Ah, but it was cold up here, behind the ridge. The time was two o’clock, and four hours must pass before daylight. Nobody might make a fire, and orders forbade stamping of the feet or walking up and down, because such a creaking of the snow might give alarm to the village.
The men, huddled in their overcoats, stood or crouched, each holding to the lines of his horse. The officers gathered in little knots, and sitting or standing, talked low.
The general’s group was the largest: Adjutant Moylan, Lieutenant Tom Custer, Captain Hamilton, Colonel West, and others.
“It’s been a long Thanksgiving day, and a fast instead of a feast,” said Colonel West.
“Oh, we’ll have our celebration later,” quoth Lieutenant Tom. “You know the verse:
“For gold the merchant plows the main,
The farmer plows the manor;
But glory is the soldier’s prize,
The soldier’s wealth is honor.”
“How about it, Hamilton? Are you glad you came?” asked Lieutenant Moylan.
“Perfectly. The only person I’m sorry for is poor Mathey.”
“He’s liable to miss a rousing good fight.”
“And one in which some of us are likely to get hurt. Those Indians will fight like demons, to defend their families and property.”