ering the enemy in all directions, the morning light showing the
terrible destruction caused by our onslaught.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

A CLEAR SKY.

The rising sun showed that the enemy had disappeared; but ample stores
had been secured for those who had so long suffered severe privations.

"Val," said Denham, "we must ride with our troop this week."

"Of course," I said cheerfully; but I had my doubts. Some time later,
after we had met our comrades again, we had a long visit from the
Colonel.

"Look here, young fellows," he said; "you're both invalids and cripples,
so I'll wait till you're well before I have an inquiry into your conduct
in leaving the fort without leave. I'm too busy now, and you are both
too weak; but it will wait a bit. This matter must be thoroughly
investigated."

"He'll never say another word about it, Val," prophesied Denham.

He never did.

Immediately after our interview with our Colonel, Denham and I lay in
our wagon--ours by right of conquest--with the doctor looking at our
injuries in evident perplexity.

"I never saw such a pair of scamps," he said. "Why, if every man
behaved in the same way the life of a regimental surgeon wouldn't be
worth living. Just as if I hadn't enough to attend to. Always in
trouble."

"Don't bully us, doctor," said Denham, "we're both in such pain."

"Of course you are, my dear boys; so I'm going to have this wagon made
into a sick-room for you."

"Into a what?" cried Denham. "Nonsense; we want to join the ranks again
to-morrow."

"I suppose so," said the doctor fiercely; "but--you--will--not. Your
wrists are bad enough, but look at your legs."

"Bah! Hideous!" cried Denham. "Who wants to look at them?"

"Then your head's not healed. Now, my dear boys, experience has told me
that in this country very slight injuries develop into terrible ulcers
and other blood-poisoning troubles. That renegade beast you tell me
about is to answer for your limbs being in a very bad condition, and it
will take all I know to set them right."

"But, doctor, I wouldn't have cared if they were good honest wounds."

"All wounds are wounds, sir, and injuries are injuries, to a surgeon.
Frankly, neither of you must put a foot to the ground for weeks."

"Oh doctor!" we exclaimed together.

"My dear boys, trust me," he said. "I want to see you stout men, not
cripples on crutches, and--How dare you, you black-looking scoundrel!"

"Joeboy!" we shouted