“That’s so,” Terry admitted. “The Sioux wiped out Percy Browne. Did you hear?”
“No! Aw, thunder!”
“Yes. Three hundred of ’em corralled him and eight soldiers, in this same basin. They shot him, and the soldiers carried him clear to LaClede stage station, but he died. Mr. Appleton, his assistant, is with us now. We met him back at the North Platte.”
“Well, I reckon we’re lucky,” sighed George. “We did hate to quit the survey, though. Come on. I want to see dad and Mr. Bates and Sol Judy.”
The General Dodge squad and the soldiers were collecting the Bates men into a central spot, for noon camp. The few horses and mules had been given bucketfuls of water, and had perked up. Terry lent George an arm, and they went in, themselves.
George’s father was sitting up, wan and weak but getting O. K.
“Hello, dad. I’m ’round before you are,” George challenged, gaily.
“So I see,” Mr. Stanton retorted. “But you’re smaller. It doesn’t take so much water to fill you. How are you, Terry? Think you’d like a survey job, eh?”
“I dunno,” Terry confessed. “’Tisn’t all a picnic, I guess.”
“I told you about the jack-rabbit and his canteen, didn’t I?” reminded Sol Judy, as he shook hands heartily with George.