“Put the machine gun wherever you want to but doubling the guard isn’t necessary. If you ask me, I think we have been ordered back to Managua because the show is over!”
“You mean, they—they’ve got Sandino?” Cosgrove asked eagerly.
“No—well, that is, I don’t know about capturing him,” Ranson explained, “I think he got cold feet and beat it out of the country!”
“Well,” the sergeant admitted, “that won’t make me sore. We’ve been down here goin’ on three months and we ain’t had sight nor smell of them blasted greaser bandits, but this hide-and-seek game through mountain paths, searchin’ for somethin’ what just ain’t—I’m about licked from it all!”
Ranson smiled and turned toward the shack. “Pick your guard and see that the men are comfortable. The sun is getting pretty bad. If the horses and pack mules have been watered, let the boys turn in for a couple of hours.”
The two men saluted and parted, each going in the opposite direction.
Over in front of the last pup tent in the first line, two Marines were toying with a pair of dice. One of them, a tall, lanky, sun-tanned soldier of the sea, turned to the other, a short, stocky, freckled-faced, sandy-haired man, who, at that particular moment, was occupied in exterminating a score of crawling, red ants.
“This usta be a man’s army but it ain’t nothin’ now but a lot of hikin’ boy scouts!”
“What ya beefin’ about now?” the little fellow demanded, looking up at his companion.
“I suppose you still believe there ain’t no Sandino?”