The Deserter | Page 7

charge there. The ground is all cut up with ravines and
gullies, and they've got a cross-fire that sweeps it clean. We'll probably
go in on the other flank; it's more open there. Here comes the chief
now."
Two officers come riding hastily around a projecting point of the slope
and spur at rapid gait towards the spot where the cavalry have
dismounted and are breathing their horses. There is hardly time for
salutations. A gray-headed, keen-eyed, florid-faced old soldier is the
colonel, and he is snapping with electricity, apparently.
"This way, Hull. Come right here, and I'll show you what you are to

do." And, followed by Rayner, Hull, and Hayne, the chief rides sharply
over to the extreme left of the position and points to the frowning ridge
across the intervening swale.
"There, Hull: there are twenty or thirty of the rascals in there who get a
flank fire on us when we attack on our side. What I want you to do is to
mount your men, let them draw pistol and be all ready. Rayner, here,
will line the ridge to keep them down in front. I'll go back to the right
and order the attack at once. The moment we begin and you hear our
shots, you give a yell, and charge full tilt across there, so as to drive out
those fellows in that ravine. We can do the rest. Do you understand?"
"I understand, colonel; but--is it your order that I attempt to charge
mounted across that ground?"
"Why, certainly! It isn't the best in the world, but you can make it. They
can't do very much damage to your men before you reach them. It's got
to be done; it's the only way."
"Very good, sir: that ends it!" is the calm, soldierly reply; and the
colonel goes bounding away.
A moment later the troop is in saddle, eager, wiry, bronzed fellows
every one, and the revolvers are in hand and being carefully examined.
Then Captain Hull signals to Hayne, while Rayner and three or four
soldiers sit in silence, watching the man who is to lead the charge. He
dismounts at a little knoll a few feet away, tosses his reins to the
trumpeter, and steps to his saddle-bags. Hayne, too, dismounts.
Taking his watch and chain from the pocket of his hunting-shirt, he
opens the saddle-bag on the near side and takes therefrom two
packets,--one heavily sealed,--which he hands to Hayne.
"In case I--don't come back, you know what to do with these,--as I told
you last night."
Hayne only looks imploringly at him: "You are not going to leave me
here, captain?"

"Yes, Hayne. You can't go with us. Hark! There they go at the right.
Are the packages all right?"
Hayne, with stunned faculties, thinking only of the charge he longs to
make,--not of the one he has to keep,--replies he knows not what. There
is a ringing bugle-call far off among the rocks to the westward; a
rousing cheer; a rattling volley. Rayner springs off to his men on the
hill-side. Hull spurs in front of his eager troop, holding high his
pistol-hand:
"Now, men, follow till I drop; and then keep ahead! Come on!"
There is a furious sputter of hoofs, a rush of excited steeds up the gentle
slope, a glad outburst of cheers as they sweep across the ridge and out
of sight, then the clamor and yell of frantic battle; and when at last it
dies away, the Riflers are panting over the hard-won position and
shaking hands with some few silent cavalrymen. They have carried the
ridge, captured the migrating village, squaws, ponies, travois, and
pappooses; their "long Toms" have sent many a stalwart warrior to the
mythical hunting-grounds, and the peppery colonel's triumph is
complete.
But Lawrence Hayne, with all the light gone from his brave young face,
stands mutely looking down, upon the stiffening frame of his father's
old friend, and his, who lies shot through the heart.

I.
In the Pullman car of the westward-bound express, half-way across the
continent, two passengers were gazing listlessly out over the wintry
landscape. It was a bitter morning in February. North and south the
treeless prairie rolled away in successive ridge and depression. The
snow lay deep in the dry ravines and streaked the sea-like surface with
jagged lines of foam between which lay broad spaces clean-swept by
the gale. Heavy masses of cloud, dark and forbidding, draped the sky
from zenith to horizon, and the air was thick with spiteful gusts and

spits of snow, crackling against the window-panes, making fierce
dashes every time a car door was hurriedly opened, and driving about
the platforms like a myriad swarm of fleecy and aggressive gnats
raging for battle. Every now and then, responsive to