"Well," said Tom, "this poor fellow has gone on a spree; while drunk the idea of deserting has come to him, and he has started off over the prairie in the dead of winter, through an Indian country, without arms, provisions, or clothing. As I have often said, a man who is drunk is literally crazy, and this proves it." Next morning, when Flaherty was aroused, he had at first no idea where he was and, after he had been told, no idea how he got here. He professed that he had no wish to desert, for he was getting along in his company as well as any of the men and his time of service had nearly expired. However, he actually had deserted, and he did not know what to do, whether to go back and give himself up and take his punishment or whether to go on. Tom said to him: "Of course, Flaherty, you can do as you like, but I really think, under the circumstances, you had best go back and give yourself up and take your medicine. Maybe, if I go along with you and explain the situation to Lieutenant Smith, and ask him to intercede with the commanding office, you can be returned to duty without a court martial." "Would you do that for me, Tom?" asked Flaherty gratefully. "I'll do all I can for you, Flaherty, for I do not hold you responsible for what you have done; but you had a mighty close call, and if whiskey serves you that way you ought to take warning and swear off." "That's just what I've been thinking, Tom, and I swear right now I'll never taste another drop." As I rode up to camp about sundown that day I noticed two or three mounted men far out on the high prairie, coming on the trail from Fort Larned. The field-glass made them out to be Wild Bill and John Adkins with a pack-mule, and Found trotting along with them. They soon reached us and dismounted and began unpacking. "Is supper most ready, boys?" asked Bill. "I'll have it ready," replied Jack, "by the time you're ready for it." "We've just got room in the stable for your two horses," I explained, "in place of the mule team Tom took with him, and I guess I'll take one of our broncos out and tie it behind the haystack to make room for your pack-mule, Bill." "Don't you do anything of the kind, Peck," replied the scout. "That's one of Uncle Sam's mules, an' he'll do well enough tied in the lee of your haystack; in fact, it wouldn't hurt our horses much, either, to stand out." While Bill, Adkins, and I had been watering, feeding, and putting away the stock, Jack had been getting supper, and now stepped to the door of the dugout with his fiddle and sounded "mess call," to see if the scout would know what it meant. "That sounds pretty natural," said Bill to me, "let's go in an' see what he's got to show for it, for I'm as hungry as a coyote." As we gathered around the mess-chest I inquired: "When do they expect the volunteers that are coming to relieve the regulars?"