"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.
"That's where I belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the
retreating column. "I don't know one of them, and I know them all. I've
gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and
gambled with the others. I belong with them; and I'm going with them if
I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now."
"Well, luck to you, and good-by," said Crittenden, holding out his hand.
"I'm going home to-night."
"But you're coming back?"
"Yes."
Blackford hesitated.
"Are you going to join this outfit?"--meaning his own regiment.
"I don't know; this or the Rough Riders."
"Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost
respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as
'bunkies'?"
"Sure!"
"Thank you."
The two men grasped hands.
"I hope you will come back."