“Soft, still; go easy like,” Gill cautioned. “Big game ahead! They killed my buddy and we’ve got to git ’em. Don’t break no sticks nor jar no high bushes.”
On through the dense undergrowth the two went, doing that which Donald had deemed impossible: making haste and going cautiously at the same time. The boy, an apt pupil, following almost in the footsteps of his comrade, doing whatever Gill did, avoiding whatever he dodged. Then it occurred to Don that he was not sure of the ground; rather uncertain of the direction they must take. Could he trust the woodsman? Did Gill know?
Suddenly the scout stopped, crouched, gestured for Don also to get down. Thus they remained, silent, motionless for a full half minute, hearing plainly someone beyond pushing through the thicket, the sound coming nearer. Gill was moving his head about in the effort to see through and beyond the bushes; then he held up one finger and finally pointed to himself, motioning Don to come on slowly, which Don did; fearing to spoil his comrade’s plan, then only to witness in part the subsequent tragedy. But as little as he saw of it, for one fleeting second the question assailed him: was he to go on with this task alone? He felt that he could go on with it, for his automatic was in his hand and he knew well how to use that weapon. Then he saw Gill’s bayoneted rifle lifted high; he saw it strike forward and down; he heard a gasping exclamation and the scout, turning once to glance back among the bushes and wiping his bayonet on a tuft of grass, rejoined the wondering boy.
“He near got me, acrosst the peepers; his blade was longer than mine,” Gill remarked, in a whisper. “Scout, too, lookin’ for a way to get to us from this side. Come on!”
Again Don followed. They made even more rapid headway than at first, veering continually to the right until the boy was almost convinced that they had completed a circle. Finally, straight ahead, they described a more open woodland on ground sloping away. This they closely scanned from a screened position within the underbrush.
“See ’em, eh?” Gill made remark, grinning fiendishly. And Don, craning his neck above the friendly branches, had a full view of half a dozen Huns, rapidly operating a long-barreled field piece under the expert direction of an under officer. The Germans were not a hundred paces distant and chance favored the two Americans for there were but few trees between them and the cannoneers.
“Now, then, buddy, lay low and watch your uncle! If they come a huntin’ up here, an’ they won’t, you can wish ’em well with your gun and automatic.” Gill openly took command in this sort of thing, as it was right that he should. It was surely his game, even if partly Don’s idea, and the young officer was not arrogant. He knew he was no match for the other with a rifle and that they might need every cartridge they had in close work before their task was completed, if completed it could be.
The Huns were about to fire their long weapon; the officer stooped to sight it. As his hands loosened upon the adjusting mechanism and he slumped to the earth, the others glanced quickly around to see where the bullet came from that had killed him. One big, fat Hun raised his arm to point in almost the exact direction where Don and Gill knelt; another also had his eyes turned upon the spot where the Americans crouched. Then the fat fellow pitched headlong and the man with him leaped back to a machine gun; he had seen a movement, the flash of flame from Gill’s weapon, or detected the gaseous drift from smokeless powder. But before the death-dealing weapon could be brought into action, the gunner also tumbled over, grasping at his side, struggling a little, then lying inert, as were the other two. Two of the remaining gunners flung themselves flat on the ground; the other leaped toward the machine gun, but fell between the legs of the tripod, upsetting the weapon in his struggles before he, too, lay still.
“Reckoned I’d make ’em sorry they killed old Jen,” Gill said. “Now then, buddy, let’s go down an’ fix them other two.”