"Sit down, La Mancha; I want a few words with you."
"Thank you, sir." The Blackguard removed his forage cap, and sat down on a camp-stool just within the tent.
"The Sergeant-Major tells me that you do not wish to 'take on' again. We have served together some years now, La Mancha."
"And jolly good years they were, sir."
The Colonel smiled. "Well, I don't grudge them—we've had a good mistress to serve, besides fine work to do for her, breaking in this rough young country; but perhaps it's just as well to think of the future."
"I hear, sir, that you've bought a big ranche near Macleod."
"Yes, I hope to serve as a citizen for the rest of my time. If ever you come that way I can promise you a welcome."
"Thank you, Colonel; I shall remember that."
"You see, La Mancha, all my best men have left me one by one. Two of them fell during the Rebellion, one shot himself, Peters died of mountain fever at Battleford, Buster Joe is ranching in Montana, Jones the Less writes to me from London, where he is doing well, and—but you know. One can't take such an interest in the recruits—shave-tails, you call them, and so forth; and now that things are settling tamely down, we're not so necessary as we were. New times, new manners—I don't blame you for taking your freedom. What are your plans, La Mancha?"
"First, I'm going to marry."