“Yes, what’s stirring?” Tom echoed curiously. “You look as flustered as a wet hen.”
“Got over here as fast as I could,” explained Bill, hastily catching his breath. “Jest heard at the fort that big Pat Fagan’s been posted as a deserter.”
“Pat Fagan, a deserter?” repeated Tom, his eyes growing wide with surprise.
“Yep, it seems that he had so much fun poked at him amongst the garrison, over the trouncin’ you gave him tother evenin’ at the Turtle, that he couldn’t stand it no longer. He was heard to say last night that he was fed up an’ aimin’ to light out; an’ shore ’nuff, this mornin’, when the roll o’ the comp’ny was called, he was reported missin’ ’thout leave.”
“Great guns!” observed Ben, “that’s pretty grim sort of business. Desertion is punishable by death, isn’t it, Bill?”
“It calls fer the firin’ squad in time o’ war; but in peace time an army deserter on the frontier us’lly gits fifty lashes on the bare back with a rawhide cat-o-nine-tails, well laid on. Then he has his head an’ eyebrows shaved an’ is chased out o’ camp by a squad with fixed bayonets, whilst the drummers an’ buglers play “The Rogue’s March.””
“Why, that’s almost worse than death,” exclaimed Tom Gordon, his face a picture of horror.
“Yep, ’tis, lad. No gainsayin’ that. But punishment fer desertin’ has to be harsh, the officers say. Totherwise, sojurs would be desertin’ right an’ left, ’cause garrison life on this far border gits so dull an’ lonely that men kin skeercely stand it.”
“Pat Fagan is a mean scoundrel,” went on Tom, “and he has his knife out for me, that I know; but yet I can’t wish him such an awful fate as that.”
“Chances are they’ll never take him alive,” Bill commented. “I think that—”