puff of smoke, and White toppled
over, with a bullet through his heart. The coat had caught the
attention of the savages, and thus I had been the innocent means of my
friend's death; for, with the soldiers pressing them so hard, it is not
likely that any of the warriors would have wasted a shot had they not
thought they were getting Pa-ho-has-ka. For a long time the Indians
believed that I would be a menace to them no more. But they discovered
their mistake later, and I sent a good many of them to the Happy
Hunting-Grounds as a sort of tribute to my friend.

Poor old White! A more faithful man never took a trail, nor a braver.
He was a credit to me, and to the name which General Sheridan had first
given him in derision, but which afterward became an honor, the name of
"Buffalo Chips."

When Terry and Crook's commands joined on the Yellowstone both commands
went into camp together and guards were placed to prevent surprise. The
scene was typical of the Old West, but it would astonish anyone whose
whole idea of warfare has been gained by a visit to a modern military
post or training camp, or the vast camps where the reserve forces are
drilled and equipped for the great European war.

Generals Crook, Merritt, and Carr were in rough hunting rigs, utterly
without any mark of their rank. Deerskin, buckskin, corduroy, canvas,
and rags indiscriminately covered the rest of the command, so that
unless you knew the men it was totally impossible to distinguish
between officers and enlisted men. However, every one in the commands
knew every one else, and there was no confusion.

A great part of that night was spent in swapping stories of recent
experiences. All of them were thrilling, even to veteran campaigners
fresh from the trail. There was no need of drawing the long bow in
those days. The truth was plenty exciting enough to suit the most
exacting, and we sat about like schoolboys, drinking in each other's
tales, and telling our own in exchange.

A story of a personal adventure and a hairbreadth escape in which
Lieutenant De Rudio figured was so typical of the fighting days of the
West that I want my readers to know it. I shall tell it, as nearly as I
can, just as it came to me around the flickering fire in that
picturesque border camp.

De Rudio had just returned from his adventure, and he told it to us
between puffs of his pipe so realistically that I caught several of my
old friends of the Plains peering about into the