"Don't bother about dousing anything else, sergeant," said he
presently, to the soldier supervising the work of the bucket squad.
"The iron box should be under what's left of my desk--about there,"
and he indicated a charred and steaming heap, visible through a gap in
the doubly baked adobe that had once been the side window. "Lug that
out as soon as you can cool things off. I'll probably be back by that
time." Then, turning again to the group of officers, and ignoring
Doty--Blakely addressed himself to the senior.
"Captain Cutler," said he, "I can fit myself out at the troop quarters
with everything I need for the field, at least, and wire to San
Francisco for what I shall need when we return. I shall be ready to go
with Ahorah at six."
There was a moment of silence. Embarrassment showed plainly in almost
every face. When Cutler spoke it was with obvious effort. Everybody
realized that Blakely, despite severe personal losses, had been the
directing head in checking the progress of the flames. Truman had
borne admirable part, but Blakely was at once leader and actor. He
deserved well of his commander. He was still far from strong. He was
weak and weary. His hands and face were scorched and in places
blistered, yet, turning his back on the ruins of his treasures, he
desired to go at once to join his comrades in the presence of the
enemy. He had missed every previous opportunity of sharing perils and
battle with them. He could afford such loss as that no longer, in view
of what he knew had been said. He had every right, so thought they
all, to go, yet Cutler hesitated. When at last he spoke it was to
temporize.
"You're in no condition for field work, Mr. Blakely," said he. "The
doctor has so assured me, and just now things are taking such shape
I--need you here."
"You will permit me to appeal by wire, sir?" queried Blakely, standing
attention in his bedraggled night garb, and forcing himself to a
semblance of respect that he was far from feeling.
"I--I will consult Dr. Graham and let you know," was the captain's
awkward reply.
Two hours later Neil Blakely, in a motley dress made up of collections
from the troop and trader's stores--a combination costume of blue
flannel shirt, bandanna kerchief, cavalry trousers with machine-made
saddle piece, Tonto moccasins and leggings, fringed gauntlets and a
broad-brimmed white felt hat, strode into the messroom in quest of
eggs and coffee. Doty had been there and vanished. Sick call was
sounding and Graham was stalking across the parade in the direction of
the hospital, too far away to be reached by human voice, unless
uplifted to the pitch of attracting the whole garrison. The telegraph
operator had just clicked off the last of half a dozen messages
scrawled by the lieutenant--orders on San Francisco furnishers for the
new outfit demanded by the occasion, etc., but Captain Cutler was
still mured within his own quarters, declining to see Mr. Blakely
until ready to come to the office. Ahorah and his swarthy partner were
already gone, "started even before six," said the acting sergeant
major, and Blakely was fuming with impatience and sense of something
much amiss. Doty was obviously dodging him, there could be no doubt
of that, for the youngster was between two fires, the post commander's
positive orders on one hand and Blakely's urgent pleadings on the
other.