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Updated: June 15, 2025
A new attendant, a shy, awkward young fellow from Devers's troop, was hovering about the bedside, and Davies glanced at him inquiringly. "What became of Paine?" he asked, and the steward shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "Captain Devers took him away," was the answer. The doctor arose and stood by Davies a minute. "I don't know what to make of that captain of yours," he said.
To think that he who so prided himself on plainscraft should have been so utterly hoodwinked by Captain Differs, of all men, was worse to him than gall and wormwood, but he came now fairly snapping with righteous indignation, fresh from another study of the famous field over which he rode with the last man to part with Lieutenant Davies the night of the tragedy of Antelope Springs, Devers's long-missing sergeant, McGrath.
It ill accorded with what they wrote him from the front as Devers's story. "You write to Mr. Davies's mother, Agatha," Mrs. Cranston had said. "I haven't time for both, but I'll take care of Miss Quimby." Just what might be the tone and tenor of that young lady's letters to her prostrate lover Mrs.
The officer could not understand how it was that in broad daylight Major Warren when searching had failed to see Devers's trail. It certainly was there. And so the old, old story was told again.
Then Boynton expressed a desire to return to it, as he was now able to stump around a little, and he enjoyed chaffing McPhail, and so the wounded second lieutenant of Devers's troop was shifted to the hospital tent put up for his accommodation at the cantonment, and there Mira was made far more comfortable than many an army wife had been, awaiting the day when they could with safety be started on the road to Scott, now his proper station.
Now, it was an aide-de-camp and a cavalry officer who had been sent to the scene of the affair at Antelope Springs to compare the situation there with Devers's description and rough sketch, and a cavalry officer who had written what was practically a vindication of Devers's course.
Brilliant, daring, conspicuous as had been Devers's services during the civil war and on the wild frontier, he had never succeeded in winning recognition, owing to the persistent calumnies of his seniors, who, graduates of the great national charity school on the Hudson, were leagued to down any man whose ability, dash, and daring made him the object of their narrow jealousy and the victim of their inordinate greed.
He never faced when he could dodge, He only spoke to slur, And now he is a colonel, But the accent's on the cur. And that was Devers's requiem in the Eleventh Horse as well as in the house of Congress. He never vexed them more. One of the old names was lacking on the list that accompanied the remonstrance, that of the man of whom, nearly a decade before, Devers "only spoke to slur."
Three days later, what was his wrath to find Devers's herd almost a mile away down the stream, and close by the tents of Major Roome's battalion of Foot that had been for a week placidly awaiting the return of the cavalry! Tintop had halted and unsaddled some distance up-stream.
I do not see any likelihood of his returning to duty for a month." Devers's face expressed all proper concern and sympathy. "It is best, of course, that I should know this, but the colonel's friends are numerous in garrison, and it is something that would have a depressing effect. I suggest, therefore, that you do not confide your fears to any one else.
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