; and at night, under the stars, he lay with head on his saddle, endeavoring to determine his course of action, both as to their possible meeting, and with regard to the following of the clue offered by the haversack.

The time he had hoped for was at hand, but he could not decide the best course of action.

He could only wait, and permit Fate to interfere.
Certain facts were, however, sufficiently clear, and the Sergeant faced them manfully.

Not merely the fact that he was in the ranks, great as that handicap was, could have prevented an attempt at retaining the friendship of Molly McDonald.