As the sky above was now clearing, from the elevation the aviators could see the brown and white summits of other hills, divided by valley cuttings, as far as the eye could reach.
Schneider was just about to light his beloved briar pipe, when all of a sudden he dropped the ember he was lifting to the bowl, and pointed toward the high ground edging the opposite side of an intervening gulch to the right of their bivouac.
A solitary horseman had ridden into view, and both rider and steed posed, statue-like, on the verge of the steeply descending slope.
Roque like a flash covered the smouldering fire with a blanket, checking tell-tale spirals of smoke.
Fixing a glass on the equestrian, Stanislaws uttered the one word—"Cossack."
"He's our meat," snapped Schneider.
"It's your first go this time," reluctantly conceded Stanislaws, who was himself aching to draw first blood.
Schneider, taking general consent for granted, gave Henri a nod sidewise, and both moved as quickly as they could on all fours to their biplane. While the boy was getting the motors in play, the fighting observer shifted his carbine from shoulder to knee.
The buzzing of the aëroplane had evidently caught the ear of the wild cavalryman across the gulch, for the horse was rearing, lifted by an unexpected wrench of the bit.