Generals Crook, Merritt, and Carr were in rough hunting rigs, utterly
without any mark of their rank. Deerskin, buckskin, corduroy, canvas,
and rags indiscriminately covered the rest of the command, so that
unless you knew the men it was totally impossible to distinguish
between officers and enlisted men. However, every one in the commands
knew every one else, and there was no confusion.
A great part of that night was spent in swapping stories of recent
experiences. All of them were thrilling, even to veteran campaigners
fresh from the trail. There was no need of drawing the long bow in
those days. The truth was plenty exciting enough to suit the most
exacting, and we sat about like schoolboys, drinking in each other's
tales, and telling our own in exchange.
A story of a personal adventure and a hairbreadth escape in which
Lieutenant De Rudio figured was so typical of the fighting days of the
West that I want my readers to know it. I shall tell it, as nearly as I
can, just as it came to me around the flickering fire in that
picturesque border camp.
De Rudio had just returned from his adventure, and he told it to us
between puffs of his pipe so realistically that I caught several of my
old friends of the Plains peering about into the darkness as if to make
sure that no lurking redskins were creeping up on them.
In the fight of a few days before De Rudio was guarding a pony crossing
with eight men when one of them sang out:
"Lieutenant, get your horse, quick.
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