Probably in the end they would get him, but it didn’t matter very much now that his buddy, Jennings, was dead. To be sure, he would love again to get back to the dear old hills of his native state and again follow the plow or the hounds. Going after raccoons, foxes, deer and bear was milder sport than this, with no danger in it, but it didn’t inflict upon one’s mind that primitive desire to destroy an enemy; it didn’t stir the blood as did this war game. Quite calmly, but without relaxing for an instant his keen watchfulness on all his surroundings, Gill began cleaning his rifle, examining his cartridge clips and pistol ammunition, looking to his general well-being, even to the extent of re-tying his shoe lacings. He had little to wish for, except that Jennings were with him and that he had something to eat and a cup of good water. This going hungry and thirsty for so long was not calculated to put a fellow on his best edge. But still his eyes and nerves were good and his stanch muscles all there. If his buddy had not been killed and were to share his fortunes now, he might get into really far greater misery than the grave: long imprisonment. It wouldn’t be exactly desirable to be seriously wounded, either, and to lie for hours in these bushes. But Gill promised himself that if he were hit and not knocked out completely, the Huns would have no little trouble finding him. He remembered rather vaguely that Don had told him to come back in twenty minutes. Gill’s watch had been smashed, he had thrown it away and how long was twenty minutes? There would be more Huns at the field piece before half that time and there was no telling how long it might take to further impress upon them that its mere vicinity was fatal ground. Gill was right in this conjecture. He had hardly finished his task and shoved a new cartridge clip into his gun before he saw a half dozen men come running up the hill. He recognized one of them as belonging to the gun squad and this fellow was evidently protesting to the young officer at the head of the new bunch. They came boldly into the little space, the member of the old squad trying almost to hold the officer back. Suddenly that smirk-faced leader turned and struck the well meaning man a blow across the face. The sheer brutality, the nasty ingratitude of this act impressed the watcher in the bushes much as when he had once seen a drunken coon hunter kick his dog when the beast was doing his best to make known the whereabouts of a hunted animal. It was well now to get busy and the rule was to get an officer, if possible, so as to upset the morale of a fighting force, big or little.