A comrade from Blake's troop,
following through the ford, had turned to the left and led his horse up
the steep to the quarters nearest the flagstaff. This time there was no
big-hearted post commander to bid the Irishman refresh himself _ad
libitum_. Flint was alone at his office at the moment, and knew not this
strange trooper, and looked askance at his heterodox garb and war-worn
guise. Such laxity, said he to himself, was not permitted where _he_ had
hitherto served, which was never on Indian campaign. Kennedy, having
delivered his despatches, stood mutely expectant of question and
struggling with an Irishman's enthusiastic eagerness to tell the details
of heady fight. But Flint had but one method of getting at facts--the
official reports--and Kennedy stood unnoticed until, impatient at last,
he queried:--
"Beg pardon, sir, but may we put up our horses?"
"Who's we?" asked the major, bluntly. "And where are the others?"
"Trigg, sir--Captain Blake's troop. He went to the captain's quarters
with a package."
"He should have reported himself first to the post commander," said the
major, who deemed it advisable to make prompt impression on these savage
hunters of savage game.
Pages:
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257