s of affairs at Russell reached
the regiment before they plunged into the thick of the campaign and were
soon cut off from all communication, there were still three or four days
in which the officers could talk over matters and write their letters to
be sent back from the intrenched camp at Goose Creek by the first party
that was numerically strong enough to undertake the journey. The colonel
had been furnished a brief synopsis of the charges against Ray, and
Stannard swore with a mighty oath when he read them that from beginning
to end the whole thing was made up by Gleason and that other scoundrel,
Rallston. The officers came together, and Stannard told what he knew of
Rallston's shadowy record in the past, and one by one Gleason's hints,
sneers, and slurs about Ray were dragged to light and exploded. There
were men sitting around the colonel's tent, a hardy, bushwhacking set of
frontiersmen they all looked, who for very shame wished themselves
away. Canker's cheeks burned as he recalled how often he had permitted
Gleason to defame Ray. Crane and Wilkins hung their heads and tugged at
their stubby beards, and looked uncomfortable, for the whole tenor of
talk was an enthusiastic and vehement vote of confidence in the
Kentuckian. Knowing him to be hot-headed and rash, there was great
anxiety about him, and one impulsive fellow suggested that they all sign
a letter to him expressing their belief in his innocence and their
confidence in his cause. This would not do, said the colonel; it was
tantamount to insubordination. Individually they were at liberty to
write, but it must not be done as a regiment; and so it resulted that
only two or three wrote to him, and one of these was Canker.

Stannard was not fully satisfied. It was agreed that at the very first
opportunity they should have another general talk, and the officers had
then gone to their various tents to send what might be the last messages
home. They were to march over against the Rosebud at dawn, and it was
only a few miles' gallop across the divide where Custer and his gallant
men lay at their shallow graves, most of them by this time disinterred
by prowling wolves or vengeful Indians.

Truscott, too, had written to Ray, and it was not easy. He had written
to Grace a long letter, and that was harder still. Three days had
elapsed since Gleason's explosive announcement of that strange tableau
at his home. He had disdained to listen to explanation or to further
s