Slowly they drew near the edge of the trees, and the subaltern heard the sound of hasty digging. A strange look appeared on the set faces of the men, but Wilcox did not notice. He wondered what the natives were doing, fearing to look for dread of what he might have to see, and yet impatient to know if Ellard was alive. He moved his body until, dirt-color himself, he could watch unseen.
Thank God! At the opposite end of the clearing stood Ellard, upright and unharmed. Before him, in the centre of the field, was a rectangular hole like a grave, and the natives were throwing the earth clods into it. Evidently they were burying some one who had died, but why did they seem amused? Brady was nowhere in sight. Was it his body they were burying?
Yelling like an army of blue fiends, the captain’s detachment burst into the clearing. Surprised and confused, the insurrectos turned to flee, and met the fixed bayonets of the subaltern’s men.
As soon as he could break away, Wilcox ran to one side. Ellard was standing as before, still bound hand and foot. His face was half averted, but on it the subaltern saw a look of the most intense horror and dread. With a cry of dismay, he dashed forward, but a naked, brown figure was before him. Twice the shining kris flashed in the air as the defenseless prisoner toppled backward. Then, dodging the subaltern’s bullet, the native turned and fled. Two privates cornered and disarmed him, but before they could put in a finishing blow, Wilcox had shouted: “Hold on there! Wait till I come!”
“As you have mercy, put me out of this life!” moaned Ellard.
The tall, strong, young athlete of a moment before lay helpless on the ground, a bleeding, legless trunk. Sobbing, the subaltern dropped to his knees beside his friend, and beat passionately at the earth with clenched fists.
“Don’t, don’t!” almost shrieked the wounded man. “I stood here powerless to move while they first cut up and then buried Brady alive, but I didn’t cry! Kill me, shoot me, have mercy on me for Christ’s sake, but don’t cry!”
A hospital sergeant came running, the captain, white with horror, at his heels. The fight was over, and a group of men were working at the grave.
Wilcox staggered to his feet, a strange curse on his lips. The beads of sweat plowed deep courses through the grime on his cheeks. Slowly, with infinite deliberation, he reloaded his revolver and strode to where the troopers held the insurrecto on the ground. As he went, he muttered, like a man searching for some forgotten thought, “The measures used are adopted as circumstances arise, and must be cruel or barbarous as the necessity calls for ... as the necessity calls for....”
Three times he fired into the prostrate body. “One for Brady, one for Wright, and one for Ellard!” and then he began to laugh.