e gallant of metropolitan circles would turn up his
supercilious nostrils at the bare suggestion were he to see them now.
The --th is in its element, however, for the order has come, and with
the coming dawn it will be on the march for the Black Hills of Dakota,
and the colonel has summoned the officers to his tent for some final
instructions. It must be conceded that they look like business in their
dark-blue flannel shirts, their "reinforced" riding-breeches, the
substantial boots, and the field blouses and broad-brimmed campaign hats
that Arizona suns and storms have long since robbed of gloss or
freshness. The faces are strong and virile in almost every case. It is
ten days since the razor has profaned a single chin, and very stubbly
and ugly do they look, but long experience has taught them that the
sooner the beard is allowed to sprout when actual campaigning is to be
done the greater the eventual comfort. Occasionally some fellow draws
off the rough leather gauntlet, and then the contrast between his
blistered, wind-and-sun tanned face and the white hand is startling.
Every man is girt with belt of stout make, and wears his revolver and
hunting-knife,--the sabre is discarded by tacit consent,--its last
appearance for many a long month. Some of the number, indeed, have taken
the order to prepare for campaign work as a permit to doff the uniform
entirely. Gruff old Stannard hates the blouse on general principles, and
looks solid and "stocky" in his flannel shirt; not a vestige of "rank"
can be found about him. Turner and old Wilkins, Crane and Hunter, are of
his way of thinking, but others who preserve the military proprieties to
the last are still garbed in the undress uniform coat. Perhaps they are
thinking of the good-byes to be said in the garrison to-night. Less than
twenty officers are there who report in answer to the signal, and,
having saluted the colonel, dispose themselves on the few camp-stools or
on the grass and wait for his remarks.

Some are old friends, and some old friends are absent. It is odd to
think of the --th being here in force without Truscott, or Ray, or old
Bucketts, the men we knew so well in Arizona. Colonel Pelham is, of
course, not looked for: he is far too old to be in saddle on so hard a
campaign as this promises to be. Truscott's troop is not yet here, but
is under orders to remain in Kansas for the present, and he, we know, is
far away at the Point. Ray, with one of the captains w