In the first half-hour that followed the evangelist's disquieting admission, he listened to a wild, profane tirade: against himself, for having failed to speak of Matthews; against Dallas, for being in such a tarnal hurry; against Lounsbury on general principles. The section-boss found only one person wholly exempt from blame--himself. So he cursed, he threatened, he wrung his hands, he grabbed a crutch, and, leaning forward, poked the straining flanks of the white horse. "Gentle, gentle," admonished David Bond. "He goes fastest who goes steadily. I have driven Shadrach ninety miles in twenty-two hours. And if we are patient with him now, he will get us home by reveille." But Lancaster only groaned ungratefully and continued to ply the crutch. On they went. As the short day ended and darkness came, they steered farther to the left, for there was a possible danger of pitching over the river-bank. When they approached the coulee, the same peril again met them. Shadrach, however, insured them against accident. He struck his own trail, and knew it. At once, he quickened his speed, pulling the reins taut. Behind him, his master, though utterly wearied, kept awake to watch their course and commend him kindly. Not so the section-boss. His anger finally spent, he put up his crutch and made himself comfortable. Then, swaying as the pung swayed, he slept. Far away at Fort Brannon the council was at an end. Lanterns were whisking to and fro like giant lightning-bugs about the long garrison granary and the quartermaster and commissary storehouse, where wagons were being loaded with tents, ammunition, rations, and forage--enough for sixty days. The library window at headquarters was bright: Colonel Cummings and a surgeon were respectively commanding and persuading young Jamieson to await his mother and sister at the post. Nick Matthews, attended by a watchful sergeant, was having his hair cut by the citizen barber. While Lounsbury, too joyfully excited to sleep, was in the sutler's billiard-room, giving Fraser, who was about to depart with the expedition, a sympathetic history of the Lancasters--a history in which Marylyn was shrewdly made the dainty central figure. At five o'clock, everything being in readiness, a livelier activity prevailed. The out-going troop was routed from bed and fortified with a hot breakfast. By six, "boots and saddles" had sounded. And, soon, the detachment--protected from the cold by blanket-coats, and with black cutties burning down the whole length of its double line--was leading the wagon-train at a good jog toward the west.