Webb did not take fire. He turned icy.
"The quartermaster's safe can be opened at any moment, Mr. Field," said
he, the blue gray eyes glittering, dangerously. "I presume your funds
are there."
"It was because the quartermaster would _not_ open it at any moment that
I took them out and placed them elsewhere," hotly answered Field, and
not until then did Webb remember that there had been quite a fiery talk,
followed by hyperborean estrangement, between his two staff officers,
and now, as the only government safe at the post was in the office of
the quartermaster, and the only other one was Bill Hay's big "Phoenix"
at the store, it dawned upon the major that it was there Mr. Field had
stowed his packages of currency--a violation of orders pure and
simple--and that was why he could not produce the money on the spot.
Webb reflected. If he let Ray start at dawn and held Field back until
the trader was astir, it might be eight o'clock before the youngster
could set forth. By that time Ray would be perhaps a dozen miles to the
northward, and with keen-eyed Indian scouts noting the march of the
troop and keeping vigilant watch for possible stragglers, it might be
sending the lad to certain death, for Plodder had said in so many words
the Sioux about him had declared for war, had butchered three ranchmen
on the Dry Fork, had fired on and driven in his herd guards and wood
choppers, and, what started with Lane Wolf's big band, would spread to
Stabber's little one in less than no time, and what spread to Stabber's
would soon reach a host of the Sioux.
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