"Them's them awful kind o' rebels, ain't they—the John Morgan kind—that ride big horses that snort fire, and they have long swords, with which they chop men's heads off?"
"A lot o' yellin', gallopin' riff-raff," said Shorty, with the usual contempt of an infantryman for cavalry. "Ain't worth the fodder their bosses eat."
"Ain't they terribler than any other kind o' rebels?" asked Pete, anxiously.
"Naah," said Shorty, sharply. "Go to sleep, Pete, and don't bother me with no more questions. I'm writin' a letter." He proceeded with his literary effort:
"I was gladder than I kin tell you to git yore letter. You
do write the best letters of any woman in the whole world."
He looked up, and there was little Pete's face before him.
"What do you do when one o' them wild rebels comes cavorting and tearing toward you, on a big hoss, with a long sword, and yelling like a catamount?" he asked.
"Paste him with a bullet and settle him," said Shorty testily, for he wanted to go on with his letter.
"But s'pose he comes on you when your gun ain't loaded, and his sword is, or you've missed him, as I did that hog?"
"Put on your bayonet and prod his hoss in the breast, and then give him 18 inches o' cold steel. That'll settle him. Go and lay down, Pete, I tell you. Don't disturb me. Don't you see I'm writing?"