The Quest of the Four. Joseph A. Altsheler

the present. They had been driven out of an extremely strong position, ground of their own choosing, and nothing remained to them but to retire.

      The boy stood by the side of his horse, holding the bridle in one hand and the rifle in the other. He was still trembling from the excitement of forcing the ford and the battle among the trees, but the reddish mist before his eyes was gradually clearing away. He let the bridle rein drop, and put his hand to his face. It came away damp and sticky. He looked at it in an incurious way to see if he were wounded, but it was only dust and the smoke of burned gunpowder, kneaded together by perspiration. Then he felt cautiously of his body. No bullet or arrow had entered.

      "Unhurt, Phil?" boomed out the voice of Bill Breakstone beside him. "So am I, and so is Middleton. Arenberg got a scratch, but he's forgotten it already. But, I trow, Sir Philip of the River, that was indeed a combat while it lasted!

      "The Comanches shot

      With spirit hot,

      But now, they're not.

      "You can't say anything against that poem, Phil; it's short and to the point. It's true that the Comanches are not entirely gone, but they might as well be. Let 'em shout out there in the plain as much as they choose, they're going to keep out of rifle range. And I congratulate you, Phil, on the way you bore yourself through your first 'baptism of fire.'"

      "I thank you, Bill," said Phil, "but the fact is, I don't know just how I bore myself. It's been more like a dream than anything else."

      "That's likely to happen to a man the first time under fire, and the second time, too, but here we are on the right side of the river and ready for a breathing spell."

      Phil threw the reins over his horse's neck, knowing that the latter would not leave the camp, and set to work, helping to put everything in order, ready for fight or rest, whichever the Comanches chose to make it. The wagons were already in a hollow square, and the wounded, at least twenty in number, laid comfortably in the wagons, were receiving the rude but effective treatment of the border. Seven or eight had been killed, and three or four bodies had been lost in the current of the stream. They were now digging graves for the others. Little was known of the slain. They were wandering, restless spirits, and they may or may not have been buried under their own names. They had fallen in an unknown land beside an unknown river, but their comrades gave all due honor as they put them beneath the earth. Middleton said a few words over the body of each, while others stood by with their hats off. Then they smoothed out the soil above them as completely as possible, in order that their graves might be lost. They took this precaution lest the Comanches come after they had gone, take up the bodies, and mutilate them.

      When the solemn task was done, the men turned away to other duties. They were not discouraged; on the contrary, their spirits were sanguine. The gloom of the burial was quickly dispelled, and these wild spirits, their fighting blood fully up, were more than half willing for the Comanches to give them a new battle. It was such as these, really loving adventure and danger more than profit, who steadily pushed forward the southwestern frontier in the face of obstacles seemingly insuperable.

      Their position at the edge of the wood, with the strong fortification of the wagons, was excellent, and Middleton and Woodfall, after a short consultation, decided to remain there until morning, for the sake of the wounded men and for rest for all. Phil worked in the timber, gathering up fallen fuel for fires, which were built in the center of the hollow square, and he found the work a relief. Such a familiar task steadied his nerves. Gradually the little pulses ceased to beat so hard, and his head grew cool. When enough dead wood had been brought in, he took another look at the western horizon. Comanches could still be seen there, but they no longer galloped about and shouted. A half dozen sat motionless on their ponies, apparently looking at the white camp, their figures, horse and rider, outlined in black tracery against the blood-red western sun. Phil had a feeling that, although beaten at the ford, they were not beaten for good and all, and that the spirit of Black Panther, far from being crushed, would be influenced to new passions and new attack. But, as he looked, the Comanche horsemen seemed to ride directly into the low sun and disappear. The hard work that had kept him up now over, he felt limp, and sank down near one of the fires.

      "Here, Phil, drink this," said Bill Breakstone, handing him a cup of hot coffee. "It has been a pretty hard day on the nerves, and you need a stimulant."

      Phil swallowed it all, almost at a draught--never had coffee tasted better--and his strength came back rapidly. Breakstone, also, drank a cup and sat down beside the boy.

      "Here comes Arenberg," he said in a low tone to Phil. "That German was a very demon to-day. He got right into the front of the charge, and after his rifle was empty he clubbed it and brought down one of the Comanches."

      Phil looked up. Arenberg's face was still set in a stern, pitiless mask, but when his eyes caught the boy's he relaxed.

      "It iss a good day well spent," he said, throwing himself down by the side of the two. "We never could have forced the ford if we had not made that flank movement. Harm wass meant by both sides and harm wass done. But it iss over now. How does the young Herr Philip feel?"

      "Pretty good now," replied Phil, "but I've had my ups and downs, I can tell you. A little while ago I felt as if there were no backbone in me at all."

      Food was now cooked, and, after eating, the three relapsed into silence. Presently Middleton, also, joined them, and told them that very thorough preparations had been made to guard against a surprise. Sentinels on horseback were already far out on the plain, riding a watchful round which would be continued all through the night.

      "It is easy to guard against surprise on that side," said Middleton, "but snipers may creep down the river bank in the timber. We must keep our best watch there."

      "I'll go on duty," said Philip promptly.

      "Not yet," replied Middleton. "You may be needed late in the night, in which case we'll call on you, but our most experienced borderers don't think the Comanches will come back."

      "You can never trust them," said Arenberg earnestly.

      "We don't mean to," said Middleton. "Now, Phil, I'd advise you to wrap yourself in your blanket and go to sleep. On a campaign it's always advisable to sleep when you're off duty, because you never know when you will get the chance again."

      It seemed to Phil that it was impossible to sleep, after so much excitement and danger, but he knew that Middleton was speaking wise words, and he resolved to try. There were yet hours of daylight, but, putting his blanket beneath him, he lay before one of the fires with his arm under his head and closed his eyes. He would open them now and then to see the yellow flames, the figures of the men moving back and forth, and the circle of wagons beyond. He could not make himself feel sleepy, but he knew that his nerves were relaxing. Physically he felt a soothing languor, and with it came a mental satisfaction. He had helped to win his first battle, and, like the older and seasoned men around him, the victory encouraged him to bid further defiance to the Comanches or anything else that threatened.

      "Putting his blanket beneath him, he lay before one of the fires"

      These reflections were so grateful that he found himself able to keep his eyes shut longer. It was not so much of an effort to pull the eyelids down, and when, at intervals steadily growing more distant, he opened his eyes, it was to find the fires and figures of the men becoming dim, while the circling line of the wagons beyond was quite lost. At last the eyelids stayed down of their own accord, and he floated away into a sleep that was deep, sweet, and refreshing.

      Others in the camp slept, also, some in the wagons and some on the ground, with saddles for pillows. Those whose duty it was to watch paid no attention to them, but beat up the brush incessantly, and kept up their endless circles on the plains. The somber clouds that had obscured the morning floated away, driven back by a late afternoon sun of uncommon splendor. The gray-green plains turned to a brilliant red and gold; the willows, cottonwoods, and oaks