"How many men here fit for duty to-day, captain?" came from the old scout.
"Not over forty, including the cooks and stable help, Benson. All the others are on the sick list—and some of them are pretty bad."
"Perhaps the crowd outside are a-waitin' till ye all git sick," suggested Leeson with a scowl. "'Taint fair fightin', is it? They ought all to be hung!"
"I must do my best," said Captain Moore gravely. "I can do no more."
As the day wore along and two additional soldiers were taken sick, he decided to send a messenger to Fort Prescott, a hundred and sixty miles away, for assistance.
Hank Leeson knew every foot of the territory, and was chosen for the mission. Benson was more than willing to go, but Captain Moore told him to remain where he was.
"If the enemy attack us you'll have to be our right-hand man, Benson," he said. Then he added: "I want to talk to you after Leeson is gone."
Since coming to the fort Captain Moore had been watching two old soldiers very closely.
These soldiers were named Moses Bicker and Jack Drossdell. Their reputations were not of the best, and the black marks against them were numerous.
Some time before, the young captain had heard that Bicker came of a family of Colorado desperadoes and that he had joined the army during a spasm of reformation.