Chummie [pp. 77-85]

Over~and Monthlyv
The next moment Chummie, the returned traveler, went howling across the
parade-ground with one paw in the air,
and the Colonel, seeing that he was beyond
the reach of another stone, resumed his
ill-natured pacing with even stronger
grumbles.
Nor was the Major, at the other end of
the Fort, more cordial in his greeting of
the prodigal.
"Get out, you cur!" he exclaimed, as
Chummie rubbed his mud-covered sides
against his trousers. "Go back and stay
there!"
And Chummie waited for no more
missiles of anger. Those were the usual
terms of his dismissal by the Major,-" Go
back!" Without another look at the
Major, Chummie hobbled away-hobbled
clear out of the Fort and ran on his three
legs as if something more terrible than
even the Colonel and Major were after
him.
Now, the Major, like the Colonel, was
not built fleet of foot. Therefore, a
moment or two later, when the Colonel saw
him coming toward the officers' quarters
with a wobbling and most ungainly gait
and at the greatest speed possible, he stood
still and, in his laughter at the sioght, ir
got all his ill-temper for the instant.
"Really, Major, you surprise me," said
the Colonel as his subordinate officer came
up breathlessly. "You are a most becoming sprinter for one of your age. But
what on earth-"
He stopped short and looked down in
wonderment at the damp and dirty slip of
paper the Major had placed in his hand.
"The da-dog!" gasped the Major.
"He le-left it at my fe-feet."
But a single glance and the Colonel
spoke.
"Sound'Boots and Saddles'!" he
shouted. "Turn out the Fort! Good God!
will we be in time?"
It was not only at the Fort that tempers
were out of sorts. The wagon-boss himself was not a mild-mannered man at any
time, and right on the beginning of this
trip he had met with enough ill-luck to
set him perfectly on edge. The first day,
before the Fort had been left a half dozen
miles in the rear, two of the wagons had
broken down; it had required hours of
time to repair the damages. The second
day the rain had fallen; and here, at the
end of the third day, his "outfit" was
only thirty-five miles on its way.
"There is no help for it," said the
wagon-boss. "We'e got to stop right
here. I know there are four good hours of
daylight yet, but there is n't any water for
another twelve miles, and at our present
kind of moving we'11 be in big luck if we
get that far along by another night."
So the little party came to a halt by the
small creek in the middle of the afternoon.
Nobody felt cheery. The wagon-master
grumbled about everything in general.
The horse of the lieutenant in charge had
gone lame. The "mule-skinners" complained because of the extra work conimpelled by the order to camp in a square,
the method of protection from a sudden
raid of Indians, which no plainsman at
that date, or perhaps even now, dare overlook. As they moved their heavy wagons
about, so that all points of the compass
might be surveyed from barricade, their
remarks were a continuous complaint.
"Fuss and foolishness!" mumbled one
of the drivers. "This makes me tired!
There ain't an Injun in fifty mile; and if
there was, they would n't do nothin' wuss
than beg fur a drink."
And so went the comment on all hands.
Jack was feeling disconsolate himself.
The salts of the reservation water had
made him ill. Added to this physical displeasure was mental distress over the good
berth he had been obliged to abandon at
the Fort. Nor did the talk of the lieutenant and the wagon-boss add to his pleasure. It was not his night on duty at the
supper-fire, and while the meal was in
preparation he sat under a wagon, his back
against a wheel, listening to the conversation and looking very intently and mournfully at Chummie, who lay with his nose
poked over his friend's outstretched limbs.
"0 well," said the lieutenant, "we'11
have better progress from now on. From
here to Bad River at least is n't nearly so
bad. It'11 be dry enough to-morrow for
us to clean off the weight," looking at the
mud-heaped wheels, which had been sunken in the ground to their hubs nearly all
the way.
Plainsmen are about as superstitious
as sailors or miners. " Something'11
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