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shade, wriggling his bare toes in the cool south breeze.
    â€œHow we gonna git past thet guard?” asked a private from Lecompton.
    Babbitt lowered his voice, looking cautiously around him. “Tonight I’ll go on guard myself in the melon field. One of you can hide in the brush along the fence. I’ll roll the melons out to you.”
    â€œYup,” frowned Ford Ivey, “but the field’s already got a guard. What you gonna do about him?”
    Babbitt ignored the remark. He said, “I’ve got to have help. Who’ll volunteer to snake the melons out from under the fence to the timber after I roll ’em out of the field under the fence? It’ll be open moonlight.” Everybody looked at everybody else but nobody answered.
    â€œHow about Jeff?” somebody proposed.
    â€œShore. He’s jist the man.”
    â€œJeff’s little. They’ll never see him.”
    Jeff rolled suddenly to a sitting position. “Now wait, boys,” he protested. “You can’t do this to me. It’s against the articles of war. It’s against the constitution.” But they persuaded him.
    After dark they all walked quietly to the melon field. The moon was so bright that Jeff could see the light stripes on the big green melons as they lay amid the vines in the sandy soil.
    Babbitt advanced on the uniformed guard, climbing boldly over the wooden fence.
    â€œHalt! Who are you? I’m on guard here,” challenged the sentry, raising his weapon.
    Babbitt’s deep voice answered in demanding tones, “Whose command do you belong to?”
    â€œTo Graham’s battery,” the man answered.
    â€œThat’s funny,” grumbled Babbitt, pretending to be confused. “Wonder why they need two guards? I’m from McGregor’s company. I’m assigned here for guard duty, too. Well, you watch that end. I’ll watch this.” The first guard grunted an assent and moved to the upper end of the field.
    Soon Babbitt was rolling several big melons under the fence to Jeff, who transported them, crawling, to the fringe of the nearby woods, where hungry hands reached for them in the dark.
    Later they cut and divided the tasty booty and all went quietly to bed. The incident convinced Jeff that privates were as capable of strategy as officers.
    Next morning they were told that after one more week of training, they would depart for Missouri. There General Sterling Price had organized thousands of Missouri state troops into a rebel army. It was reported Price had gone into Arkansas to meet the Confederate General Ben McCulloch and urge him to aid the Missouri Confederate cause. Jeff was elated by the news.
    A short furlough had been granted the volunteers living within seventy-five miles of the fort. That meant David and Jeff could make a quick trip home to see their families. John Chadwick decided to stay at the fort.
    â€œIf I go home, I’ll just have another big brawl with Pa over joinin’ up, and he’ll whop me,” John grumbled.
    Two days before the furlough began, Jeff awoke early. He drew in a long, luxurious breath. He liked the pungent, early-morning smell of the sandbar willows and the tamaracks. He liked to see the white river mist crawling slowly along the surface of the water.
    He looked at David’s bed and felt a vague alarm. David wasn’t there. His clothing was gone. His army knapsack and canteen lay on his folded bedding. His rifle, brightly polished, was neatly stacked.
    Something white was pinned to the bed. It was a torn-off fragment of notebook paper. On it rudely printed in pencil was this note: “jeff i cant stand it no longer i have goned home to see ma. david.”
    Jeff was stunned. How could David leave the army and its excitement, its promise of glorious adventure? Where was he now? As Jeff hurriedly thrust his legs into his pants, he tried to calculate. David would probably travel alone, swimming the river