twenty. In a single day he may not march quite so far as a more mature
man or carry quite so much weight. He will go to sleep each night dead
to the world. But in the morning he awakens a new man. He is like a
slate from which all the writing has been erased. He is ready for a
new day and a new world. Thirty days of campaigning leaves him as
strong and fresh as ever.

"Thirty days of campaigning leaves the old soldier a wreck. Why?
Because as a man grows older he loses the ability to sleep soundly. He
carries the nervous strain of one day over to the next. Life is a
serious problem to a man over thirty. To a man under thirty it is
simply a game. For my part, give me men who can play at war."

So it was with Pierre le Rouge. He woke with a faint heaviness of
head, and stretched himself. There were many sore places, but nothing
more. He looked up, and the slant winter sun cut across his face and
made a patch of bright yellow on the wall beside him.

Next he heard a faint humming, and, turning his head, saw a boy of
fourteen or perhaps a little more, busily cleaning a rifle in a way
that betokened the most expert knowledge of the weapon. Pierre himself
knew rifles as a preacher knows his Bible, and as he lay half awake
and half asleep he smiled with enjoyment to see the deft fingers move
here and there, wiping away the oil. A green hand will spend half a
day cleaning a gun, and then do the work imperfectly; an expert does
the job efficiently in ten minutes. This was an expert.

Undoubtedly this was a true son of the mountain-desert. He wore his
old slouch hat even in the house, and his skin was that olive brown
which comes from many years of exposure to the wind and sun. At the