“Merritt with three hundred cavalry marches twenty-five miles one mornin’.  Thar’s forty Injun scouts along, among ’em this Bloojacket; said copper-hued auxiliaries bein’ onder the command of Gen’ral Stanton, as game an’ good a gent as ever packs a gun.  It’s at noon; Merritt an’ his outfit camps at the Rawhide Buttes.  Thar’s a courier from Crook overtakes ’em.  He says that word comes trailin’ in that the Cheyennes at the Red Cloud agency is makin’ war medicine an’ about to go swarmin’ off to hook up with Sittin’ Bull an’ Crazy Hoss in the Sioux croosades.  Crook tells Merritt to detach a band of his scouts to go flutterin’ over to Red Cloud an’ take a look at the Cheyennes’s hand.

“Stanton tells off four of his savages an’ lines out with them for the Red Cloud agency; Bloojacket bein’ one.  From the Rawhide Buttes to the Red Cloud agency is one hundred even miles as a bullet travels.  What makes it more impressive, them one hundred miles is across a trailless country, the same bein’ as rocky as Red Dog whiskey an’ rough as the life story of a mule.  Which Stanton, Bloojacket an’ the others makes her in twelve hours even, an’ comes up, a crust of dust an’ sweat, to the Red Cloud agency at midnight sharp.  The Cheyennes has already been gone eight hours over the Great Northern trail.

“Stanton, who’s a big body of a man an’ nacherally tharfore some road-weary, camps down the moment he’s free of the stirrups an’ writes a letter on the agency steps by the light of a lantern.  He tells Merritt to push on to the War Bonnet an’ he’ll head the Cheyennes off.  Then he sends the Red Cloud interpreter an’ four local Injuns with lead hosses to pack this information back to Merritt who’s waitin’ the word at the Rawhide Buttes.  Bloojacket, for all he’s done a hundred miles, declar’s himse’f in on this second excursion to show the interpreter the way.

“‘But you-all won’t last through,’ says Stanton, where he sets on the steps, quaffin’ whiskey an’ reinvig’ratin’ himse’f.

“‘Which if I don’t, I’ll turn squaw!’ says Bloojacket, an’ gettin’ fresh hosses with the others he goes squanderin’ off into the midnight.

“Son, them savages, havin’ lead hosses, rides in on Merritt by fifth drink time or say, ’leven o’clock that mornin’;—­one hundred miles in ‘leven hours!  An’ Bloojacket some wan an’ weary for a savage is a-leadin’ up the dance.  Mighty fair ridin’ that boy Bloojacket does!  Two hundred miles in twenty-three hours over a clost country ain’t bad!  Which it’s me who says so:  an’ one time an’ another I shore shoves plenty of scenery onder the hoofs of a cayouse myse’f.

“About the foogitive Cheyennes?  Merritt moves up to the War Bonnet like Stanton su’gests, corrals ’em, kills their ponies an’ drives ’em back to the agency on foot.  Thar’s nothin’ so lets the whey outen a hoss-back Injun like puttin’ him a-foot:  an the Cheyennes settles down in sorrow an’ peace immediate.