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."