That took only a few moments, for a boy in a hurry. Slim Shorty the cook good-naturedly supplied the moccasins; the blanket-roll was made up in a jiffy, around a wad of bread and cold meat, and was slung over Jimmie’s left shoulder——
“If ’twasn’t Micky Free I wouldn’t let you go,” warned Jack. “But nothin’ yet invented can harm him, so if you jest hang onto his shirt-tail he’ll take you through!”
This time Jimmie got away, but none too soon, for the soldier column was forming, to low commands. The fires had died down, darkness had closed in, and he scurried fast, through the gloom. The scouts were bunched—Apaches together, and Pimas together—standing, wrapped in their blankets, waiting. Beyond them, somebody struck a match. The flame lighted the face of Nan-ta-je and of Major Brown, who was looking at his watch.
Jimmie, pausing and peering, felt a hand on his arm and heard Micky’s voice, under breath. Micky could see in the dark.
“Inju. Star nearly up. Before sun is up, big fight.”
Nan-ta-je’s star must have appeared at that very moment, for Major Brown struck another match, to show his hand raised as signal, he and Nan-ta-je moved forward, the scouts moved, pressing in the wake of Archie MacIntosh, and Joe, and Tony Besias, there were gruff orders, half whispers, from the sergeants, to the soldiers; and amidst soft shuffle of moccasins the whole long column followed the lead of the major and Nan-ta-je, presently up out of the little canyon, for the high mesa or table-land above.
Whew, but the December night was growing cold! The clouds had broken, the stars were very bright, faintly illumining the dark winding column, and the frosty breaths wafting from it. Scarce a sound, except the scuff of the moccasins, could be heard. The United States cavalry in Arizona did not carry sabers when scouting for Apaches; and to-night even the canteens had been stowed in the blanket rolls, lest they jingle.
According to the north star the course was westerly. Nan-ta-je and the major led at a rapid pace, to keep the men warm. Jimmie stuck close by Micky. He had no fear of not being able to hold his own. He trotted loose-kneed, toeing in, head up, breathing through his nose, Apache way.
Trudge, trudge, scuff, scuff, hour after hour, as seemed, westward across the high, rough mesa where the snow lay in patches and the Four Peaks of the Mazatzal rose close on the right. To the left was the canyon of the Salt River.