It was then lacking nearly an hour of tattoo. Already the arriving couriers, their mission executed, their wearied horses turned over to willing hands at stables, their hunger appeased at the troop kitchen, and the pent-up hankering for beer still unassuaged, were "filling up" at the expense of their fellows at the store, and wistfully looking on at the game.
Muñoz, the ever-ready; Dago, the still demoralized, and one or two of their burro-bred community, were settled at monte, Dago and Muñoz eying each other like gladiators, and already a table had started at stud poker, that might readily develop into "draw." The barkeeper was a busy man, and had been given the tip to keep sober or lose the last hold he had on his job. The bookkeeper had for a few days past moved in silence about the premises, avoiding the common room as he would a lazaretto, avoiding even his kind. For most of the week he had been utterly unlike himself—strange, nervous, restless, starting at sudden sounds, abrupt in speech and manner, occasionally springing to the door and stepping forth into the sunlight, wandering about with hanging head and hands in pocket, coming back and slamming into his seat as though at odds with all creation, striving desperately to concentrate his thoughts on the columns of figures, and failing wretchedly. "Case is all broke up," said Craney, "and damned if I know why. Last week he was the most popular man in Yavapai, or all Arizona for that matter." What Craney and his partner mortally feared was that Case would take to drinking again, with pay-day close at hand—the time of all others Case had never yet failed them, the time of all others when breach of faith could mean nothing short of breach of all business relations. But up to nine p.m. this night of prospective relaxation Case had been a stalwart. The test was yet to come.
It was still half an hour of tattoo when old Bucketts came into Bentley's quarters and found that skilled practitioner replacing the bandages and sling on his patient's shoulder. The tidings brought by the couriers and given out by Archer had long since been digested. Bucketts had something new. "Doc," said he, "if you have anything to say or send to Stannard, now's your chance."
"Don't call me 'Doc'!" snapped Bentley. "If there's anything I hate it's this curtailing of titles as though they were too good for the man that bears them. One of these days you'll get your double bars, if you don't die of over-eating, and then how will you like it to be called 'cap'? How'd you like me to call you 'Buck' now? Who's going to Stannard?"
"Pass the 'buck,'" said the quartermaster sententiously. "I apologize. But Willett starts at day-break—takes a sergeant, six men and a pack outfit—thought you'd like to know. Leaves us with mighty few cavalry, now that Malloy and his people are still out."
"What keeps them?" asked Harris, looking up from Bentley's busy hands. "I never heard what they were after."
"You never will," said Bucketts, "unless they stumble on it by accident," then colored under the look of surprise, almost of reproof, in the younger officer's face. It was not good that a post commander's instructions to his men at arms should be slightingly spoken of by one of his staff, and Bentley knew it; but Bucketts was already mentally kicking against those very instructions. Now he stood abashed and awkward. That Willett should be going seemed to Harris of small matter—a matter of course. He wished himself again in Willett's place.
"How soon can you let me be going?" he asked Bentley.
"We could have had you out by this time if you'd only quit fretting," was the gruff reply. "Well, I suppose Willett's glad of a chance to join his chief?" he said interrogatively, though never looking up.
"Not unless looks belie him," was the answer.