The owner of that name, whose face had lighted up with pleasure, jumped to his feet with an angry exclamation. "What do you mean by that, corporal?" he demanded.
"It's no fault of mine, Carey," replied Bob. "The captain thinks you had better go to the fort, so that the doctor can look at your wound."
Carey made no reply, but elbowed his way through the crowd and started toward the other end of the camp. In a few minutes he was standing in front of Captain Clinton with his hand to his cap.
"What is it, Carey?" asked that officer after he had returned the salute.
"My respects to you, sir," answered the trooper, "and, if I might take the liberty, I'd like to know why I am to be left behind while the rest of our squad goes off on a picnic with them cattle?"
"Why, you are wounded," said the captain.
"Just a little scratch, sir," protested the trooper. "But even if I had no right arm at all, I could ride and shoot, and when it came to yelling I'd be there too."
"Very good. If you think you can stand it, go on."
"Thank you, sir. I knew you wouldn't go back on old Carey. I've been in every muss my troop has been in, and nobody ever hinted that I didn't do my duty."
The captain nodded his head and waved his hand in token of dismissal, and the trooper hurried away.