“And a month later than that,” said Pennington, “they’ll be having a roasted bull buffalo weighing five thousand pounds for Christmas dinner in Nebraska.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Warner.  “No buffalo ever weighed five thousand pounds.”

Pennington looked at him pityingly.

“You have no romance or poetry after all, George,” he said.  “Why can’t you let me put on an extra twenty-five hundred or three thousand pounds for the sake of effect?”

“Besides, you don’t roast buffaloes whole and bring them in on a platter!”

“No, we don’t, but that’s no proof that we can’t or won’t.  Now, what would you like to have, George?”

“After twelve or fifteen other things, I’d like to finish off with a whole pumpkin pie, and a few tin cups of cider would go along with it mighty well.  That’s the diet to make men, real men, I mean.”

“Any way,” said Dick, raising a tin cup of hot coffee, “here’s to food.  You may sleep without beds, and, in tropical climates, you may go without clothes, but in whatever part of the world you may be, you must have food.  And it’s best when you’ve ridden hard all day, and, in the cool of an October evening, to sit down by a roaring fire in the woods with the dry leaves beneath you, and the clear sky above you.”

“Hear! hear!” said Warner.  “Who’s dithyrambic now?  But you’re right, Dick.  War is a terrible thing.  Besides being a ruthless slaughter it’s an economic waste,—­did you ever think of that, you reckless youngsters?—­ but it has a few minor compensations, and one of them is an evening like this.  Why, everything tastes good to us.  Nothing could taste bad.  Our twelve wounds don’t pain us in the least, and they’ll heal absolutely in a few days, our blood being so healthy.  The air we breathe is absolutely pure and the sky over our heads is all blue and silver, spangled with stars, a canopy stretched for our especial benefit, and upon which we have as much claim of ownership as anybody else has.  We’ve lived out of doors so much and we’ve been through so much hard exercise that our bodies are now pretty nearly tempered steel.  I doubt whether I’ll ever be able to live indoors again, except in winter.”

“I’m the luckiest of all,” said Pennington.  “Out on the plains we don’t have to live indoors much anyway.  I’ve lived mostly in the saddle since I was seven or eight years old, but the war has toughened me just the same.  I’ll be able to sleep out any time, except in the blizzards.”

“As soon as you finish devouring the government stores,” said a voice behind them, “it would be well for all of you to seek the sleep you’re telling so much about.”

It was Colonel Winchester who spoke, and they looked at him, inquiringly.

“Can I ask, sir, which way we ride?” said Dick.

“Northward with General Sheridan,” replied the Colonel.

“But there is no enemy to the north, sir!”