The fourth or “center” column was commanded by the general himself; but of the four companies, A, C, D and K, Captain Hamilton commanded the one squadron, Colonel West the other. And there were Lieutenant (Colonel) “Queen’s Own” Cook’s sharpshooters. Ah, but it was cold up here, behind the ridge. The time was two o’clock, and four hours must pass before daylight. Nobody might make a fire, and orders forbade stamping of the feet or walking up and down, because such a creaking of the snow might give alarm to the village. The men, huddled in their overcoats, stood or crouched, each holding to the lines of his horse. The officers gathered in little knots, and sitting or standing, talked low. The general’s group was the largest: Adjutant Moylan, Lieutenant Tom Custer, Captain Hamilton, Colonel West, and others. “It’s been a long Thanksgiving day, and a fast instead of a feast,” said Colonel West. “Oh, we’ll have our celebration later,” quoth Lieutenant Tom. “You know the verse: “For gold the merchant plows the main, The farmer plows the manor; But glory is the soldier’s prize, The soldier’s wealth is honor.” “How about it, Hamilton? Are you glad you came?” asked Lieutenant Moylan. “Perfectly. The only person I’m sorry for is poor Mathey.” “He’s liable to miss a rousing good fight.” “And one in which some of us are likely to get hurt. Those Indians will fight like demons, to defend their families and property.” “Well, as for me, gentlemen, you know how I feel,” spoke young Captain Hamilton, earnestly. “I want the soldier’s death. When my hour comes, I hope that I shall be shot through the heart, in battle.” By all the low talk, among men as among officers, the approaching battle must be regarded as a serious problem. Nobody might tell how many Indians were housed down below, on their own ground, with plenty of ammunition and food and cover; and no harder fighters could be found than the Cheyennes and the Kiowas. The Osages, in their war-paint of red, white, black and yellow, sat under blankets and robes, in a circle, murmuring gravely as if they, too, were doubtful of the white chief’s ability. One of them was not in war-paint. His paint all was black, for mourning. The interpreter explained that this warrior had lost his squaw, to the Cheyennes, and that he could not wash off his mourning until he had taken a Cheyenne scalp. Ned thought much upon the village. It probably would contain some white captives. Among them might be little Mary. He resolved to keep his eyes open for trace of anybody looking as she might look. XVI “GARRYOWEN” AND “CHARGE!”