"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.




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