The long patrol

by Albert M. Treynor

The vertical rays of a blazing hot sun aroused Dexter from his lethargy. He felt light and warmth beating upon his face, and with the first faint stirring of consciousness his ears were aware of sounds of dripping water. A crisp smell of wood smoke drifted to his nostrils, and there came to him also stray wisps of odor that moved him to a pleased, drowsy recollection of an appetizing stew he had eaten some time or other from a camp kettle. He lay with his eyes closed, a little puzzled by his reviving sensations, trying to think where he was and what it all meant.

And then, all at once, he recalled. He had been sitting by a fire, waiting for Alison Rayne to give him a light for his pipe when suddenly he had lost consciousness. Presumably he had fainted, and from his stupor he must have passed into a deep, natural sleep. And he evidently had been sleeping for a long time. He opened his eyes, and hastily closed them again before the dazzling brightness of the sun. It was about noon, he decided. For a while longer he remained motionless, but presently he lifted his hand to shade his face, and again looked about him.

He was lying in the confines of a thick juniper clump, his body wrapped in a blanket, his head resting on a sweater that had been wadded up for a pillow. Near his feet a small fire crackled cheerfully. Over the fire hung a blackened bucket, with a savory steam issuing from beneath its dancing cover. Cross-legged on the ground, bending like an officiating priestess over the smoking embers, sat Alison Rayne.

The girl had discarded her white sweater, and wore a faded khaki shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with sleeves rolled up over her smooth forearms. She held a forked stick in her small, somewhat grimy hand, and as the corporal watched, she took the lid from the bucket, poked at its contents, and then drew up her head to sniff with an air of complete satisfaction at the cloud of ascending steam. Her face was turned in profile, and Dexter could see only the soft curve of her cheek and the tip of her pert nose, as she bent in absorption over her cookery. A lock of her thick, bronze hair had fallen over her eyes, and she had not yet discovered that he was awake; but something in the corporal's searching regard must have acted with telepathic force, for she turned suddenly with a startled movement to meet his gaze.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. Her red lips parted in the suggestion of a smile. "Hello!"

"Hello!" said Dexter with a whimsical lift of one eyebrow. "Have I been sleeping for hours or for days?"

"Only since last night." She got to her feet and stood over him, a faint embarrassment in her manner. "You were a little feverish this morning, but I noticed a few minutes ago that the temperature's gone down."

"You've been looking after me all this time!" he said uncomfortably. "Have you had any sleep?"

"Oh, yes," she hastened to assure him. "I've got another blanket here, and I did pretty well during the night. Only bothered once in a while to see how you were doing."

"It makes me feel mighty mean, knowing you've done all this for me," Dexter remarked, and shook his head glumly. "The way things stand, it makes me feel sort of low-down and ungrateful. Even my thanks wouldn't seem to have much meaning."