So far he had heard or seen nothing to awaken his suspicion, and he was beginning to think that no sharpshooter could be within a hundred feet of him, if as close. He caught the limbs, took a long step, and in a second was safe on the tree beyond the stream.
Deck did not deem it best to descend to the ground immediately. He moved first to the main trunk of the willow, and then to the ends of the limbs spreading toward the island's interior. Here there was a ridge, surmounted by some short but heavy brush, and behind the ridge was something of a hollow, although the surface was not below that of the stream.
The first thing that caught Deck's eye now was a barrel, rolled against the brush. Half a dozen boxes lay close by, and several barrels were behind them. Back of all was another line of brush, but he felt that more boxes and barrels were not far off.
"Some quartermaster's stores," he thought. "And if I am not mistaken, two of those boxes are from the hospital department. Evidently the enemy think they have a sure thing of it in this vicinity. Well, the Riverlawns will surprise them, I reckon."
No one had been in sight, but now Deck detected the gleam of a gun barrel but a few yards distant. The Confederate sharpshooter lay flat on his chest, peering through the bottom of some brush.
"By the boots, but thet's a good shot!" Deck heard him mutter; and he saw the fellow draw up his gun and take a careful aim at something.
Deck felt that he was firing at one of his own sharpshooters, and without hesitation the major drew his own pistol.
"Don't fire!" he commanded, in a clear, but low voice.
"What's thet?" demanded the Confederate, thinking one of his comrades had spoken to him.
"I said, 'don't fire,'" replied Deck, taking care to keep out of sight.