Ten minutes later, Weldon
felt a soft, wet muzzle poking its way between his tight-locked
arms. The rest was simple. It amounted to riding back to the column
to give warning of the enemy who rode close in the rear, to
summoning Kruger Bobs and The Nig, and then, without stopping for a
saddle, to go galloping away to the sky-line to round up the
stampeded herd. The first dash of hail over, the rain fell fast upon
them; but, above its roar, they could hear the steady firing of the
pom pom behind them and the crackle of musketry mingled with the
heavier fire.
Four o'clock had brought the stampede and the storm. Seven o'clock
brought Weldon and Kruger Bobs, drenched to the skin, back into a
demoralized camp. Nine o'clock found Weldon still in the saddle, his
teeth chattering, his brown cheeks ablaze and his eyes hot with
fever, while he waited for the pitching of his tattered tent. Then,
even before its soggy, torn folds were stretched and pegged into
position, he turned and rode off in search of a doctor.
"Sorry," he said briefly; "but I think I've a touch of fever. Can
you put me to bed somewhere?"
The next morning, he greeted Kruger Bobs by the name of a girl
cousin who had died, ten years before.
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