“I don’t see why I should,” Breckenridge informed him.
“It could not hurt you, any way,” suggested Cheyne, “and it might do you good.”
Breckenridge looked at him steadily, and felt a curious confidence in the discretion of the quiet, bronze-faced man. As the result of it, he told him a good deal more than he had meant to do when he commenced the story.
“I think you have done right,” Cheyne said. “A little rough on him! I had already figured he was that kind of a man. Well, I hear the rest of the boys coming back, and I’ll send up a sergeant who knows a good deal about these accidents to look after him.”
The sergeant came up by and by and kept watch with Breckenridge for a while; but, after an hour or so Breckenridge’s head grew very heavy, and the sergeant, taking his arm, silenced his protests by nipping it and quietly put him out of the room. When he awoke next morning he found that Grant was capable at least of speech, for Cheyne was asking him questions, and receiving very unsatisfactory answers.
“In fact,” said the cavalry officer, “you don’t feel disposed to tell me who the men that tried to burn your place were, or anything about them?”
“No,” Larry said feebly. “It would be pleasanter if you concluded I was not quite fit to talk just now.”
Cheyne glanced at Breckenridge, who was watching him anxiously. “In that case I could not think of worrying you, and have no doubt I can find out. In the meanwhile I guess the best thing you can do is to go to sleep again.”
He drew Breckenridge out of the room, and shook hands with him. “If you are wanted I’ll send for you,” he said. “Keep your comrade quiet, and I should be astonished if he is not about again in a day or two.”
Then, he went down the stairway and swung himself into the saddle, and with a rattle and jingle he and the men behind him rode away.