From the direction where I had located Verrieul there came a faint, recurring sound—a sound like the slow brushing of a wing-tip against a leaf—the sound a shoe might make if the foot within it should tremble at the touch of death.

My throat went dry; my heart seemed choked within me. “Friends!” I cried. “Americans! Four Americans! Don’t shoot again! Don’t shoot again!”

Then, in a hoarse and strangled whisper, I called Verrieul’s name. There was no answer. I called again, more loudly, and Doc called too, in a voice I hardly recognized as Doc’s.

There were abrupt movements ahead of us; the sound of a ramrod rattling in a gun-barrel; then a muted, rasping shout of “Who’s there! Who’s that out there!”

“Americans!” I called huskily. “Aren’t you an American outpost? One of Whitcomb’s scouts, maybe?”

“You wait,” the voice said dubiously, then made a hissing sound and addressed someone in the direction of the fort. “Hey! You! Where’s Major Whitcomb? Is he there?”

“No, he ain’t,” a husky and unctuous voice replied. The voice, by one of those incredible miracles of war, was not only unmistakable, but familiar. At the sound of it something seemed to turn over in my stomach; for it was the voice of Cap Huff.

“It’s me,” he said, replying to the outpost. “Who you got out there in front of you, claiming to be Americans? Don’t believe ’em if you got much interest in keeping your hair!”

I rose to my knees. “Cap Huff!” I called. “Don’t shoot again! We’re friends! I’m Peter Merrill. One of us got hit!”

I scrambled toward Verrieul; and as I went, I heard a heavier scrambling near at hand, and stertorous breathing that must, I knew, be Cap. He was coming toward me.

“It’s me, Cap,” I said. “I look like an Indian, but I’m Peter Merrill.”

“I don’t believe you! Did you say Verrieul?”

“Yes, Verrieul. Doc Means is here with me. He looks like an Indian, too, but he’s Doc Means.”

Cap spoke uncertainly. “Peter Merrill! Doc Means and Verrieul! I guess it sounds like you. I guess you’re Peter Merrill.” He seemed troubled. “Which one got hit?”

“I’m afraid Verrieul,” I said. “I’m afraid.”

Cap’s lumbering ceased, and I knew he’d found something.

“Verrieul!” he said heavily.

When I reached Cap he was crouched over Verrieul’s body. “He’s gone,” he growled.

In spite of being sure what had happened, I wouldn’t let myself believe it. “He can’t be! He can’t be! Not with one shot, and at night.”

“We’re using buck-shot,” Cap said.

Doc Means crawled past me. I heard him push Cap violently away: heard him fumbling here and there. Then he was still.

“Yes! He never knew what hit him.”