"You're in no condition for field work, Mr. Blakely," said he. "The
doctor has so assured me, and just now things are taking such shape
I--need you here."
"You will permit me to appeal by wire, sir?" queried Blakely, standing
attention in his bedraggled night garb, and forcing himself to a
semblance of respect that he was far from feeling.
"I--I will consult Dr. Graham and let you know," was the captain's
awkward reply.
Two hours later Neil Blakely, in a motley dress made up of collections
from the troop and trader's stores--a combination costume of blue
flannel shirt, bandanna kerchief, cavalry trousers with machine-made
saddle piece, Tonto moccasins and leggings, fringed gauntlets and a
broad-brimmed white felt hat, strode into the messroom in quest of
eggs and coffee. Doty had been there and vanished. Sick call was
sounding and Graham was stalking across the parade in the direction of
the hospital, too far away to be reached by human voice, unless
uplifted to the pitch of attracting the whole garrison. The telegraph
operator had just clicked off the last of half a dozen messages
scrawled by the lieutenant--orders on San Francisco furnishers for the
new outfit demanded by the occasion, etc., but Captain Cutler was
still mured within his own quarters, declining to see Mr.
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