All the cavalry horses had been tied to a picket rope, near the mules, against the canyon side. The riggings and the packs were being piled as a breastwork—the task had been almost completed—old Jack and Frank Monach and Jim O’Neill and Blacksmith John Cahill and even Slim Shorty were standing armed and ready—evidently the packers were to join the cavalrymen—hurrah, the pack men were to be in the fight!
“Say, whar you been?” accused Jack. “Now you stay——”
“Oh, Jack, can I go? I want to go, Jack! Please can I go?” pleaded Jimmie.
“Seems to me you’re alluz wantin’ to ‘go’ some’ers,” growled Jack. “You ask Joe Felmer. He’s yore gardeen.”
“I did ask him and he said I wasn’t with him, I was with the pack outfit; and the pack outfit’s going, isn’t it?” argued Jimmie.
“Best part of it,” admitted Jack. “Orders from the major are for every able-bodied man to march out, an’ for those who can’t climb to guard the animals an’ packs, hyar. Dunno which’ll be the dangerouser place, in case the Injuns try a stampede.”
“Oh, let him go; he’s earned it, I reckon,” spoke up “Long Jim” Cook gruffly. “He can stick beside o’ me. (Long Jim being six feet eight!) Then all the bullets’ll fly so high he won’t even feel the wind of ’em.”
“I’ll be up in front with Micky Free. Micky and I can scout as well as any Apache,” panted Jimmie. “We won’t be hurt.” He turned, to make off again, but Jack sternly halted him.
“You do as the rest do, then: put on a blanket-roll an’ stick in some grub, an’ change yore feet into moccasins.”