Tom and the other scout had no blankets, and nothing to eat but a little meat—the three of them had had nothing else for ten days; now he, Dutchy, was to bring the captain on at once, while the two watched the Chiricahua camp.
Hurrah! The news put vim into the command. The end of the marches was at hand. Evidently Geronimo had no idea he could be found away in here.
Captain Crawford issued rapid orders.
“Twenty minutes’ halt. No fires. Let the men eat bread and raw bacon. Examine arms carefully. Pack-mules to remain here, with the packer, Doctor Davis and the interpreter. All available men to be ready for a night march, and attack at daylight.”
That was hard luck for Jimmie—but Doctor Davis and Concepcion were completely exhausted, and somebody had to stay with the mules, to move them on in a jiffy when sent for.
In precisely twenty minutes the command set out, guided by Dutchy. It had been the first halt in six hours! As in the twilight they clambered up a rocky, narrow trail, Jimmie saw that Lieutenant Maus was helping Captain Crawford. Even at that, the captain was obliged to pause, once or twice, and lean upon his carbine. He used his carbine as a staff.
“His indomitable will is all that keeps the captain going,” remarked Doctor Davis.
“Muy hombre (Much man),” groaned old Concepcion.
The darkness closed in quickly. It was a bitter cold night. Concepcion and the mules moaned, the doctor’s teeth chattered, and wrapped in his single blanket Jimmie shivered. The brush stirred with the stealthy tread of prowling animals, a leopard shrieked, at intervals, and the still air stung.