a hurt Sioux chief who defies his foes. He called them names. He dared
them to come on. He mocked them. He told them how they had attacked
in vain all day long. He counted the number of their repulses and then
exaggerated them. He reminded them it was yet a long time until dark,
and asked them why they hesitated, why they did not come forward and meet
the death that was ready for them.

Dick gazed at him in astonishment. He heard many of his words through
the roar of the guns, and he saw his ensanguined face, through which
his eyes burned like two red-hot coals. Was this the quiet and kindly
Sergeant Whitley whom he had known so long? No, it was a raging tiger.
Still waters run deep, and, enveloped, at last, with the fury of battle
the sergeant welcomed wounds, death or anything else it might bring.

He shouted and fired his rifle again. Then he fell like a log. Dick
rushed to him at once, but he saw that he had only fainted from loss of
blood. He bound up the sergeant's head as best he could, and, easing him
against a bank, returned to the battle front.

A shout suddenly arose. Officers had seen through their glasses a column
of dust rising far behind them. It was so vast that it could only be
made by a great body of marching troops. But who were the men that were
making it? In all the frightful din and excitement of the battle the
question ran through the army of Thomas. If fresh enemies were coming
upon their rear they were lost! If friends there was yet hope!

But they could not watch the tower of dust long. The enemy in front
gave them no chance. Polk was still beating upon them, and Longstreet,
having seized a ridge, was pouring an increased fire from his advanced
position.