“Good!”
“I don’t want to quit. ’Tisn’t that, sir,” Terry explained anxiously. “Only—I guess you can get on without me, and I’ve had a splendid time, and now I can help George and be back to lay some more rails, to the Black Hills.”
“You’re a brick, by Jiminy!” exclaimed young Mr. Duff. “Wish I had a pardner like you. Don’t know whether we can get along without you, or not.”
“Soldier’s orders, on special duty as dispatch bearer—that will free you of any suspicion of ‘quitting,’ my boy,” said General Rawlins. “That’s the understanding, general?”
“Detached service, of course. But he’ll not miss much, except discomfort. The best part of the trip lies behind us, unless we get through the desert in time to cross the mountains before snow.”
When George heard of the plan, he kicked vigorously—not about himself, any more, but about Terry. However, Terry only laughed.
“No, sir; I’m the man,” he insisted. “I can be spared the easiest of anybody, and I’m ready to see the rails again. We’ll have a lot of fun, on the way.”
Colonel Mizner detached a squad of the cavalry, under red-faced Sergeant Ryan, for an escort to Sanders, and by way of Rawlins Springs they backtracked for the Laramie Plains; one day hove in sight of Fort Sanders—and Terry pointed before, with a shout.
“See ’em? Hurrah! The first gang’s across the pass. Now the rails will follow.”
For southward, at the base of the Black Hills, the tents of camps glimmered, and a reddish line of upturned earth showed like a thread. The advance of the railroad graders were already attacking the new survey—and, as Terry had cheered, the rails would soon follow.