e enemy. Some of the men who received only slight
wounds were anxious to remain in the fight, but their
officers insisted that they should be taken to the rear,
and attended to by the surgeons. Upon couches made of
boughs, and covered with blankets, the brave young fellows
were placed; and many of them submitted to probings and
painful management of wounds without making a murmur.
They seemed not to be concerned for themselves, but went
on all the while enquiring as to how it was "going with
the boys."

General Middleton, himself a veteran soldier, expressed
as I have already stated, his admiration for the bravery
of all the men who were engaged. There was no bolting,
even in the face of heavy fire; no shrinking, although
_one man in every eight_ had been struck by the enemy's
shot or bullets. Major Boulton had many narrow escapes,
while he was standing for a moment, a hail of buckshot
came whistling by his ear, burying itself into his horse,
which was killed instantly. The Scouts, known as Boulton's
Horse, under this brave officer, bore very gallantly
their portion of the battle's brunt. Half-breads and
Indians had orders from their leaders to shoot down horses
as well as men; and Dumont frequently said, that the
mounted men were the only ones of the force of the enemy
for which he cared anything. Several of the horses were
shot, and many of the men were riddled with buck-shot,
but they bravely stood their ground. In the night, when
the weary were sleeping after the hard day's work, dusky
forms could be seen by the light of the moon, creeping
stealthily towards where slept the gallant Scouts. The
Guard heard a crackle, and turning, perceived three pairs
of eyes gleaming with ferocity in the shadow of a clump
of poplars.

"Qui vive?" he cried, and raised his rifle; but before
he could take aim, three shots rang out through the still
night, and he fell dead, pierced by as many bullets.
There was a general alarm through the camp, but no eye
could detect the form of a Rebel. They were safe among
the shadows in the ravine. In the few moments of silent
horror that ensued after the commission of the murder,
three diabolical yells sounded from the ravine, and far
over the moon-lit prairies. Then divers voices were heard
in the bluffs, and down in the gorge. These came from
Dumont's men, who jeered, and cried that they hoped the
soldiers enjoyed the pastime of watching their dead.

On the following day, the bodies of