“Know how many men you shot last night?” he said.
I looked at him in horror.
“Don’t—don’t say—” I faltered.
“All right!” he replied; “but if you’re going to carry a rifle, and you use it, you must expect to knock some of the enemy over. There, I was only joking you, soldier. I don’t think anybody was even scratched by a ball. If you’re going to stop with us, I shall have to make a marksman of you, so that you can do as I do—give a man a lesson.”
“In shooting?” I said.
He laughed.
“Yes, but you don’t understand me. I mean give him such a lesson as will make him behave better. ’Tisn’t pleasant, when you have grown cool after a fight, to think you have dangerously wounded or killed a man; not even if he tried to kill you. I felt that years ago, and I practised up, so that I can hit a man with a rifle just where I like—that is nearly always.”
“It was you who fired at those two wretches then?” I said eagerly.
“Of course it was, and I hit one in the leg, and the other in the hand. Did nearly as well as killing ’em, eh?”
“Yes,” I said, laughing. “I must practise too.”