On The Firing Line [27]
Again the glance swept him over, beginning at the boyish face, resolute and eager beneath its streaks of red-brown dust. Then, as Weldon saluted, the General turned and rode away, with the Captain at his side.
"You've the making of a man there, Captain Frazer," was his sole comment.
Weldon, meanwhile, was allowing the little gray broncho to pick her own dainty way out of the shambles about her feet. Then, once free from the litter of men and horses, he turned her head to the spot where, he had been told, his squadron were gathering together their diminished forces. As he rode slowly onward, he was surprised to see how low the sun had dropped. The fighting must have lasted longer than he had thought. It had been hot and heavy; but at least he had not funked it. For so much he could be thankful. In so far as he could recall any of his emotions as he had dashed into range of the pitiless firing, they had been summed up in a dull rage against the enemy, mingled with a vague hope that no harm should come to the plucky little mount. Just one instant's pause he could remember. That was when he had put forth all his strength to check her pace until he could readjust a strap that was plainly galling her. And afterwards? Not even the thoroughbred Nig could have played her part in the fight with more steady gallantry. Stooping, he eased the bit and patted the firm gray neck where the mane swept upward for its arching fall.
"Boss?"
He straightened in his saddle.
"Kruger Bobs! By all special providences, where did you come from?"
"Naauwpoort. Kruger Bobs come bring Nig to Boss."
"Kruger Bobs, you're a genius."
Kruger Bobs vanished behind his smile.
"Ya, Boss," he replied then. "Boss all right?"
"Yes, all right."
"Dutchmans no killed Boss?"
"No."
Doubtfully Kruger Bobs shook his sable bristles. He had heard the firing, such firing as he had never dreamed of until then, and it seemed to him impossible that any man could come unscathed out of the heart of it. Of Weldon's being in the very heart of it, no doubt had once stained the loyal whiteness of his soul. To assure himself of Weldon's safety, he ambled around the gray broncho in a clumsy circle. The gray broncho showed her appreciation of the attention by nipping viciously at the flank of his horse. By Weldon's left side, Kruger Bobs halted and pointed an accusing forefinger at his knee.
"Dutchmans hurt Boss," he said anxiously.
"Where?"
"Dere." In spite of his effort for sternness, the voice of Kruger Bobs quavered with anxiety.
Bending over, Weldon glanced down at the dark red stain on the coil of khaki serge. Then, all at once, he remembered the sudden stinging of his leg, just before he had started the gray broncho on her last mad rush across the lead-swept plain. In the excitement that followed, the matter had entirely passed out of his mind. Even now that his attention was called to it, he was conscious of no physical discomfort.
"Kruger Bobs go for doctor?" the boy was urging.
Weldon laughed reassuringly.
"It's nothing, Kruger Bobs. I've no time to fool with doctors now."
"What Boss do?"
"Feed Piggie, eat something, look up Mr. Carew and then get to the General's tent, inside an hour."
"What for de big boss soldier?"
"He wants me."
"Ya?" Kruger Bobs demanded uneasily.
"To ride a despatch."
"Despatch!" Kruger Bobs exploded in hot wrath. "Kruger Bobs go despatch; Boss go bed." "Can't do it, Kruger Bobs. This is war, and I've given my word to the General. It was an order, and I had to do it." Backing his horse off for a step or two, Kruger Bobs sat looking at his master and shaking his head mournfully. Then he straightened in the saddle.
"Boss go; Kruger Bobs go, too," he said, with steady decision.
Less than an hour later, outside the General's tent Kruger Bobs sat astride The Nig, with the rein of the gray broncho in his hand. The clouds, since noon banked low in the eastern horizon, had swept up across the sky, and already the rain was pattering drearily over the hunched-up shoulders of Kruger