And now, from a roof in the village, two or three sharpshooters were evidently at work amid the din of useless volleying. And one or more of these sharpshooters began to single out this crawling man—the only Federal still within range—as a mark.
The fellow had once more risen to his knees, and was working his way back toward his unseeing comrades.
A bullet whipped up a puff of dust just behind him. A second carried away his cap. A third grazed him on hand or wrist and knocked him from his balance.
Then it was that Dad shouted aloud. For, as the stumbling man lurched forward, head thrown backward like a hurt animal’s, Dad had seen his face.
“Jimmie!” cried the old man. “It’s—it’s Joe! He’s bronzed and he’s got a beard; but it’s Joe! And those sharpshooters back there are testing their aim on him. Wait for me here, son, for a minute!”
As he spoke a bugle sounded—the bugle that summoned the re-formed Federal regiments to the march.
Dad, running low, and darting eccentrically from side to side to confuse the aim of the sharpshooters, dashed out onto the deserted field.
Quickly he was seen, as was tested by renewed spits of fire from a roof. And bullets began to whine past him.
Untouched, he gained the spot where his son lay momentarily senseless from pain.
He bent over the fallen man, caught him up in his arms, and started heavily back toward the tree, keeping his own body between Joseph and the village.