Oh, the coward!"
Brant's eyes ran down the waiting line of his own men, sitting their
saddles beside the halted pack-animals. He leaned over and dropped one
hand heavily on Weir's shoulder. "The rest of you can do as you
please, but N Troop is going to take those ammunition packs over to
Custer if there's any possible way to get through, orders or no
orders." He straightened up in the saddle, and his voice sounded down
the wearied line like the blast of a trumpet.
"Attention! N Troop! Right face; dress. Number four bring forward
the ammunition packs. No, leave the others where they are; move
lively, men!"
He watched them swing like magic into formation, their dust-begrimed
faces lighting up with animation. They knew their officer, and this
meant business.
"Unsling carbines--load!"
Weir, the veteran soldier, glanced down that steady line of ready
troopers, and then back to Brant's face. "Do you mean it? Are you
going up those bluffs? Good Heavens, man, it will mean a
court-martial."
"Custer commands the Seventh. I command the pack-train," said Brant.
"His orders are to bring up the packs.
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