"Turn in," said I, "or you'll be crocked by morning." He told me he was on flying sentry until four, then gave me news.
By stripping his far-flung outposts, our big chief, Sorrel Top, had scratched up another hundred men and was marching from Fort Qu'Appelle. Two men were badly frozen, sixty-five were snow-blind, the horses had played out, and some civilian teamsters lagging behind were captured. Then a rebel ambush had been discovered just four miles ahead, so Sorrel Top, with a sixty-mile march, had swung into Prince Albert. There he was resting twenty-four hours to organize the settlers for defense. He would arrive this day, the twenty-sixth, take over our command, and with the combined force crush the rebellion before it got too strong. But we were not to move until he came. That is a wise delay which makes the road safe.
"Who do you think," asked Buckie, "rode in with that despatch?"
I supposed he would be some poor B Troop coyote.
"His name," said Buckie impressively, "is Joe Chambers."
But that was the name of Mrs. Sarde's old lover, the Montana cowboy. Had he joined the force?
"Asked for you, Blackguard."
"Go, fetch him."
By the time I had saddled Anti and bridled him—he was Anti-everything, especially the bit—Buckie came back with Chambers. He was a suspicious, jealous, clear-eyed sort of beast without any small talk. He sized me up, judging my points as though he were asked to buy me, but not one word would he say until Buckie cleared. Then he spoke slowly, tersely, and with weight in all he said, most clean of heart, direct and sterling man.
Miss Burrows, he told me, had wrote from Troy in the British possessions, to Loco, her fool uncle. Claimed that she'd met in the cars going west a man which belonged to the police, name of La Mancha. Was that my name?