“It’s Corbin,” pronounced the general, gazing earnestly through his glass. His tanned face flushed high.
Yes, it was Corbin—Jack Corbin the scout who was a partner of California Joe. Evidently he bore important news, for he was urging his horse mercilessly. He arrived—his face frosty and his horse gasping through wide frosty nostrils. The general did not say a word, in query; none was needed, for Corbin spoke at once.
“We’ve struck the trail, about twelve miles north. Hundred and fifty Injuns, pointin’ southeast, for the Washita. Made within twenty-four hours.”
“Good!” ejaculated the general. “Where’s Elliot?”
“Follerin’.”
“Can you catch him, with a fresh horse?”
“Reckon I can.”
“Take that horse there,” directed the general.
Corbin was changing saddle in a jiffy.
“Tell Major Elliot to push the pursuit as rapidly as he can, and I’ll cut across country and join him. If the trail changes direction so that I may not strike it, he is to let me know. If I do not join him by eight o’clock tonight he is to halt and wait for me.”