“Guess my ol’ buddy Jen was about right in thinkin’ he could ’a’ licked the whole Hun army, give him a show.” Then he turned his attention again to the sniper down the hill and at last, locating that fellow behind a fallen tree, he set himself to stopping him, which his third bullet effectually did. Having the habit of talking to himself, as probably without exception every lone hunter has, Gill further indulged in it now. “Reckon my twenty minutes is up, but I got t’ wait here a bit an’ see they don’t try fer to work that field piece some more. They will try it an’ groun’ hog shootin’ ain’t no touch t’ the sport o’ stoppin’ these fellers. Reckon they ain’t goin’ t’ try t’ come after me again right off.” The mountaineer lay there for fully fifteen minutes longer and nothing occurred as far as he could see. The cannon was as lonesome as though in the middle of the Desert of Sahara; no one approached it. Gill worked himself down into a comfortable sort of nest amid dry moss and leaves in the warm sunshine and still waited. It is hard to believe that under stress of such circumstances sleep would come to one unawares. But the mountaineer had not closed his eyes for more than forty-eight hours and outraged nature must assert its natural protest. Before the poor fellow was conscious of the danger to himself his head dropped on his outstretched arm and he was actually snoring. He awoke after a time at the sound of a gruff voice above him and glancing up he beheld the muzzle of a gun not six inches from his head. Words that he did not understand followed. His rifle was snatched away. But with the quickness of a wildcat the Yank was half on his feet, reaching for his automatic and meaning to kill or be killed. A blow descended upon his head; he dodged it in part, but it struck the pistol from his hand. He leaped at the fellow who was striking at him with the butt of his gun, catching the Hun a wood wrestling grip around the waist. The two went down together, Gill on top, and no sooner had he thrown his man than he tried to get away from him. But his antagonist was a big chap, with muscles like iron and hands like hams; he held to Gill with a grip that seemed impossible to break. In doing this, however, both hands were kept so busy for a time that a weapon could not be used. [Illustration: THE TWO WENT DOWN TOGETHER] Gill got a hold on his antagonist’s throat and the Hun began to choke. Not being able to break that hold and to save himself, the big fellow tried to reach around under him for his pistol and Gill tore loose, flung himself over the ground and got his own automatic. The two men fired almost at the same instant, the German’s bullet tearing through Gill’s blouse not six inches from his heart, but without even scratching the skin. Gill’s shot was better placed. Without another glance at the dead Hun the mountaineer remarked to himself.