The sun sank rapidly now. Dusk fell swiftly, and the pines began their
nightly dirge for the many dead who died under them five and thirty
years ago. They had a new and ominous chant now to Crittenden--a chant
of premonition for the strong men about him who were soon to follow
them. Camp-fires began to glow out of the darkness far and near over
the old battlefield.
Around a little fire on top of the hill, and in front of the Colonel's
tent, sat the Colonel, with kind Irish face, Irish eye, and Irish wit of
tongue. Near him the old Indian-fighter, Chaffee, with strong brow, deep
eyes, long jaw, firm mouth, strong chin--the long, lean face of a
thirteenth century monk who was quick to doff cowl for helmet. While
they told war-stories, Crittenden sat in silence with the majors three,
and Willings, the surgeon (whom he was to know better in Cuba), and
listened. Every now and then a horse would loom from the darkness, and a
visiting officer would swing into the light, and everybody would say: "How!"
There is no humour in that monosyllable of good cheer throughout the
United States Army, and with Indian-like solemnity they said it, tin cup
in hand: "How!"
Once it was Lawton, tall, bronzed, commanding, taciturn--but fluent when
he did speak--or Kent, or Sumner, or little Jerry Carter himself. And
once, a soldier stepped into the circle of firelight, his heels clicking
sharply together; and Crittenden thought an uneasy movement ran around
the group, and that the younger men looked furtively up as though to
take their cue from the Colonel. It was the soldier who had been an
officer once. The Colonel showed not a hint of consciousness, nor did
the impassive soldier to anybody but Crittenden, and with him it may
have been imagination that made him think that once, when the soldier
let his eye flash quite around the group, he flushed slightly when he
met Crittenden's gaze. Rivers shrugged his shoulders when Crittenden
asked about him later.
"Black sheep, ... well-educated, brave, well-born most likely, came up
from the ranks, ... won a commission as sergeant fighting Indians, but
always in trouble--gambling, fighting, and so forth. Somebody in
Washington got him a lieutenancy, and while the commission was on its
way to him out West he got into a bar-room brawl. He resigned then, and
left the army. He was gentleman enough to do that. Now he's back. The
type is common in the army, and they often come back. I expect he has
decency enough to want to get killed. If he has, maybe he'll come out a
captain yet."