But Jamieson did not heed. "You an interpreter?" he asked in a rasping whisper.
"You're too weak——"
"No, I ain't; no, I ain't. If he'll go with us, I'm strong enough—why, I shovelled snow on the special to Bismarck—that's how they let me ride—and skating home I didn't stop to rest——"
"Yes, yes, my boy, we know."
"I walked and walked—straps broke—I forgot to tell you—that's why I had to. But it didn't do any good—it didn't do any good! When I got there——" As if to shut out some terrible sight, he screened his eyes with one palsied hand, and sank back limply into Colonel Cummings' arms. Lounsbury swept the cot clean of maps, and they laid him there.
"His father was dead," said the commanding officer; "dead—and naked, scalped, mutilated, full of arrows and rifle balls. The house and barns were burned."
"Any women?"
"Two—gone."
Jamieson put out his arms. "My mother!" he cried imploringly. "My poor little mother!"
Lounsbury knelt beside him, feeling shaken and half sick.