The lieutenant yelled and whipped; the captain yelled and kicked the wounded mule in the flanks; the Indians arrived, and prodded; the mules dodged the lances—they seemed to know. Only a few yards from the bridge did the last Indian pursuer give up the chase; and as the wagon rattled over the corduroy the carbine of a sentry at the post sounded the alarm.
"No need to drive so fast now, Hallowell," spoke the captain. The jolting was terrific.
"I sha'n't stop till we're clear across," rapped the lieutenant.
The staggering mules white with lather and crimsoned with blood, the wagon as full of holes as a sieve, they pulled in to the commanding officer's tent. They were safe.
Lieutenant Hallowell could not stand up. Was he fatally hurt?
"What is it, Hallowell, old fellow?"
"I dunno. Can't move only so far."
"No wonder! It's your coat-tails, man!"
The tails of his overcoat had worked outside and were pinned fast to the wagon box by four arrows. He could not use his right arm, either. The steady threshing with the whip had almost paralyzed it.
He was helped into the surgeon's office. His right hand was badly torn, and the wound in his back serious. Captain Booth watched the wounds being dressed; didn't feel very comfortable, himself, somehow.