"Halt! Throw out pickets! Dismount! Break ranks!"
The orders were given and repeated. The appearance of a camp grew up like magic. No fires were to be lighted until scout and picket reports came in, but the men went about feeding their horses and making ready for the fires and for "grub," as they called it. They were glad to stretch themselves. It had been a long day's ride.
"We will signal from the rise over there, General," Griffith said. "If from there we can see no camp-fires, there will be none near enough to detect ours. Shall I return here, General, or——"
"Return here. Pick your escort."
Griffith rode away with his three sharpshooters. The tired men watched eagerly for the signal, as they lay about on the ground. A shout went up when they saw it, and fires were lighted and rations brought forth. A young fellow with corporal's straps was humming as he lay on his back with both feet far up on the body of a tree. He had carried with him all day an empty tin can, and now he was making coffee in it. He turned from time to time to peer into the can or readjust the sticks as they burned.
"We're tenting to-night on the old camp-ground."
His soft tenor rang out on the cool evening air as clear as the note of a bird, despite his recumbent position. He lifted himself on one elbow and peered again into the coffee, but the song ran on—
"Give us a song to cheer."
A group near him was deep in a game of cards. "Here! It's Towsy's deal! Damned if I don't believe Jim would deal every hand if he wasn't watched. He——"
"Our weary heart, a song of home——"