He arrived dusty and red, his horse much blown; pulling short he saluted, trying not to stare. Colonel Custer drew himself up very tall and straight and military, surveyed him sternly and spoke gruffly—although Ned felt certain that those blue eyes held a twinkle.
“Take this boy on before you, Odell. Where’s the rest of the troop?”
“Yes, sir. Following the buffalo, sir.”
“Where have you been?”
“Trying to catch up with you, sir.”
“Oh! I see.” And as Colonel Custer turned, to his own horse, and tied the buffalo tongue to the saddle, Ned fancied not only the twinkle in the eyes but a smile under the yellow moustache.
“Well, boy, you’re to get aboard with me, the general says,” said Bugler Odell. “Give me a grip on ye and I’ll help ye up. But you ought to have coverin’ for your legs. It’s cold, ridin’. Use that blanket, now, I see lyin’ there.”
“No. I’ve got enough,” asserted Ned, eyeing the blanket fragment disdainfully. The heavy buckskin coat fell below his knees, and he was used to the cold air.
“Yes; wrap that piece of blanketing around you, or you’ll wear a hole through Odell’s saddle-skirts,” bade Colonel Custer, as he vaulted astride his own saddle.
“You hear what the general says,” reminded Bugler Odell, soberly. “Fetch the blanket and come on, now.”