"T-h-u-p!" It was the sound of a bullet going into thick flesh, and the
soldier sprang to his feet--the impulse seemed uncontrollable for the
wounded to spring to their feet--and dropped with a groan--dead.
Crittenden straightened him out sadly--putting his hat over his face and
drawing his arms to his sides. Above, he saw with sudden nausea,
buzzards circling--little cared they whether the dead were American or
Spaniard, as long as there were eyes to pluck and lips to tear away, and
then straightway, tragedy merged into comedy as swiftly as on a stage.
Out of the woods across the way emerged a detail of negro troopers--sent
to clear the woods behind of sharpshooters--and last came Bob. The
detail, passing along the creek on the other bank from them, scattered,
and with Bob next the creek. Bob shook his gun aloft.

"I can wuk her now!"

Another lull came, and from the thicket arose the cry of a thin, high,
foreign voice:

"Americano--Americano!"

"Whut regiment you b'long to?" the voice was a negro's and was Bob's,
and Grafton and Crittenden listened keenly. Bob had evidently got a
sharpshooter up a tree, and caught him loading his gun.

"Tenth Cav'rly--Tenth!" was the answer. Bob laughed long and loud.

"Well, you jus the man I been lookin' fer--the fust white man I ever
seed whut 'longed to a nigger regiment. Come down, honey." There was the
sharp, clean crack of a Krag-Jorgensen, and a yell of savage triumph.