The few men who had fallen were easily “brought in” by their comrades. But Dad’s alert eyes had just seen, from his point of vantage, what the half-wriggling, half-crawling skirmishers had not. A man at the extreme left of the “fan” had jumped to his feet midway in the return, had whirled clean about and had fallen. The wounded man got to his hands and knees, tried to move back, and fell again. And now, from a roof in the village, two or three sharpshooters were evidently at work amid the din of useless volleying. And one or more of these sharpshooters began to single out this crawling man--the only Federal still within range--as a mark. The fellow had once more risen to his knees, and was working his way back toward his unseeing comrades. A bullet whipped up a puff of dust just behind him. A second carried away his cap. A third grazed him on hand or wrist and knocked him from his balance. Then it was that Dad shouted aloud. For, as the stumbling man lurched forward, head thrown backward like a hurt animal’s, Dad had seen his face. “Jimmie!” cried the old man. “It’s--it’s Joe! He’s bronzed and he’s got a beard; but it’s Joe! And those sharpshooters back there are testing their aim on him. Wait for me here, son, for a minute!” As he spoke a bugle sounded--the bugle that summoned the re-formed Federal regiments to the march. Dad, running low, and darting eccentrically from side to side to confuse the aim of the sharpshooters, dashed out onto the deserted field. Quickly he was seen, as was tested by renewed spits of fire from a roof. And bullets began to whine past him. Untouched, he gained the spot where his son lay momentarily senseless from pain. He bent over the fallen man, caught him up in his arms, and started heavily back toward the tree, keeping his own body between Joseph and the village. Then it was that Dad discovered Jimmie close at his side. “I told you to wait--back there--for me to come back!” he panted. “I couldn’t!” muttered Jimmie in the same short-of-breath tone. “Gimme his feet to carry--I want to help some way.” Dad assented, and the limp weight was shifted between the two. Bullets spatted the ground near them. One rifle-ball ripped through the wooden sides of Jimmie’s worshiped drum slung at the lad’s hip. “Over to the right,” ordered Dad. “To that cottage over yonder. We can get him there, I guess. And then you can cut ahead and see if you can overhaul a company of our men to come back for us.” A one-story stone hut stood some fifty yards distant; and thither they bore the injured man. It was no longer a task of peril, for suddenly the firing had stopped from the now-beyond-range rooftops of the village. Dad, as they reached the cottage porch, glanced back toward the town to learn the reason; pessimistically certain that the cessation of firing meant a detachment of Confederates had been detailed to capture them.