ON WATCH
The wagons drew up in a great square on the open plain, but just at the edge of the timber, and the men, breathless, perspiring, but victorious, dropped from their horses. The Comanches still galloped to and fro and shouted in the distance, but they kept well out of rifle shot, and Phil, although it was his first battle, knew that they would not attack again, at least not for the present. They had been driven out of an extremely strong position, ground of their own choosing, and nothing remained to them but to retire.
The boy stood by the side of his horse, holding the bridle in one hand and the rifle in the other. He was still trembling from the excitement of forcing the ford and the battle among the trees, but the reddish mist before his eyes was gradually clearing away. He let the bridle rein drop, and put his hand to his face. It came away damp and sticky. He looked at it in an incurious way to see if he were wounded, but it was only dust and the smoke of burned gunpowder, kneaded together by perspiration. Then he felt cautiously of his body. No bullet or arrow had entered.
"Unhurt, Phil?" boomed out the voice of Bill Breakstone beside him. "So am I, and so is Middleton. Arenberg got a scratch, but he's forgotten it already. But, I trow, Sir Philip of the River, that was indeed a combat while it lasted!
"The Comanches shot
With spirit hot,
But now, they're not.
"You can't say anything against that poem, Phil; it's short and to the point. It's true that the Comanches are not entirely gone, but they might as well be. Let 'em shout out there in the plain as much as they choose, they're going to keep out of rifle range. And I congratulate you, Phil, on the way you bore yourself through your first 'baptism of fire.'"
"I thank you, Bill," said Phil, "but the fact is, I don't know just how I bore myself. It's been more like a dream than anything else."
"That's likely to happen to a man the first time under fire, and the second time, too, but here we are on the right side of the river and ready for a breathing spell."
Phil threw the reins over his horse's neck, knowing that the latter would not leave the camp, and set to work, helping to put everything in order, ready for fight or rest, whichever the Comanches chose to make it. The wagons were already in a hollow square, and the wounded, at least twenty in number, laid comfortably in the wagons, were receiving the rude but effective treatment of the border. Seven or eight had been killed, and three or four bodies had been lost in the current of the stream. They were now digging graves for the others. Little was known of the slain. They were wandering, restless spirits, and they may or may not have been buried under their own names. They had fallen in an unknown land beside an unknown river, but their comrades gave all due honor as they put them beneath the earth. Middleton said a few words over the body of each, while others stood by with their hats off. Then they smoothed out the soil above them as completely as possible, in order that their graves might be lost. They took this precaution lest the Comanches come after they had gone, take up the bodies, and mutilate them.
When the solemn task was done, the men turned away to other duties. They were not discouraged; on the contrary, their spirits were sanguine. The gloom of the burial was quickly dispelled, and these wild spirits, their fighting blood fully up, were more than half willing for the Comanches to give them a new battle. It was such as these, really loving adventure and danger more than profit, who steadily pushed forward the southwestern frontier in the face of obstacles seemingly insuperable.