"No, you couldn't," Slim declared, "and mind you don't try it. I'll be back for you in a very short time."
He disappeared in the direction that the rest of the party had taken, leaving Rawle there to await his return. Half an hour later he managed to find the spot again, but without the aid he had gone to get. Not a trace of the others had he been able to find.
But that was not the worst of it. Tom Rawle, helpless for all his big body and physical strength, lay stretched out upon the ground unconscious, a pool of blood by his side!
Slim put his water flask to the wounded man's lips and tried to rouse him, but without avail.
"Whip-poor-will-l-l," whistled Slim. "Whip-poor-will-l-l." But the sound was lost somewhere in the denseness of the night, and there was not even an echo for response.
Slim was growing desperate. At any time they might be discovered by an enemy scouting party, and then they would either be bullets' victims or prisoners of war. Yet he knew that he could not hope to carry Tom Rawle back to the American lines. Rawle's dead weight would have been a difficult burden for a man of twice Slim's strength, and he knew it.
What should he do? Unnecessary delay might cost the other man's life. Already his wound had caused him to lose consciousness.
As he turned the thing over in his mind there came faintly, ever so faintly, to him from far, far to the south, as though but a breath of wind, the familiar "Whip-poor-will."
"Whip-poor-will-l-l," shrilled back Slim.
He waited, but there was no answer. It was as though a whip-poor-will itself was mocking his plight.