Crittenden

And all the time that machine gun was playing on the trenches like a

hard rain in summer dust. Whenever a Spaniard would leap from the

trench, he fell headlong. That pitiless fire kept in the trenches the

Spaniards who were found there--wretched, pathetic, half-starved little

creatures--and some terrible deeds were done in the lust of slaughter.

One gaunt fellow thrust a clasp-knife into the buttock of a shamming

Spaniard, and, when he sprang to his feet, blew the back of his head

off. Some of the Riders chased the enemy over the hill and lay down in

the shade. One of them pulled out of a dead Spaniard's pocket

cigarettes, cigars, and a lady's slipper of white satin; with a grunt he

put the slipper back. Below the trenches, two boyish prisoners sat under

a tree, crying as though they were broken-hearted, and a big trooper

walked up and patted them both kindly on the head.

"Don't cry, boys; it's all right--all right," he said, helplessly.

* * * * *

Over at the block-house, Crittenden stopped firing suddenly, and,

turning to his men, shouted: "Get back over the hill boys, they're going to start in again." As they

ran back, a Lieutenant-Colonel met them.

"Are you in command?"

Crittenden saluted.

"No, sir," he said.

"Yes, sir," said the old Sergeant at his side. "He was. He brought these

men up the hill."

"The hell he did. Where are your officers?"

The old Sergeant motioned toward the valley below, and Crittenden opened

his lips to explain, but just then the sudden impression came to him

that some one had struck him from behind with the butt of a musket, and

he tried to wheel around--his face amazed and wondering. Then he

dropped. He wondered, too, why he couldn't get around, and then he

wondered how it was that he happened to be falling to the earth.

Darkness came then, and through it ran one bitter thought--he had been

shot in the back. He did think of his mother and of Judith--but it was a

fleeting vision of both, and his main thought was a dull wonder whether

there would be anybody to explain how it was that his wound was not in

front. And then, as he felt himself lifted, it flashed that he would at

least be found on top of the hill, and beyond the Spaniard's trench, and

he saw Blackford's face above him. Then he was dropped heavily to the

ground again and Blackford pitched across his body. There was one

glimpse of Abe Long's anxious face above him, another vision of Judith,

and then quiet, painless darkness.