Keen black eyes shone from beneath heavy
black brows, just sprinkled, as were the thick moustache and imperial,
with gray. The lean jowls were closely shaved. The nose was straight and
fine, the chin square and resolute. The face and hands were tanned by
sun and wind well nigh as dark as many a Sioux, but in that strange
garb there stood revealed one of the famous sergeants of a famous
regiment, the veteran of a quarter century of service with the standard,
wounded time and again, bearing the scars of Stuart's sabre and of
Southern lead, of Indian arrow and bullet both; proud possessor of the
medal of honor that many a senior sought in vain; proud as the Lucifer
from whom he took his Christian name, brave, cool, resolute and ever
reliable--Schreiber, First Sergeant of old "K" Troop for many a year,
faced his post commander with brief and characteristic report:--
"Sir, Chief Stabber, with over thirty warriors, left camp about three
o'clock, heading for Eagle Butte."
"Well done, sergeant! I knew I could count on you," answered Webb, in
hearty commendation. "Now, one thing more. Go to 'F' Troop's quarters
and see how Kennedy is faring. He came in with despatches from Fort
Beecher, and later drank more, I fancy, than was good for him, for which
I assume all responsibility.
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