en. 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.

"That's where I belong," he said, with a