“Leg no good, for one—two—tree—many days—go to fort—do what he say.”
The last prop knocked from under him, the brave fellow submitted. He was sullen, and without a word started his horse eastward toward Fort Reno.
“I meant to give him some orders,” remarked the officer with a laugh; “for the colonel ought to know the particulars, but the fellow is huffy.”
“He will give the colonel all the news, have no fear about that.”
When Cemuri had ridden some distance, and had time to rally from the irritation into which he was thrown by the command of the young officer, he must have felt that it was all for his good. He was suffering much; he had lost strength and was so weak, despite his indurated frame, that he felt dizzy and weak, with occasional spells when it was hard to keep in the saddle.
Night was drawing on, and he could not hope to reach the post until long after darkness had come. But his horse was strong and fleet, and such a thing as failure to complete his task did not enter his thoughts.
The stream which had been in sight so long now made a sharp curve northward, so that it was speedily left out of sight. The ride to the post was over the same open plain which had been traversed most of the day. The sky was clear and the moon rose early, making the ride as pleasant as if the sun were shining.
The American Indian, as all know, can bear with equanimity more suffering and grievous wounds than his white brother, but there is of necessity a limit to the toughest frame that nature ever put together, and Cemuri, the White Mountain scout, began to suspect that he had struck or was about to strike that limit.
He had ridden less than three miles at a swinging gallop when he drew his horse down to a walk; the jolting of the speedier gait was unbearable. As he made the change of pace, he first looked around to be sure no one saw him. Then he gave expression to his views in the form of an English expletive, altogether too vigorous to be recorded in these pages.