Partly as a precaution,
partly as protection to his sentries, the temporary commander had
early in the week sent out a big "fatigue" detail, with knives and
hatchets to slice away every clump of sage or greasewood that could
shelter a prowling Apache for a hundred yards out from the line. But
the man now on No. 4 was palpably nervous and distressed, in spite of
this fact. Truman watched him a moment in mingled compassion and
amusement, and was just turning aside to enter his open doorway when
the corporal held up a warning hand.
Through the muffling sand of the roadway in rear of the quarters, a
tall, dark figure was moving straight and swift toward the post of No.
4, and so far within that of No. 5 as to escape the latter's
challenge. The corporal sprung his rifle to the hollow of his arm and
started the next instant, sped noiselessly a few yards in pursuit,
then abruptly halted. "It's the major, sir," said he, embarrassed, as
Truman joined him again. "Gad, I hope No. 4 won't fire!"
Fire he did not, but his challenge came with a yell.
"W-whocomesthere?"--three words as one and that through chattering
teeth.
"Commanding officer," they heard Plume clearly answer, then in lower
tone, but distinctly rebukeful. "What on earth's the matter, No. 4?
You called off very badly.
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