His call for aid was natural enough, and
his choice of Kennedy, daring, dashing lad who had learned to ride in
Galway, was the best that could be made. No peril could daunt the
light-hearted fellow, already proud wearer of the medal of honor; but,
duty done, it was Kennedy's creed that the soldier merited reward and
relaxation. If he went to bed at "F" Troop's barracks there would be no
more cakes and ale, no more of the major's good grub and rye. If he went
down to look after the gallant steed he loved--saw to it that Kilmaine
was rubbed down, bedded, given abundant hay and later water--sure then,
with clear conscience, he could accept the major's "bid," and call again
on his bedward way and toast the major to his Irish heart's and
stomach's content. Full of pluck and fight and enthusiasm, and only
quarter full, he would insist, of rye, was Kennedy as he strode
whistling down the well-remembered road to the flats, for he, with
Captain Truscott's famous troop, had served some months at Frayne before
launching forth to Indian story land in the shadows of the Big Horn
range. Kennedy, in fact, essayed to sing when once out of earshot of the
guard-house, and singing, he strolled on past the fork of the winding
road where he should have turned to his right, and in the fulness of his
heart went striding southward down the slope, past the once familiar
haunt the store, now dark and deserted, past the big house of the post
trader, past the trader's roomy stables and corral, and so wended his
moonlit way along the Rawlins trail, never noting until he had chanted
over half a mile and most of the songs he knew, that Frayne was well
behind him and the rise to the Medicine Bow in front.
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