“Handley,” he called out, his voice so choked with rage as to make me fearful it might arouse suspicion, “take ten men on foot to the cross-roads, and wait there until you hear from me.”
I could plainly note the dark shadows of the fellows as they filed out past the fire, but I never ventured to take eye or gun off the man I watched.
“How many remain there now?”
“Seven.”
“Any non-com, among them?”
“A corporal.”
“Have him take them all south on the cross-roads.”
The man squirmed like an eel, and I was soldier enough to sympathize with him; yet every time he turned his head he looked death squarely in the face, and I doubt not thought of some one he loved in that distant North. I clicked the hammer suggestively.
“Come, friend,” I said meaningly, “time flies.”
“Jones,” he called out huskily.