y? That's my regiment. You'll hear from them in the first
battle."

"And those giants?" Socola inquired, pointing to the right at a group of
tall, rude-looking fellows.

"Texas Rangers."

"I shouldn't care to meet them in a row--"

"You know what General Taylor said of them in the Mexican War?"

"No--"

"_They're anything but gentlemen or cowards._"

"I agree with him," Socola laughed.

"What chance has a Yankee got against such men?" Dick asked with a wag
of his big blond head.

"Let me show you what they think--"

Socola drew a leaf of _Harper's Magazine_ from his pocket and spread it
before the young trooper's indignant gaze.

The cartoon showed a sickly-looking Southerner carrying his musket under
an umbrella accompanied by a negro with a tray full of mint juleps.

"That's a joke, isn't it!" Dick roared. "Will you give me this paper?"

"Certainly, Monsieur!"

Dick folded the sheet, still laughing. "I'll have some fun with this in
camp to-night. Come on--I want to show you just one more bunch of these
sickly-looking mint-julipers--"

Again the Southerner roared.

They quickened their pace and in a few minutes were passing through the
camps of the Red River men from Arkansas and Northern Louisiana.

"Aren't you sorry for these poor fellows?" Dick laughed.

"I have never seen anything like them," Socola admitted, looking on
their stalwart forms with undisguised admiration. Scarcely a man was
under six feet in height, with broad, massive shoulders and chests and
not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Their resemblance to each other was
remarkable. Nature had cast each one in the same heroic mold. The spread
of giant unbroken forests spoke in their brawny arms and legs. The look
of an eagle soaring over great rivers and fertile plains flashed in
their fearless eyes.

"What do you think of them?" Dick asked with boyish pride.

"I'd like to send their photographs to _Harper's_--"

"For God's sake, don't do that!" Dick protested. "If you do, we'll never
get a chance to see a Yankee. I want to get in sight of 'em anyhow
before they run. All I ask of the Lord is to give me one whack at those
little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from Boston!"

Socola smiled dryly.

"In five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to
use."

The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber
eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet
when h