man stalking another wouldn’t have done that. He didn’t know I was there. He was hunting a hiding place for himself. The game was even. If he found me, he had the gun, but I had seen him first.
His sheepskin coat rasped against the wood as he went by me, bending low as he passed my corner for the back of the pile, so close to me that the same raindrops seemed to be hitting both of us. I undid my fists after that. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him breathing, scratching himself, even humming.
A couple of weeks went by.
The mud I was kneeling in soaked through my pants-legs, wetting my knees and shins. The rough wood filed skin off my face every time I breathed. My mouth was as dry as my knees were wet, because I was breathing through it for silence.
An automobile came around the bend, headed for the city. I heard the soldier grunt softly, heard the click of his gun as he cocked it. The car came abreast, went on. The soldier blew out his breath and started scratching himself and humming again.
Another couple of weeks passed.
Men’s voices came through the rain, barely audible, louder, quite clear. Four soldiers in sheepskin coats and hats walked down the road the way we had come, their voices presently shrinking into silence as they disappeared around the curve.
In the distance an automobile horn barked two ugly notes. The soldier grunted—a grunt that said clearly: “Here it is.” His feet slopped in the mud, and the lumber pile creaked under his weight. I couldn’t see what he was up to.
White light danced around the bend in the road, and an automobile came into view—a high-powered car going cityward with a speed that