Meanwhile the sun had dropped behind the westward heights; the night
would soon be coming down, chill and overcast. Byrne was still away,
but he couldn't miss the tank, said one of the troopers who had ridden
with him. Twice during the morning they had all met there and then
gone forth again, searching--searching. Punch's little hoof-tracks,
cutting through a sandy bit in the northward ravine, had drawn them
all that way, but nothing further had been found. His horse, too, said
the orderly, was lame and failing, so he had been bidden to wait by
the water and watch for couriers either from the front or out from the
post. Byrne was one of those never-give-up men, and they all knew him.
Barley was served out to the animals, a little fire lighted, lookouts
were stationed, and presently their soldier supper was ready, and
still Blakely said nothing. He had written three notes or letters, one
of which seemed to give him no little trouble, for one after another
he thrust two leaves into the fire and started afresh. At length they
were ready, and he signaled to Arnold. "You can count, I think, on
Graham's getting here within a few hours," said he. "Meantime you're
as good a surgeon as I need. Help me on with this sling." And still
they did not fathom his purpose. He was deathly pale, and his eyes
were eloquent of dread unspeakable, but he seemed to have forgotten
pain, fever, and prostration. Arnold, in the silent admiration of the
frontier, untied the support, unloosed the bandages, and together they
redressed the ugly wound. Then presently the Bugologist stood feebly
upon his feet and looked about him. It was growing darker, and not
another sound had come from Byrne.
"Start one of your men into Sandy at once," said Blakely, to the
sergeant, and handed him a letter addressed to Major Plume. "He will
probably meet the doctor before reaching the Beaver. These other two
I'll tell you what to do with later. Now, who has the best horse?"
Arnold stared. Sergeant Stone quickly turned and saluted. "The
lieutenant is not thinking of mounting, I hope," said he.
Blakely did not even answer. He was studying the orderly's bay. Stiff
and a little lame he might be, but, refreshed and strengthened by
abundant barley, he was a better weight-carrier than the other, and
Blakely had weight. "Saddle your horse, Horn," said he, "and fasten on
those saddle-bags of mine."
"But, lieutenant," ventured Arnold, "you are in no shape to ride
anything but that litter. Whatever you think of doing, let me do."