9 The Fiery Circle

The thin gray light in the east broadened into a bar as the hoofbeats of the four thundered over the plain. From left to right came shouts, the yells of the Indians and the fierce cries of the Mexicans.

“Bend low,” cried Middleton, “and we may escape their bullets!”

Phil lay almost upon his horse’s neck, but it was an unconscious act. He was thrilling with excitement, as the four horsemen almost clove the morning mist, and rode on swift hoofs straight toward the wagon train. Then came the rattling of rifles and whistling of arrows from either side. “Ping!” the bullets sang in his ear and “Ping!” the arrows sang, also. He remembered afterward that he wished, if he were hit at all, to be hit by a bullet instead of an arrow; an arrow sticking in one’s flesh would be very cumbersome and painful. But neither arrow nor bullet struck true. Their ride was too sudden and swift, and the light too faint to permit good aim to the Mexicans and Comanches. Yet Phil heard confused sounds, shouted commands, and the noise of hurrying feet. He saw dark faces appearing in the mist on either side, and he also saw the outlines of wagons through the same mist in front. Then he saw men, rifle in hand, who seemed to rise out of the plain in front of the wagons. Two of the men raised their rifles and took aim at the galloping horsemen.

“We are friends, and we bring you warning!” shouted Middleton in a tremendous voice. “Don’t fire upon us!”

But the men and three others who appeared near them pulled the trigger. Phil did not hear the ping of the bullets, and now he realized that they fired not at his comrades and himself but at those who pursued. A death-cry and yells of rage came from behind them, but in another minute they were within the line of sentinels and were springing from their horses, ready to take their part in the combat that they expected.

All the morning mists were driven away at that moment by the sun, as if a veil had been lifted, and the whole plain stood out clear and distinct under a brilliant sky. Before them were the wagons, drawn up in a circle in the customary fashion of a camp, the horses and mules in the center, and the men, arms in hand, forming an outer ring for the wagons. But from the northeast and the southeast two lines were converging upon them, and Phil’s heart kindled at the sight.

The line in the northeast was made up of red horsemen, four hundred Comanches, naked to the waist, horribly painted, and riding knee to knee, the redoubtable chiefs, Santana and Black Panther, at their head. The line in the southeast was composed of Mexican cavalry, lancers splendidly mounted, the blades of their lances and their embroidered jackets glittering in the sun. They made their horses prance and cavort, and many in the first rank whirled lariats in derision.

A tall figure strolled forward and welcomed Middleton and his comrades. It was Woodfall, his face flushed somewhat, but his manner undaunted.

“I’m glad to welcome you back, Mr. Middleton,” he said, “and with your comrades, all of them alive and well. But what does this mean? Why do those men ride to attack, when this is the soil of Texas?”

He waved his hand toward the advancing Mexican column.

“They advance against us,” replied Middleton, “because this is war, war between the United States and Mexico—we learned that last night from one of their own officers—and there have been two heavy battles on the Rio Grande, both victorious for us.”

It was not strange that a sudden cheer burst from the men who heard these words. Woodfall listened to it grimly, and, when it died, he said:

“Then if these Mexicans attack, we’ll soon have a third victory to our credit. The Indian bow and the Mexican lance can’t break through a circle of riflemen, entrenched behind wagons—riflemen who know how to shoot.”

Again that defiant, even exultant cheer rose from the men who heard, and, passing on like a fire in dry grass, it rolled all around the circle of wagons. The Mexicans heard it. They detected the defiant note in it, and, wisely, they checked their speed. The column of Indian warriors also came more slowly. Philip Bedford, hardened in so brief a space to danger and war, did not feel any great fear, but the scene thrilled him like a great picture painted in living types and colors against the background of the earth. There were the red horsemen, the sun deepening the tints of their coppery faces and bringing out the glowing colors of their war bonnets. To the southeast the Mexican column, also, was a great ribbon of light lying across the plain, the broad blades of the lances catching the sun’s rays and throwing them back in golden beams.

“A fine show,” said Woodfall, “and if those Mexicans had two or three cannon they might wipe us out, but they haven’t, and so we’re lucky.”

“I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Woodfall,” said Middleton, “that I’m a captain in the regular army, Captain Middleton, and that I’ve been making use of your hospitality to find what forces the enemy had in these parts, and what movements he was making. I was sent by our government, and, as you see, I’m finding what I was sent to find.”

“I thought there was something military about your cut, Captain,” said Woodfall, “and it seems to me to be a good thing that you are with us. If we’ve helped you without knowing, then you, knowing it, can help us now.”

The hands of the two men met in the strong clasp of friendship and trust.

“They’re about to move,” said Middleton, who practically took command. “I suggest that we go inside the circle of wagons now, and that at least two-thirds of our men devote their attention to the lancers. The Mexicans are brave; we must not forget that.”

They went inside at once, where a few men were detailed to see that the horses and mules did not make too great a turmoil, while the rest posted themselves for defense. The wagons were in reality a formidable barrier for an attacking force that did not have artillery. The majority of the Americans lay down under the wagons between the wheels. Phil was under one of them with Bill Breakstone on one side of him and Arenberg on the other. Middleton was elsewhere with Woodfall.

“Much harm iss meant.” said Arenberg, “and I would say to you, Philip, although little advice iss needed by you now, not to fire too soon, and to remember, when you take aim, to allow for the fact that they are coming toward us at a gallop.”

“That’s right,” said Bill Breakstone. “Old Hans, here, knows.”

“Ach,” said Arenberg, uttering a sigh, “I love peace, and I never thought to have a part in cruel Indian and Mexican battles.”

It occurred to Phil that the sigh had no reference to the coming combat. The German’s face showed sadness, but not a trace of fear. He turned his gaze from Arenberg and fixed it upon the Mexican column which they were facing. He thought that he saw de Armijo in the front rank among the officers in brilliant dress, but he was not sure. The distance was too great. He wondered whether he would shoot at him, if he saw him later in the charge.

The sunlight was intensely bright, such as one sees only on great upland plains, and the Mexican lancers with their horses stood out, like carving, against the background of gold and blue. Phil saw the column suddenly quiver, as if a single movement ran through all. The lances were lifted a little higher, and their blades cast broader beams. A flag fluttered in the front rank and unfolded in the slight wind.

The notes of a trumpet sounded high and clear, the Mexicans uttered a long, fierce shout, the colors shifted and changed, like water flowing swiftly, as the column broke into a gallop and came straight toward the wagons, the plain thundering with the beat of their hoofs. From another part of the compass came a second cry, higher pitched, longer drawn, and with more of the whine of the wolf in it. Phil knew that it came from the Comanches, who were also charging, led by Black Panther and Santana, but he did not take his eyes from the Mexicans.

The two attacking columns began to fire scattering shots, but the defenders of the wagons had not yet pulled a trigger, although many a forefinger was trembling with eagerness.

“It’s pretty, but it’s a waste, a dead waste,” said Bill Breakstone. “I hate to shoot at them, because I’ve no doubt many a brave young fellow is out there, but we’ve got to let them have it. Steady, Phil, steady! They’re coming close now.”

Suddenly they heard the loud shout, “Fire!” It was Middleton who uttered it, and everybody obeyed. A sheet of flame seemed to spurt from the wagons, and the air was filled with singing lead. The entire head of the Mexican column was burnt away. The ground was strewn with the fallen. Riderless horses, some wounded and screaming with pain, galloped here and there. The column stopped and seemed to be wavering. Several officers, sword in hand—and now Phil was sure that he saw de Armijo among them—were trying to urge the lancers on. All the Americans were reloading as fast as they could, and while the Mexicans yet wavered, they poured in a second volley. Unable to withstand it, the lancers broke and fled, bearing the officers away with them in their panic.

Phil, Bill Breakstone, and Arenberg crawled from under the wagon and stood on the outside, erect again. There they contemplated for a few moments the wreck that they and their comrades had made. From the Indian point of attack came the sound of retiring shots, and they knew that the Comanches had been quickly repulsed, also.

“It was one of the most foolish things I ever saw,” said Bill Breakstone, “to ride right into the mouths of long-barreled, well-aimed rifles like ours. Their numbers didn’t help them. What say you, Sir Philip of the Rifle and the Wagon?”

“It seems to me that you’re right,” replied the boy. “I don’t think they’ll charge again, nor will the Comanches.”

“You’re right, too; they’ve had enough.”

The Mexicans and Comanches, having gathered up their wounded, united and remained in a dark cloud beyond rifle shot, apparently intending neither to charge again nor to go away. But the defenders of the train were cheerful. They had suffered no loss, being protected so well, and they were willing enough to meet a second attack delivered in the same fashion. But Middleton and Woodfall had hot coffee and tea served, and then with strong field glasses they observed the enemy.

“I believe they are in great doubt.” said Middleton. “They may think they can starve us out, but the Mexicans will not want to wait for so long a process; it is likely that they will prefer going southward to join their main army.”

He said these words aloud, where many could hear, but a little while afterward he and Woodfall drew to one side and talked a long time in low tones. Phil could tell by their faces that they were very earnest, and he felt sure that a proposition would be made before long. He called Breakstone’s attention to them.

“You’re right,” said Bill, “they’ll have something to say soon, and it will concern all of us. Ah, there comes the Cap—I mean the Captain—now, and he’s going to make a speech.”

Middleton sprang upon a wagon tongue, and, standing very quiet, looked slowly around the circle of defenders, all of whom bent their eyes upon him. They were a motley group, Americans mostly, but with a scattering of a dozen European nationalities among them. The majority of them were bareheaded, with necks and chests uncovered, and all were stained black or brown with a mixture of perspiration, dust, and burnt gunpowder. The majority of them were young, some but little older than Phil himself. They looked very curiously at Middleton as he stood upon the wagon pole. Already all knew that he was an officer in the regular army. In the distance hung the dark fringe of Mexicans and Comanches, but, for the moment, only the sentinels paid any attention to them.

“Men,” cried Middleton, “you have beaten off the attack of the Mexicans and the Comanches, and you can do it again as often as they come! I know that, and so do you!”

He was stopped for a few seconds by a great cheer, and then he resumed:

“We can beat them off, but the road to Santa Fé has now become impossible. Moreover, the nation with which we are at war holds Santa Fé, and to go there would be merely to march into prison or worse. We can’t turn back. You are not willing to go back to New Orleans, are you?”

“Never!” they cried in one voice.

Middleton smiled. He was appealing deftly to the pride of these men, and he had known the response before it came.

“Then if we can neither go on to Santa Fé nor turn back to New Orleans,” he said, “we must either start to the north or to the south.”

He was speaking now with the greatest fervor. His face flushed deeply, and they hung upon his words.

“To the north lies the wilderness,” he said, “stretching away for thousands of miles to the Arctic Ocean. To the south there are plains reaching down to a river, broad, shallow, and yellow, and somewhere along that river armies are fighting, armies of our own people and armies of the Mexicans with whom we are now at war. Which way shall we go, north or south?”

“South!” was roared forth in one tremendous voice.

Again Middleton smiled. Again he had known before it came the response that would be spoken.

“Then south it is,” he said, “and we make for Taylor’s army on the Rio Grande. You will find there a better market for what you carry in your wagons than you would have found at Santa Fé, and you’re likely to find something else, also, that I know you won’t shirk.”

“Fighting!” roared forth that tremendous voice once more.

“Yes, fighting,” said Middleton, as he sprang down from the pole and rejoined Woodfall.

“That was clever talk,” said Bill Breakstone, “but he knew his ground before he sowed the seed. These are just the sort of lads who will be glad to go south to Taylor, breaking their way through any Mexicans or Indians who may get across their path.

“And now, unless I’m mightily mistaken, we’ll fare forth upon our journey, as the knights of old would say. This is a good camp for defense, but not for siege. It lacks water. You just watch, Phil, and you’ll see a wrinkle or two in plains work worth knowing.”

The men began to hitch the horses to the wagons, but they were interrupted in the task by a horseman who rode forth from the Mexican column, carrying a white handkerchief on the point of a lance. He was joined by two Indian chiefs riding on either side of him. Phil instantly recognized all three. The white man was Pedro de Armijo, and the Indians were Black Panther and Santana.

“They want a big talk,” said Bill Breakstone. “I fear the Greeks bearing gifts, and also a lot of other people who smile at you while they hold daggers behind their backs, but I suppose our side will hear what they have to say.”

Middleton and Woodfall were already mounting to ride forth, and Middleton beckoned to Phil.

“Come, Phil,” he said. “They are three, and we should be three, also. You can call yourself the secretary of the meeting if you like.”

Phil sprang eagerly upon his horse, proud of the privilege and the honor, and rode forth with them. The Mexican and the two Comanches were coming on slowly and gravely. Four hundred yards behind them, Mexicans and Indians, all on horseback, were now gathered in a broad dark line, sitting motionless and watching. Their three envoys sat on their horses midway between the hostile forces, and the three Americans, meeting them there, stopped face to face. De Armijo looked at Middleton and smiled slightly, ironically. His bearing was proud, and was evidently meant to be disdainful. One would have thought that he was a victor, receiving an embassy about to sue for peace. Middleton returned his gaze steadfastly, but his face expressed nothing. He looked once at Phil, and the boy thought he saw something singular in the glance, as if he impinged somehow upon the mind of the Mexican, but in a moment the look of de Armijo passed.

“I have come, Captain Middleton.” said the young Mexican, “to save bloodshed, if you are willing to listen to reason. You will observe what forces have come against you. We have here a numerous body of Mexican cavalry, the finest in the world, and we have also the flower of the Comanche nation, the bravest of the Indian warriors. In victory, the Mexicans are humane and merciful, but the Indian nature is different. Excited and impassioned, it finds vent in terrible deeds. Therefore, as you are surrounded and cannot escape, we ask you to surrender now, and save the lives of your men.”

It was hard for Phil to restrain an exclamation at this piece of presumption, but Middleton received it gravely. His face was still without expression. Nevertheless, his reply was barbed.

“Your demand seems inopportune, Lieutenant de Armijo,” he replied. “You can scarcely have forgotten, since it occurred less than an hour ago, the defeat of both your cavalry and your Comanche allies. Perhaps we are unduly confident, but we feel that we can do so again, as often as needed.”

De Armijo frowned. He glanced at his Indian comrades. Phil wondered if he had been deceiving them with promises of what the invincible Mexican lancers could and would do. But the two savages made no response. Their coppery faces did not move.

“This, then, is your final answer, Captain Middleton,” said de Armijo.

“It is,” replied Middleton. “It is not the custom for victors to surrender. So we bid you good day, Lieutenant de Armijo.”

As he spoke, he saluted and turned his horse. Woodfall and Phil saluted and turned with him. The Mexican returned the salute with a gloved hand, but the Indians turned stolidly without a sign. Then the two parties rode away in opposite directions, each to its own men. Phil dismounted at the wagons, and was met by Breakstone and Arenberg with eager questions.

“What did that yellow Mex want, Sir Philip of the Council?” asked Breakstone.

“As he has just given us such a severe thrashing,” replied Phil, “he demanded our immediate and unconditional surrender. He said that if we acceded to this demand only one-tenth of us would be shot, but he made it a special condition that a renowned scout, sharpshooter, white warrior, and talker, one William Breakstone, be shot first and at once, as a terrible example, in the presence of both victor and vanquished. Immediately after him one Hans Arenberg, a very dangerous and bloodthirsty man, was to share the same fate. If we refused this gentle alternative, we were all to be killed, and then scalped by the savages.”

“Of course, Sir Philip,” said Bill Breakstone, “they’ve put a just value on me, but I surmise that the jest doth leap from your nimble tongue. Now the truth!”

“De Armijo and the Indian chiefs did really demand our surrender,” said Phil. “They said we could not escape. They talked as if they were the victors and we the beaten.”

“Now, by my troth, that is a merry jest!” exclaimed Bill Breakstone. “When do we lay down our arms? Is it within the next five minutes, or do we even take fifteen?”

“You can surrender if you want to, Bill.” said Phil, “but nobody else has any notion of doing so. The rest, I think, are going to march southward at once, Mexicans or no Mexicans, Comanches or no Comanches.”

“Well spoken,” said Bill Breakstone, “and I will even help in the march.”

A roar that might easily have been called a shout of defiance came from the men of the train, when the story of the council was told. Then, with increased zeal, they fell to the work of girding up for the march and battle. The insolent demand of de Armijo added new fire to their courage. Cheerful voices arose, the rattle of bridle-bits, the occasional neigh of a horse, men singing snatches of song, generally lines from sentimental ballads, and the clink of bullets as they were counted and dropped into their pouches. Some of these sounds were of war, but Phil found the whole effect buoyant and encouraging. He caught the spirit, and whistled a lilting air as he, too, worked by the side of Bill Breakstone.

The boy soon saw the plan. Gradually the circle of wagons formed itself into two parallel lines, the noses of the horses or mules almost touching the rear of the wagon in front of them. Outside and on either side, but close to the wagons, rode the armed horsemen, two formidable lines, who, if hard pressed, could take refuge and shelter between the parallel rows of wagons. Moreover, the wagons handled by such cool and skillful men could be turned in a crisis, and even under fire, into a circle again, with the animals in the center. Phil understood the arrangement thoroughly, admired it tremendously, and was sure that the master mind of Middleton had directed everything. He glanced at the Mexicans and Comanches. They were still hovering in a great dark mass about a thousand yards away, and Phil knew that they were watching every movement of the Americans with the most intense curiosity.

Middleton and Woodfall rode to the head of the train. The loud command: “March!” was given. Every driver cracked his whip at the same time, the whole making a report like the sudden crash of many rifles, and the train began to move slowly across the plain, every armed man on either side holding his finger on the trigger of his rifle.

Phil was just behind Bill Breakstone, and both of them looked back at the enemy. Phil wondered what the Mexicans and Comanches would do, but he did not believe they would allow the train to depart unmolested, despite the fact that their face had already been well burned. He saw the hostile columns advance at about an even pace with the train, but he judged that there was uncertainty in their ranks. The Americans bore a certain resemblance to a modern armored train, and such men as de Armijo, Black Panther, and Santana were wary, despite their great excess of numbers.

The train moved forward at a slow but steady pace, but now its head was turned almost due south instead of west. Before them rolled the plains as usual, green with a grass not yet dried by the summer suns. Here and there appeared strange flowering shrubs, peculiar to the Texas uplands, but no trees broke the view. The plains rolled away until they died under the horizon of reddish gold that seemed an interminable distance away. There was little sound now but that of the turning wheels, the creaking of the axles, and the hoofbeats of many scores of horses and mules. The men were almost completely silent, and this silence, in itself, was strange, because the very atmosphere was impregnated with war. At any moment they might be in deadly conflict; yet they rode on, saying nothing.

Behind them came the Mexicans and Comanches in a double column, preserving the same distance of about a thousand yards, they, too, riding in silence, save for their hoofbeats. The dead evidently had been left as they fell or put in hasty graves, while the wounded were carried on horses in the rear. Phil looked back again and again at this singular pursuit, which, for the present, seemed no pursuit at all—at least, not hostile. It reminded him of the silent but tenacious manner in which wolves followed a great deer. While fearing his antlers and sharp hoofs, they would hang on and hang on, and in the end would drag down the quarry. Would that be the fate of the train?

“It’s pretty good country for traveling,” said Bill Breakstone cheerily, “and I don’t see that anything is interrupting us. Except that we pass over one swell after another, the road is smooth and easy. What fine grassy plains these are, Phil, and look! yonder are antelopes grazing to the north of us. They’ve raised their heads to see, if they can, what we are, and what is that crowd behind us. They’re just eaten up with curiosity.”

Phil saw the herd of antelope come nearer. They were on a swell, in black silhouette against a red sun, and they were exaggerated to three or four times their real size. Phil was something of a philosopher, and he reflected that they were safe in the presence of so many men, because the men were not seeking game, but one another. The train moved on, and the herd of antelope dropped behind and out of sight. Still there was no demonstration from the enemy, who yet came on, in two columns, at the same distance of about a thousand yards, the sunlight gleaming on the lances of both Mexicans and Comanches. It began to seem to Phil as if they would always continue thus. Nevertheless, it was hard on the nerves, this incessant watching, as if one were guarding against a beast that might spring at any moment. Moreover, their force looked so large. But Phil glanced at the long-barreled rifles that the men of the train carried. They had proved far more than a match for muskets and lances.

“Will they attack us?” he asked Arenberg.

“Much harm iss meant,” replied the German, “but they will not seek to do it until they think they see a chance. It iss time only that will tell.”

The extraordinary march lasted all day. Neither side committed a single hostile act, and the silence, so far as the men were concerned, was unbroken. The distance of about a thousand yards was preserved, but the Mexicans and Comanches were still there, and it seemed that they did not intend to be shaken off. About sunset they came to one of the shallow prairie streams, this time a mere brook, but with plenty of water for their animals.

“Here we camp,” said Bill Breakstone, and almost as he spoke Middleton gave the word. One line of wagons went forward, the other stopped, the two ends joined, and then they swung around in a circle, with the stream flowing down the center of the enclosure. It was all done with so much celerity and so little trouble that the Mexicans and Comanches seemed to be taken by surprise. A few of them rode nearer, and some of the Comanches fired arrows, but they fell far short, and the Americans paid no attention to them.

“We’ll take a bite and a drink, Phil,” said Bill Breakstone, “a bite of cold meat and a drink of cold water.”

“It iss good,” said Arenberg. “That iss what we will do.”

They had no fuel with which to light fires, but there were lanterns carrying candles in the train, and these were hung on the sides of the wagons facing the inner ring, casting a pleasant light on the men as they passed. But Phil and his two comrades, food in hand, went outside.

“Hope it won’t come on too dark,” said Breakstone. “A thick night is what we’ve got to dread. If our friends out there mean to do anything, they’ll try it to-night, or I’m mightily fooled.”

In the east, where the enemy hung, the twilight had come already and now both Mexicans and Comanches were blurring with the darkness. A lance blade or two gave back a last flash of fire from the setting sun, but in a few more instants the rays ceased to reach them, and they sank into the night of the eastern plain.

“Feels damp, and that’s bad,” said Bill Breakstone. “Clouds mean a thick night, and a thick night means a lot of stalking and sniping by those rascals out there. Well, well, lay on, Macduff, and it won’t be we who will first cry, ‘Hold, enough!’”

The twilight soon deepened into dark, the wind rose a little, and, as Breakstone had feared, it brought with it shifts of rain, light showers only, but cold and very unpleasant. Only a few of the most hardened slept. All the others kept vigilant watch about the wagons. Phil, Breakstone, and Arenberg remained together, and nothing happened until nearly midnight. Then the mixed force of the enemy, creeping near, opened fire from every side, but the American sharpshooters lying down on the ground replied, firing at the flashes. This combat lasted nearly half an hour, and it was more spectacular than dangerous to the defenders.

“This is drawn out rather long and produces nothing, Sir Philip of the Midnight, the Wilderness, and the Rain,” said Bill Breakstone, “and with our long range rifles we have the advantage. They’re merely wasting good lead. Ah, I think I must have got that fellow! I hope it was one of those sneaking Comanches, and, if so, he deserves it for keeping me here on the ground in the rain, when I ought to be snoozing comfortably in a wagon.”

He had fired at a flash about a hundred yards away, and his own fire drew shots from different points. Phil heard bullets whistling over his head, but, as they were hugging the earth very closely, he did not feel any great alarm over such blind shooting.

The firing increased a little presently, and now its effect upon the boy was wholly spectacular. He watched for the points of flame as one would for fireworks. Sometimes the flashes looked blue, sometimes yellow, and sometimes red. At other times they showed variations and new combinations of all three colors.

“Since one has to watch, it’s rather pretty, and it breaks the monotony,” said Bill Breakstone. “Now, I think our little display of fireworks is ceasing.”

Bill was a good prophet, because the firing quickly sank to a few scattered shots, and then to nothing. After that, they lay in the darkness and silence for a long time. Phil was wet and cold, and he longed for a warm blanket and the shelter of a wagon, but he was not one to flinch. As long as those two skilled plainsmen, Breakstone and Arenberg, thought it necessary to remain, he would remain without a complaint. He also expected that some other hostile movement would be made.

At some late hour of the night the boy heard the rapid beat of many hoofs, and then a mass of horsemen showed dimly in the dusk, dark squadrons galloping down upon the train. But the riflemen were ready. The train became at once a living circle of fire. A storm of bullets beat upon the charging horsemen, and fifty yards from the barrier they halted. There they wavered a few moments, while wounded horses screamed with pain, then turned and galloped back as fast as they had come.

“That’s the fall of the curtain on the last act,” said Bill Breakstone. “They thought to catch us napping, to stampede our horses, or to do something else unpleasant to us that depended on surprise.”

Nevertheless, they watched all the remainder of the night, and Phil was devoutly glad when he saw the first touch of rose in the east, the herald of the new day. Before them the plain lay clear, except a fallen horse near by, and there was no sign of the enemy.

“They have had enough,” said Bill Breakstone. “The darkness offered them their only chance, and now the sunrise has put them to flight.

“That’s a short poem, Phil, one of the shortest that I’ve ever composed, but it’s highly descriptive, and it’s true.”

It was true. Middleton and Woodfall, even when they searched the entire circle of the horizon with powerful field glasses, could find no trace of the enemy.

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