Dick and Warner were in the first coach near Colonel Newcomb, ready for
any commands that he might give. Both had come through the defense of
the ford without injury, although a bullet had gone through Dick's coat
without touching the skin. Sergeant Whitley, too, was unharmed, but the
regiment had suffered. More than twenty dead were left in the valley
for the enemy to bury.
Despite all the commands and efforts of the officers there was much
excited talk in the train. Boys were binding up wounds of other boys
and were condoling with them. But on the whole they were exultant.
Youth did not realize the loss of those who had been with them so
little. Scattered exclamations came to Dick:
"We beat 'em off that time, an' we can do it again."
"Lucky though we had that little river before us. Guess they'd have
rode us right down with their horses if it hadn't been for the stream
an' its banks."
"Ouch, don't draw that bandage so tight on my arm. It ain't nothin' but
a flesh wound."
"I hate a battle in the dark. Give me the good sunshine, where you can
see what's goin' on. My God, that you Bill! I'm tremendous glad to see
you! I thought you was lyin' still, back there in the grass!"
Dick said nothing. He was in a seat next to the window, and his face
was pressed against the rain-marked pane. The rifle that he had picked
up and used so well was still clutched, grimed with smoke, in his hands.
The train had not yet got up speed.
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