"Yes, he is going; his horse will be up at 4.30; he wants to see this
cavalry," answered my friend the Captain for me.

"Yes; it's fine moonlight. The Colonel is going to do an attack on
Cossack posts out in the hills," said the adjutant.

So at five o'clock we again sallied out in the dust, the men in the
ranks next me silhouetting one after the other more dimly until they
disappeared in the enveloping cloud. They were cheerful, laughing and
wondering one to another if Captain Garrard, the enemy, would get in on
their pickets. He was regarded in the ranks as a sharp fellow, one to be
well looked after.

At the line of hills where the Colonel stopped, the various troops were
told off in their positions, while the long cool shadows of evening
stole over the land, and the pale moon began to grow bolder over on the
left flank.

I sat on a hill with a sergeant who knew history and horses. He
remembered "Pansy," which had served sixteen years in the troop--and a
first-rate old horse then; but a damned inspector with no soul came
browsing around one day and condemned that old horse. Government got a
measly ten dollars--or something like that. This ran along for a time;
when one day they were trooping up some lonely valley, and, behold,
there stood "Pansy," as thin as a snake, tied by a wickieup. He greeted
the troop with joyful neighs. The soldiers asked the Captain to be
allowed to shoot him, but of course he said no. I could not learn if he
winked when he said it. The column wound over the hill, a carbine rang
from its rear, and "Pansy" lay down in the dust without a kick. Death is