Again the Southerner roared.
They quickened their pace and in a few minutes were passing through the camps of the Red River men from Arkansas and Northern Louisiana.
"Aren't you sorry for these poor fellows?" Dick laughed.
"I have never seen anything like them," Socola admitted, looking on their stalwart forms with undisguised admiration. Scarcely a man was under six feet in height, with broad, massive shoulders and chests and not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Their resemblance to each other was remarkable. Nature had cast each one in the same heroic mold. The spread of giant unbroken forests spoke in their brawny arms and legs. The look of an eagle soaring over great rivers and fertile plains flashed in their fearless eyes.
"What do you think of them?" Dick asked with boyish pride.
"I'd like to send their photographs to Harper's—"
"For God's sake, don't do that!" Dick protested. "If you do, we'll never get a chance to see a Yankee. I want to get in sight of 'em anyhow before they run. All I ask of the Lord is to give me one whack at those little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from Boston!"
Socola smiled dryly.
"In five minutes after we meet—there won't be a shoe-string left fit to use."
The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber eyes—only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet when he spoke.