They Came To Cordura by Glendon Swarthout

‘And when a man dies gloriously in war, shall we not say, in the first place, that he is of the golden race?’ Glaucon says, ‘To be sure.’
    But these were alive, Thorn protested.
    Ben Ticknor said it was still pretty apt for a saw-bones without sleep two nights running.
    Thorn asked about the wounded, and the surgeon replied he had lost one during the night, the boy who had been shot in the abdomen, so that there would be seven to bury rather than six. Thorn asked if the injury of the first sergeant of D would permit him to make the ride north. The surgeon said yes, but the man had taken a blow on the head powerful enough to fell an ox, and he must not have another. As simply as he could, he explained the effects of partial concussion, adding that recovery was usually complete except, possibly, for occasional vertigo, or dizziness. He listed the possible consequences of further damage to the skull and the brain cells beneath. He warned the Major about drinking water on the way, to make sure that it was moving, saying that from a medical point of view, the real danger to this Expedition was not Villa, but Pancho Diarrhoea.
    Thorn almost smiled. Silently they watched a hand-forge hotted up with bellows as a blacksmith prepared to shoe.
    Thorn said there was something else he had been meaning to ask. It was natural to wonder why men did these things. He wondered if there might be a physical basis for it, something in the system. Ben Ticknor reflected. It was true, excitement increased sugar in the blood, sent an extra shot of adrenalin into the glands, and maybe in the heat of a fight—but he doubted you could account for courage physiologically. Himself, he would rather not try. He wanted some mystery in the world, even in medicine. He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
    Rather than bringing them together, his touch, instinctive, cut them apart completely. Ben Ticknor withdrew his hand even as Thorn moved from it. For both the pain of realization was acute. The severance seemed physical, as though one had died. They could not speak, could not look at each other. Finally Major Thorn said he must assemble his party. The surgeon wished him a good trip. They could not shake hands. The Major started away.
    “Tom.”
    Thorn turned. Ben Ticknor, the compassionate, tried to say something, his tired face creased with effort, then changed his mind, and with the obstinacy of a boy pointed his stogie. “Admit it was apt, dammit,” he said.
    “It was,” Thorn managed.
    At the granary Hetherington was waiting with their horses saddled and they rode to the terreno. Soon the four men detailed to base duty joined them. Troops seemed to be assembling beyond the cottonwoods. A vaquero of the ranch brought up a compact buckskin mare with obvious Arabian breeding behind it, and in a few minutes, guarded by a trooper, the Geary woman strode from the casa grande to the mare and mounted. She wore whip-cord breeches, ankle boots, a chamois jacket and a Chihuahueno hat. She was tall as a man. A boy, evidently a servant of the household, brought from the patio and handed up to her the bird of many-colored plumage, which she tethered to the pommel of her saddle by a leather thong. Leading, Major Thorn rode out through the gate and turned on to the road. As they passed the cottonwoods he saw five troops of the Provisional Squadron drawn up in dismounted ceremonial ranks. They were burying the dead. He halted his party and removed his hat.
    Since no coffins were available, the seven dead had been wrapped in blankets and placed in newly dug graves with their names and records sealed in bottles.
    Selah Rogers stood bareheaded beside the graves, while near him Lieutenant Treat of C Troop read the short oration he had composed the night before, this being one of the onerous duties usually imposed upon the youngest officers. Campaign hats at their sides, the troops stood at attention as the sun glazed the morning sky. The party on the road