"Spooner, that last shot was a neat one."
The private did not answer. He did not salute, he did not move. He only stood and glared. Henry Falkins turned his back on the potential assassin, and strolled deliberately away. But the Deacon, now "top-Sergeant" of B Company came over to the boy—who had taken one step as if to follow Falkins—and stepped between.
"Son," he said in a low voice, while his eyes were very steady and quieting in their hypnotic quality, "your year ain't up yet—not by several months. I reckon until the fourth of next July, you'd better not let your face give you away like that. It's bad business in the army."
The boy fell suddenly trembling with the reaction of his temptation. For an instant, forgetful of his pledge, he had fully meant to shoot. Now, he turned and walked back toward the group of seated comrades. After a while, he inquired in a normal voice:
"What's Henry Falkins a-doin' with them major's leaves on his shoulder-straps? He hain't nothin' but captain of A Company. I thought he'd done stayed at home."
"He got here yesterday," enlightened the first sergeant. "He was sent away about something, an' he wears a major's straps because he's commandin' this battalion."
"Ye mean"—Newt leaned passionately forward, and, in his bared fore-arms, the muscles stood out corded—"ye mean thet Henry Falkins is a-bossin' us?"
The Deacon nodded. Then he added, in a carefully lowered voice:
"Bide your time, son. It'll keep, an' we've got Spain on our hands first."
But the weeks passed, and the Shirt-tail battalion was no nearer Cuba, though it was much nearer efficiency for the field. Other commands left for Tampa and the front. Seemingly forgotten, regiments and brigades drilled and waited and fretted at Chickamauga until disgust came in the stead of ardor and hope of active service languished, and the mountaineers alone remained patient.