“I got a drink waitin’ fer you,” he said; and Crittenden laughed.

“Git up an’ shake hands, Jim,” said Abe, sternly, to Crittenden’s opponent, “an’ let’s have a drink.”  Reynolds got up slowly.

“You gimme a damn good lickin,’” he said to Crittenden.  “Shake!”

Crittenden shook, and seconds and principals started for Long’s tent.

“Boys,” he said to the others, “I’m sorry fer ye.  I ain’t got but four drinks—­and—­” the old Sergeant was approaching; “and one more fer the Governor.”

Rivers smiled broadly when he saw Crittenden at noon.

“The ‘Governor’ told me,” he said, “you couldn’t do anything in this regiment that would do you more good with officers and men.  That fellow has caused us more trouble than any other ten men in the regiment, and you are the first man yet to get the best of him.  If the men could elect you, you’d be a lieutenant before to-morrow night.”

Crittenden laughed.

“It was disgusting, but I didn’t see any other way out of it.”

Tattoo was sounded.

“Are you sure you can get me into the army at any time?”

“Easy—­as a private.”

“What regiment?”

“Rough Riders or Regulars.”

“All right, then, I’ll go to Kentucky for you.”

“No, old man.  I was selfish enough to think it, but I’m not selfish enough to do it.  I won’t have it.”

“But I want to go back.  If I can get in at the last moment I should go back anyhow to-night.”

“Really?”

“Really.  Just see that you let me know in time.”

Rivers grasped his hand.

“I’ll do that.”

Next morning rumours were flying.  In a week, at least, they would sail.  And still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon Crittenden saw the regiment come in for which Grafton had been waiting—­a picturesque body of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical American regiment formed since Jackson fought at New Orleans.  At the head of it rode two men—­one with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental, physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans at their heels.  Behind them rode the Rough Riders—­dusty, travel-stained troopers, gathered from every State, every walk of labour and leisure, every social grade in the Union—­day labourer and millionaire, clerk and clubman, college boys and athletes, Southern revenue officers and Northern policemen; but most of them Westerners—­Texan rangers, sheriffs, and desperadoes—­the men-hunters and the men-hunted; Indians; followers of all political faiths, all creeds—­Catholics, Protestants, Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless.  And Americans—­all!

As the last troopers filed past, Crittenden followed them with his eyes, and he saw a little way off Blackford standing with folded arms on the edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as though he were buried deep in a thousand memories.  He started when Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed.