The captain could hardly believe Job's story. The officers marveled at the heroism of the boy. But he told it all without consciousness of self, begged them for God's sake to lose no time, and fell over limp and faint at the captain's feet.
When he came to, it was dawn, the troops were in the saddle, and the sergeant was reading this telegram:
"Proceed at once to the Yellow Jacket Mine and quell the riot and disorder. Lamont."
The horses were pawing the ground, the quartermaster was hurrying to and fro, the captain was buckling on his saber, and Job was lying on a cot in the surgeon's tent, while that good man was feeling his pulse.
Quick as he could, Job started up. "Are they off?" he cried.
"Yes, my boy; and you lie still. They'll settle those fellows over at the mine," was the reply.
"But, doctor, I must go! I promised Rooney! Let me go!"
"No, young man. You're plucky, but pluck won't do any more. A day or two here will fix you all right. Your pulse has been up to a hundred and four. You can't stir to-day."
Job was desperate. The bugle was sounding, the officers were shouting orders. Through the door of the tent and the grove of trees he could see troops forming.
"Send for the captain, doctor, please," he pleaded.