A soldier came stooping into the opaque square of the dugout door. His rifle, striking the framework, gave out a metallic clink. This fellow expelled a sudden heavy breath as if throwing off an oppression.
"Is that you, Sanborn?" This whisper Dorn recognized as Dixon's. It was full of suppressed excitement.
"Yes."
"Guess it's my turn next. How—how does it go?"
Sanborn's laugh had an odd little quaver. "Why, so far as I know, I guess it's all right. Damn queer, though. I wish we'd got here in daytime.… But maybe that wouldn't help."
"Humph!… Pretty quiet out there?"
"So Bob says, but what's he know—more than us? I heard guns up the line, and rifle-fire not so far off."
"Can you see any—"
"Not a damn thing—yet everything," interrupted Sanborn, enigmatically.
"Dixon!" called Owens, low and quickly, from the darkness.