Well he knew him, as what trooper of the ----th did
not?--Lieutenant Beverly Field; but, seeing the reopened eyes it was the
Indian again who sought to speak. With uplifted hand he turned from the
rescuer to the rescued.
"You're saved this time, you cur of a Mick," were, expurgated of
unprintable blasphemy, the exact words of the semi-savage lord of the
frontier, "but by the God that made us both I'll get you before another
moon, dash dash you, and when I do I'll cut out your blackguard heart
and eat it." Then bounding on his pony, away he sped at mad gallop,
westward.
For a moment no further word was spoken. The officer presently helped
the soldier to his feet and stayed him, for the latter's legs seemed
wobbly. Field let his salvage get its breath before asking questions.
Yet he was puzzled, for the man's face was strange to him. "Who are
you?" he asked, at length, "and what on earth are you doing out here
this time of night?"
"Kennedy, sir. Captain Truscott's troop, at Fort Beecher. I got in with
despatches an hour ago--"
"What!" cried Field. "Despatches! What did you do--"
"Gave 'em to the major, sir. Beg pardon; they was lookin' for the
adjutant, sir, an' Sergeant Hogan said he wasn't home.
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