"Well, by God," said Reynolds, irritably--the bullet had gone through
his sleeve. "This ain't no time to joke."
Grafton's face was still calm--he was still looking. Presently he turned
and beckoned to somebody in the rear.
"There he is, now."
Looking behind, Crittenden had to laugh. There was Bob, in a
cavalryman's hat, with a Krag-Jorgensen in his hand, and an ammunition
belt buckled around him.
As he started toward Grafton, a Lieutenant halted him.
"Why aren't you with your regiment?" he demanded sharply.
"I ain't got no regiment. I'se looking fer Ole Captain."
"Get back into your regiment," said the officer, with an oath, and
pointing behind to the Tenth Coloured Cavalry coming up.
"Huh!" he said, looking after the officer a moment, and then he came on
to the edge of the creek.
"Go to the rear, Bob," shouted Crittenden, sharply, and the next moment
Bob was crashing through the bushes to the edge of the creek.
"Foh Gawd, Ole Cap'n, I sutn'ly is glad to fine you. I wish you'd jes
show me how to wuk this gun. I'se gwine to fight right side o' you--you
heah me."
"Go back, Bob," said Crittenden, firmly.
"Silence in the ranks," roared a Lieutenant. Bob hesitated. Just then a
company of the Tenth Cavalry filed down the road as they were deployed
to the right. Crittenden's file of soldiers could see that the last man
was a short, fat darky--evidently a recruit--and he was swinging along
as jauntily as in a cake-walk. As he wheeled pompously, he dropped his
gun, leaped into the air with a yell of amazed rage and pain, catching
at the seat of his trousers with both hands. A bullet had gone through
both buttocks.
"Gawd, Ole Cap'n, did you see dat nigger?"
A roar of laughter went down the bed of the creek.
"Go back!" repeated Crittenden, threateningly, "and stop calling me Old
Captain." Bob looked after the file of coloured troops, and then at
Crittenden.
"All right, Ole Cap'n; I tol' you in ole Kentuck that I gwine to fight
wid the niggers ef you don't lemme fight wid you. I don't like
disgracin' the family dis way, but 'tain't my fault, an' s'pose you git
shot--" the slap of the flat side of a sword across Bob's back made him
jump.
"What are you doing here?" thundered an angry officer." Get into
line--get into line."
"I ain't no sojer."