"Oh," the Virginian exclaimed with a careless touch of scorn in his voice, "they're Tarheels--not much for looks, but I reckon they'll _stick_." "I've an idea they will," was the serious reply. Dick pointed with pride to a fine-looking regiment of Virginians. "Good-looking soldiers," Socola observed. "Aren't they? That's my regiment. You'll hear from them in the first battle." "And those giants?" Socola inquired, pointing to the right at a group of tall, rude-looking fellows. "Texas Rangers." "I shouldn't care to meet them in a row--" "You know what General Taylor said of them in the Mexican War?" "No--" "_They're anything but gentlemen or cowards._" "I agree with him," Socola laughed. "What chance has a Yankee got against such men?" Dick asked with a wag of his big blond head. "Let me show you what they think--" Socola drew a leaf of _Harper's Magazine_ from his pocket and spread it before the young trooper's indignant gaze. The cartoon showed a sickly-looking Southerner carrying his musket under an umbrella accompanied by a negro with a tray full of mint juleps. "That's a joke, isn't it!" Dick roared. "Will you give me this paper?" "Certainly, Monsieur!" Dick folded the sheet, still laughing. "I'll have some fun with this in camp to-night. Come on--I want to show you just one more bunch of these sickly-looking mint-julipers--" Again the Southerner roared. They quickened their pace and in a few minutes were passing through the camps of the Red River men from Arkansas and Northern Louisiana. "Aren't you sorry for these poor fellows?" Dick laughed. "I have never seen anything like them," Socola admitted, looking on their stalwart forms with undisguised admiration. Scarcely a man was under six feet in height, with broad, massive shoulders and chests and not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Their resemblance to each other was remarkable. Nature had cast each one in the same heroic mold. The spread of giant unbroken forests spoke in their brawny arms and legs. The look of an eagle soaring over great rivers and fertile plains flashed in their fearless eyes. "What do you think of them?" Dick asked with boyish pride. "I'd like to send their photographs to _Harper's_--" "For God's sake, don't do that!" Dick protested. "If you do, we'll never get a chance to see a Yankee. I want to get in sight of 'em anyhow before they run. All I ask of the Lord is to give me one whack at those little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from Boston!" Socola smiled dryly. "In five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to use." The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet when he spoke. "Your faith is strong, M'sieur!" "It's not faith--we know. One Southerner can whip three Yankees any day." "But suppose it should turn out that he had to whip five or six or a dozen?" "Don't you think these fellows could do it?"