“Beg your pardon, general,” he blurted. “But do I understand that the officer of the day remains with the wagon-train?” “Yes, captain.” “But, general! I’m officer of the day!” “I did not think of it at the time, Hamilton,” replied the general, frankly. “I simply gave the instructions, and I’m afraid they must be followed.” “General!” exclaimed the captain. He was much distressed. Ned knew why, and appreciated. To stay behind, while the others fought, would be awful. “Then I must remain? Can’t I go, sir?” “The wagon-train must be protected,” answered the general, kind but firm. “We’d like to have you with us, Hamilton. We need such men as you. But the train needs an officer, too; and this is soldier’s luck. Your duty is here.” “It seems pretty hard that I’ve got to stay,” he murmured, dismayed. “There’s liable to be a big fight—and I won’t be on hand to lead my squadron.” The general surveyed him, with eyes softening. Truly, the young captain, high-mettled and soldierly, made a sorry figure. “I’ll tell you, Hamilton. If—_if_ you can find an officer who by one reason or another feels convinced that he should stay rather than you, he may take your place. Otherwise, as officer of the day your duty is with the train.” Captain Hamilton’s face lighted. “Thank you, general! Thank you! I’ll go and see.” And whirling his horse, back he galloped, on this forlorn hope. Ned rather trusted that he would be successful. Presently, here he came again. He was fairly shining, as he saluted. “Lieutenant Mathey, sir! He has snow-blindness so he can scarcely see, and he would be of no use with the column. He has kindly consented to exchange with me. Shall I join my squadron, sir?” “Very well, sir,” approved the general. And the glad Captain Louis Hamilton, grandson of Alexander Hamilton, went flying to his post. In precisely due time the general looked at his watch. He vaulted into the saddle. “All ready, Moylan,” he called. And, to Ned: “Sound the advance.” XV “WE ATTACK AT DAYLIGHT” It was a long, long forced march. Wide and white lay the desolate desert beyond the Canadian, and through the foot of snow ploughed the eager column. Not a moving figure broke the white expanse; not a moving figure save the figures of California Joe and Romeo and Little Beaver and Hard Rope and the other scouts, as far in advance and on either side they rode seeking the Elliot trail. As the major, following the Indians, had been heading southeast, a course south ought to strike his tracks, soon or late. Late it proved to be; for not until within an hour of sunset, and after a day’s ride without halt for food or drink, did the column see Little Beaver stop short, and with uplifted hand signal a trail. Such had been Thanksgiving Day, Thursday, November 26, 1868.