Fear is paralyzing. It pushes into the background all the moral obligations. Half a dozen times the young ranger was on the point of waking Dud to tell him that he could not stand it alone. He recalled Blister’s injunctions. But what was the use of throwing back his head and telling himself he was made in the image of God when his fluttering pulses screamed denial, when his heart pumped water instead of blood?
He stuck it out. How he never knew. But somehow he clamped his teeth and went through. As he grew used to it, his imagination became less active and tricky. There were moments, toward the end of his vigil, when he could smile grimly at the terror that had obsessed him. He was a born coward, but he did not need to let anybody know it. It would always be within his power to act game whether he was or not.
At one o’clock he woke Dud. That young man rolled out of his blanket grumbling amiably. “Fine business! Why don’t a fellow ever know when he’s well off? Me, I might be hittin’ the hay at Bear Cat or Meeker instead of rollin’ out to watch for Utes that ain’t within thirty or forty miles of here likely. Fellow, next war I stay at home.”
Bob slipped into his friend’s warm blanket. He had no expectation of sleeping, but inside of five minutes his eyes had closed and he was off.
The sound of voices wakened him. Dud was talking to the jingler who had just come off duty. The sunlight was pouring upon him. He jumped up in consternation.
“I musta overslept,” Bob said.
Dud grinned. “Some. Fact is, I hadn’t the heart to waken you when you was poundin’ yore ear so peaceful an’ tuneful.”
“You stood my turn, too.”
“Oh, well. It was only three hours. That’s no way to divide the night anyhow.”
They were eating breakfast when a messenger rode into camp. He was from Major Sheahan of the militia. That officer sent word that the Indians were in Box Cañon. He had closed one end and suggested that the rangers move into the other and bottle the Utes.