At the head of the column walked Captain Ulysses Benton, on foot and leading his mount through the tempest like the rest of the cavalry company, peering ahead into the murk to be sure of his way. Civilians, who only saw cavalry on the Fourth of July when it paraded in dress uniforms while the band played, thought of horse cavalry as a romantic way of life. Captain Benton knew better, as did all of the troopers walking in column behind him. The real cavalry was this, trudging through the endless prairie, mud sucking at your boots, grass slippery underfoot, your feet aching from the march, sheets of water being thrown on you from a leaden sky while gusts of wind tried to knock you from your feet and forced water through every seam and opening so that no portion of you remained dry, tugging on the lead of a horse just as weary and worn-out as you were, the horse occasionally snapping at you in its misery and irritation or jerking its head with devilish timing so the tug of the reins would threaten to topple you into the mud, your stomach almost empty since there’d been no way to make a meal, and your last seven warm meals had only been bacon and beans, but this day there wouldn’t even be that, nothing but soggy hardtack since no fire could be lit under these conditions.
