“No, I won’t run off, but I’ll ask, you bet!” exclaimed Jimmie, jumping up.
“Inju (good)!” grunted Micky, gulping fast, to finish his chunk. “You and I will stay with the White Mountains. They will fight. But I don’t think much of these Pimas. Whenever one is killed, the rest stop fighting and make medicine.”
Jimmie hustled back. He was all on fire to go. It sounded as though it was to be a fight that a fellow would hate to miss.
A change had come over the camp. The cavalry detachments were astir. The non-commissioned officers were passing among the squads, inspecting equipment; in the glow of the fires the men were donning moccasins, overhauling their stubby fifty-calibre Springfield carbines, and stuffing their cartridge-belts, worn outside their blue overcoats, with the brass cartridges distributed from the green ammunition-boxes lugged by the pack-train.
The officers’ council had broken up; the captains and lieutenants were with their companies; Archie MacIntosh and Joe Felmer strode briskly through, for the scouts. Jimmie seized upon Joe.
“Joe! Can I go? I want to go!”
“Whar?”
“To see the fight at the cave!”
“What cave? How do you know about any cave? You must have been with that pesky Micky Free ag’in. Wall, you keep yore mouth shut about a cave. No, I don’t say you can go. You aren’t under my orders. You’re with the pack outfit. Don’t bother me.”
And away hastened Joe, following Archie. Away hastened Jimmie, likewise, to find Jack Long.