“The Sivinth Cavalry be gettin’ its share o’ good men,” resumed Bugler Odell, confidentially. “Yon captain—he’s a foine wan, and a great joker. Captain Hamilton, I mean. Sure, he’s a lieutenant-colonel, from the War; but he ranks as captain o’ Reg’lars, by appointment to the Sivinth. His grandfather was a big man by the name o’ Alexander Hamilton. Ah, the Sivinth be officered entirely by generals and colonels and majors; and titles be so thick they make your head swim. I’m only plain sergeant, but some o’ the enlisted men be generals, by courtesy, as ye’ll find out.” “Right you are,” agreed the lance-corporal. “The War left many a man with soldierin’ as his only job.” Wild Bill was an accurate scout, for as the sun was setting they all sighted directly ahead, high upon a table-land backed by hills, an irregular group of buildings, the windows flashing above the level dun expanse below. Between were trees, marking a stream. “There’s Riley,” announced Bugler Odell, pointing. “Below is the Smoky Hill Fork o’ the Republican, and the line o’ cottonwoods runnin’ to north’ard be the Republican itself. The post sits in the elbow o’ the two, where they join and make the Kaw or Kansas.” As they approached Ned gazed curiously. The post made quite a showing, and everybody in the column seemed glad to be getting back. Now the flag-staff of the post, with the colors still floating, showed clearly. The general stirred restlessly in his saddle, as if eager to shorten the distance. The dogs, which had been ranging far and wide, galloped further ahead, and further, anon halting to look hopefully behind them and see that the column were surely coming on. Suddenly across the rosy-purple glow making lovely the flat landscape, wafted high and sweet the notes of a bugle at the post. All the column listened—or appeared to listen. “’Tis retreat; boom goes the avenin’ gun and down comes the flag,” explained Bugler Odell, as if Ned did not know. But Ned did know, and he nodded to himself; for this was one of the army calls taught him by his father. The long notes died amidst a dull “Boom!” by the evening gun; and Ned saw the flag slide down the tall pole. “Faith, we’ll be locked out,” chuckled Odell, as a joke. “The general won’t like that; he’s wantin’ to be home with his wife.” “Sound the trot,” bade the general, curtly, without turning head. Bugler Odell did so; and through the clattering column rang the brisk voice of young Captain Hamilton: “Trot—march!” Away they trotted, all, canteens jingling, carbines jolting, saddles creaking, horses grunting. Close before was the sparse timber of the Republican River, flowing from the north; this river they evidently must cross, as the post was upon the other side. “Give them Garryowen, Hamilton,” called the general. And he added, aside: “Then they’ll have supper hot.”