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."




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