Densely wooded low hills in ridges very close together and with narrow, dry valleys between, that were masses of tumbled rocks and jungle-like thickets, lay before him. Don crossed three of these valleys, making his way with the utmost caution and breaking twigs for a blazed return, in case he had to make it. It turned out that he did. Reaching the top of the fourth ridge the boy paused upon detecting a familiar sound—the muffled tramp of many feet only a short distance away. But he could not see any distance toward the sound and he was about to shift his position when he heard the snapping of a twig a few yards away.
Don crouched and was motionless, his automatic in his hand, ready for any emergency. A figure was coming toward him; he could see the bushes move a little as though pushed aside. Was this a Hun scout spying on his enemy also? Were these marching men Americans or Germans?
Nearer came the lone man, moving along to keep pace with the tramping feet below. Don dared not move, trusting to chance, though it seemed that the other must stumble over him. The boy made up his mind not to shoot unless he was compelled to; then to break all records for sprinting through a tangled forest.
Right over him the bushes swayed and then an arm and a leg was thrust through the interlocking branches. The boy was about to creep aside, but on the instant he saw that the sleeve and the trousers were khaki. He straightened up. Immediately a figure was flung forward almost upon him and before he could make or whisper a word he was gazing into the muzzle of a U. S. Army revolver.
“Glory be, it’s you, Lieutenant! By the jumpin’ geehaw, I came near lettin’ you have it, thinkin’ you were a Hun!” This, though said excitedly, as one may imagine, was little above a whisper. And then Jennings, whom Don had by no means expected to see, put his finger on his lips.
“Sh! They’re down yonder; hear ’em? I follered ’em from near their biv’wack up there most a mile. Where they’re goin’ to you can search me, but they’re headin’ the wrong way for our comfort back to the rocks.”
“How many are there down there?” Don questioned.
“‘Bout three hundred; sev’ral comp’nies, I reckon. Machine guns an’ such. Headin’ the wrong way. We gotta foller ’em an’ see.”
The two did follow, toiling along the ridge most warily until they came to its end, where the evident roadway from the valley turned a little to the southwest.