My fellow-soldiers, who
had hitherto been very light-hearted and chatty, had suddenly become
grave and quiet, some of them even looking pale and scared. On one
side of me was an irrepressible scamp of a boy about eighteen years
old, a dark little fellow, with a monkey face and a feeble, falsetto
voice like a very old woman. I watched him take out a small sharp knife
and without looking down draw it across the upper part of his surcingle
three or four times; but this he did evidently only for practice, as
he did not cut into the hide. Seeing me watching, he grinned
mysteriously and made a sign with head and shoulders thrust forward
in imitation of a person riding away at full speed, after which he
restored his knife to its sheath.
"You intend cutting your surcingle and running away, little coward?"
I said.
"And what are you going to do?" he returned.
"Fight," I said.
"It is the best thing you can do, Sir Frenchman," said he, with a grin.
"Listen," I said, "when the fight is over, I will look you up to thrash
you for your impertinence in calling me a Frenchman."
"After the fight!" he exclaimed, with a funny grimace. "Do you mean
next year? Before that distant time arrives some Colorado will fall
in love with you, and--and--and----"
Here he explained himself without words by drawing the edge of his
hand briskly across his throat, then closing his eyes and making
gurgling sounds, supposed to be uttered by a person undergoing the
painful operation of having his throat cut.
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