On the morning of June 30 the men, idling about the camp, descried the columns of the Second Brigade, long, narrow ribbons in the distance, crawling toward them across the limitless, gently rolling plain. Rejoicing and excitement broke out on every hand, for it meant that there would be no delay in the progress of the campaign, as many had feared there might be, since the Minnesota troops had been obliged to make a march of nearly three hundred and fifty miles from Fort Ridgely to the rendezvous. That the junction of the two brigades was effected so promptly in that vast wilderness was a matter for congratulation, and General Sully seemed to feel that he could not too highly praise Colonel Minor T. Thomas, the commanding officer of the Minnesota column, for the promptness and skill with which he had conducted his march. The newcomers went into camp beside the First Brigade, and the men of the two commands were soon mingled, telling one another of their respective experiences. That evening, as soon as he had finished his duties for the day and eaten his supper, Al strolled into the camp of the Second, or, as it was generally called, the Minnesota Brigade, to see if he could find there any old acquaintances, particularly any who might have been at Fort Ridgely. Here and there fires were burning and the men were lounging about in groups, talking, playing cards, or otherwise amusing themselves. Long lines of cavalry horses extended between the company streets, securely tied to picket lines; and near the creek a large train of wagons was corralled, its outspanned mule teams, crowded within the great circle of wagons, seeming almost countless. As he walked along through the haze of dust made golden by the setting sun, Al noticed a cavalryman sitting cross-legged by one of the fires, engaged in the unmilitary task of sewing a button on his coat. The soldier's back was toward him, but that back had an oddly familiar look. Al walked around until he could see the trooper's profile, then, with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, he sprang forward and slapped the amateur tailor on the shoulder. "Wallace Smith!" he exclaimed. "Say, but I'm glad to see you, old fellow." Wallace looked up, startled, then sprang to his feet and gripped Al's hand. "Why, Al Briscoe!" he cried, "what on earth are you doing here? I had no idea you were within a thousand miles." "I came up with General Sully from St. Louis to help look for my brother Tommy," Al answered. "And you?" "I am a private in the Eighth Minnesota," explained Wallace. "I became eighteen just before the column left Minnesota, and as soon as I did, I enlisted." He looked inquiringly at Al's civilian clothes. "Aren't you in the service?" he asked. "No; not old enough," Al replied. "But I'm serving just about the same as a soldier. Practically I am on General Sully's staff." "Whew-w!" whistled Wallace. "Lucky boy. That must be great. How did it happen?"