“Yes, sir,” answered Slim Shorty. “But these hyar beans won’t be done till noon. There warn’t any ‘night before,’ this last trip. Got plenty bread, bacon an’ coffee, though.”
“Oh, in that case——,” smiled the general. His face was a little drawn, but he didn’t look especially tired, and neither did Apache. “How are you, my lad?” he queried, of Jimmie, and his eyes fell upon Micky. “Who’s this? I didn’t know he was with the column. I’ve seen him at Camp Apache. His name is Micky Free.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Jimmie. “He lives with Chief Pedro’s band of Sierra Blanca. He helped me get away from the Chiricahua camp, that time.”
“He’s not Apache?”
“No, sir. He’s half Mexican and half Irish.”
“What’s he doing here? Is he enlisted with the scouts?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” faltered Jimmie. “Not with the Apache scouts. He isn’t Indian. He followed us. He asked me to tell you that he wants to fight the Tonto, though.”
“Well, well. That’s all right, but I haven’t time to tend to that now, my boy,” replied the general. “I’m going after some breakfast. Let him report to Lieutenant Bourke. Bourke has charge of the scouts. When we get to Grant we’ll give him a chance to fight.” And the general rode on. He kept going, until he disappeared around a shoulder in some low ground. He did not return for two hours, and then he brought back a load of reed birds, for the officers’ mess. What a man!
“What did he say?” inquired Micky, who spoke no English, of Jimmie.