Fire!

"It was not so much his wounds as his weakness," Dr. Graham was
saying, later still that autumn night, "that led to my declaring
Blakely unfit to take the field. He would have gone in spite of me,
but for the general's order. He has gone now in spite of me, and no
one knows where."

It was then nearly twelve o'clock, and "the Bugologist" was still
abroad. Dinner, as usual since his mishap, had been sent over to him
from the officers' mess soon after sunset. His horse, or rather the
troop horse designated for his use, had been fed and groomed in the
late afternoon, and then saddled at seven o'clock and brought over to
the rear of the quarters by a stable orderly.

There had been some demur at longer sending Blakely's meals from mess,
now reduced to an actual membership of two. Sandy was a "much married"
post in the latter half of the 70's, the bachelors of the commissioned
list being only three, all told,--Blakely, and Duane of the Horse, and
Doty of the Foot. With these was Heartburn, the contract doctor, and
now Duane and the doctor were out in the mountains and Blakely on sick
report, yet able to be about. Doty thought him able to come to mess.
Blakely, thinking he looked much worse than he felt, thanks to his
plastered jowl, stood on his rights in the matter and would not go.
There had been some demur on part of the stable sergeant of Wren's
troop as to sending over the horse. Few officers brought eastern-bred
horses to Arizona in those days. The bronco was best suited to the
work. An officer on duty could take out the troop horse assigned to
his use any hour before taps and no questions asked; but the sergeant
told Mr. Blakely's messenger that the lieutenant wasn't for duty, and
it might make trouble.