“You can shoot into the air,” he said, “and it won’t be any harm. There are plenty of others who will shoot to kill.”
I could see that Whitestone was right about the others. Most of them were from the mountains of Virginia and Pennsylvania, backwoodsmen and trained Indian fighters, who thought it right to shoot an enemy from ambush. In truth this was a sort of business they rather enjoyed, as it was directly in their line.
As I held some official rank I was in a certain sense above the others, though I was not their commander, each man knowing well what he was about and doing what he chose, which was to shoot plump at the first human being that appeared on the dead line. A thin, active Virginian had climbed a tree in order to get a better aim, and shot with deadly effect from its boughs.
I sat down behind a clump of earth and examined my rifle.
“Look across there,” said Whitestone, pointing to the open space.
I did so, and for the second time that day I shuddered. Prone upon the ground were three bodies in the well-known English uniform. A pail lay beside one of them. I knew without the telling of it that those men had fallen in their attempt to reach the water which flowed by—millions and millions of gallons—just out of reach.
“It’s rather dull now; nobody’s tried to pass the dead line for an hour,” said Bucks, a man from the mountains of western Pennsylvania, with a face of copper like an Indian’s.
“Did any one succeed in passing?” I asked.
“Pass!” said Bucks, laughing. “What do you reckon we’re here for? No sirree! The river is just as full as ever.”
There was an unpleasant ring in the man’s voice which gave me a further distaste for the work in hand. Our position was well adapted to our task. The hill was broken with low outcroppings of stone and small ridges. So long as we exercised moderate caution we could aim and shoot in comparative safety. Bucks spoke my thoughts when he said: