“Alchisé says there will be some good fights, Cheemie,” remarked Micky. “Now I want you to take me to your general, so that he will know who I am.”
“Aw, pshaw, Micky!” protested Jimmie. And in Apache: “I can’t. I’m busy. The general wants to eat and sleep, and so do I.”
“Who is this one-eye?” asked Slim Shorty. “Where’s he from an’ what’s his trouble?”
“His name’s Micky Free. He was with the Pedro band and helped me get away from the Chiricahua. He asks me to take him to the general.”
“What! Tell him to chase himself. ’Tain’t any time for payin’ social visits,” growled Slim Shorty. “It’s grub time an’ sleep time, an’ you’re workin’ for me. Savvy that?” Slim Shorty was cross, like everyone else. Twenty-six hours straight had they been climbing and threshing about.
“Here comes your general now,” prompted Micky. “He doesn’t eat or sleep. You can take me to him when he passes, Cheemie.”
Sure enough, General Crook, on the faithful mule “Apache,” was ambling slowly from group to group, through the camp; in his stained canvas suit, his shot gun across his saddle! He seemed to be on a tour of inspection, with particular regard for the pack-mules.
As he passed, the men stiffened to their feet, and stood at attention. He dropped a word here and there, and halted briefly at Slim Shorty’s fire. Slim stood at attention, so did Jimmie, but Micky only waited, red-headed, lightly clad, grinning amiably.
“Feed your men well, cook,” bade the general. “They’ve earned double rations. I see you’ve got a good supply of beans. That’s right. Always set your beans to cook the night before, and they’ll be much more wholesome.”