Something clicked.
"Jesus, Artie, they're coming!"
Art Johnson's eyes took on a faraway look. His fingers loosened their death grip on the gun. He shook his head.
"Artie!"
"Shut up, Tooey!" Reaching out, he slapped the boy's face. "You're imagining things."
"But they're up there, Artie!" whimpered the boy.
"Sure they're up there. But not where you think they are. They're dug in, in the caves. And it's going to be up to us to dig them out. Now snap out of it!"
Suddenly a flare shot up from somewhere to their right. It whistled, then popped, the white light hurting their night-adjusted eyes. A moment later, Stebbins whistled and the men started moving up the hill.
They paused at the timber-line, and Stebbins cursed, moving from man to man and urging him out of the false protection of the trees and onto the broad expanse of boulder-pocked snow. Above them, another two hundred yards, black dots against the snow showed where the caves were waiting for them. Johnson could visualize the little slant-eyed men within. He flopped to his belly and wriggled forward. Suddenly he stood up and dashed twenty yards, then flopped again as bullets whined through the space occupied by his body bare instants earlier.