brown-canvas-covered soldiers grabbed their axes, rolled their eyes
towards the open plain, and listened expectantly.

The clear notes of a bugle rang; whackety, bang--clack--clack, went the
axes. Trees fell all around. The forest seemed to drop on me. I got my
horse and fled across the creek.

"That isn't fair; this stream is supposed to be impassable," sang out a
lieutenant, who was doing a Blondin act on the first tree over, while
beneath him yawned the chasm of four or five feet.

In less than a minute the whole forest got up again and moved towards
the bridge. There were men behind it, but the leaves concealed them.
Logs dropped over, brush piled on top. The rifles rang in scattered
volleys, and the enemy's fire rolled out beyond the brush. No bullets
whistled--that was a redeeming feature.

Aside from that it seemed as though every man was doing his ultimate
act. They flew about; the shovels dug with despair; the sand covered the
logs in a shower. While I am telling this the bridge was made.

The first horse came forward, led by his rider. He raised his eyes like
St. Anthony; he did not approve of the bridge. He put his ears forward,
felt with his toes, squatted behind, and made nervous side steps. The
men moved on him in a solid crowd from behind. Stepping high and short
he then bounded over, and after him in a stream came the willing
brothers. Out along the bluffs strung the troopers to cover the heroes
who had held the neck, while they destroyed the bridge.

Then they rode home with the enemy, chaffing each other.