h more fully than did
the men at Devere the danger menacing travellers along the main trail
to Santa Fe. News reached Fort Union much quicker than it did that
isolated post up on the Cimarron. He knew of the fight in Raton Pass,
and that two stages within ten days had been attacked, one several
miles east of Bent's Fort. This must mean that a desperate party of
raiders had succeeded in slipping past those scattered army details
scouting into the Northwest. Whether or not these warriors were in any
considerable force he could not determine--the reports of their
depredations were but rumors at Union when he left--yet, whether in
large body or small, they would have a clear run in the Arkansas Valley
before any troops could be gathered together to drive them out.
Perhaps even now, the stages had been withdrawn, communication with
Santa Fe abandoned. This had been spoken of as possible at Union the
night he left, for it was well known there that there was no cavalry
force left at Dodge which could be utilized as guards. The wide map of
the surrounding region spread out before him in memory; he felt its
brooding desolation, its awful loneliness. Nevertheless he must go
on--perhaps at the stage station near the ford of the Arkansas he could
learn the truth. So he bent lower over the buckskin's neck and rode
straight through the black, silent night.

It was a waterless desert stretching between the Cimarron and the
Arkansas, consisting of almost a dead level of alkali and sand,
although toward the northern extremity the sand had been driven by the
ceaseless wind into grotesque hummocks. The trail, cut deep by
traders' wagons earlier in the spring, was still easily traceable for a
greater part of the distance, and Hamlin as yet felt no need of
caution--this was a country the Indians would avoid, the only danger
being from some raiding party from the south. At early dawn he came
trotting down into the Arkansas Valley, and gazed across at the
greenness of the opposite bank. There, plainly in view, were the deep
ruts of the main trail running close in against the bluff. His tired
eyes caught no symbol of life either up or down the stream, except a
thin spiral of blue smoke that slowly wound its way upward. An instant
he stared, believing it to be the fire of some emigrant's camp; then
realized that he looked upon the smouldering debris of the stage
station.

CHAPTER III

THE NEWS AT RIPLEY

Miss Molly McDo