There was little conversation. All stood about the
camp-fires in light overcoats or capes, for Western nights are always
cool.
When the boys and I started to ride out of camp we were, for a few
moments, on the flank of the infantry company. It was noticeable that
although the men were marching at "route step," when they are not
required to preserve silence, few of them spoke, and very rarely, and
they moved quite slowly. Corporal Henry, at the end of a prolonged
yawn, asked, "Are we going to start at this hour every morning, sir?"
"Yes, usually," I replied.
"How far do we go to-day, Frank?"
"Eighteen miles is the scheduled distance," answered Frank.
"How fast do men march?"
"Three miles an hour," said I.
"Then we shall be in camp by ten o'clock. I don't see the sense of
yanking a fellow out of bed in the night."
"Of course, Henry, there's a good reason for everything done in the
army," observed Frank, with soldierly loyalty.
"Where's the sense of marching in the dark when the whole distance can
be done in six hours, and the sun rises at five and sets at seven? I
prefer daylight.
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