o see you."

"We don't doubt it, but we don't want to see him," replied a voice that
Bob recognized at once. "We think we see ourselves going back! We didn't
desert for that."

"Gus Robbins, I am sorry that you are in there," said Bob. "What will
you say to your father and mother when you see them again?"

"Don't know, I am sure," answered Gus. "Haven't had any time to think
about that. But you know yourself that I can't go back to the post. The
colonel said that if I were ever court-marshaled again for desertion, I
should go to prison; but I'll fight till I drop before I'll do that."

"Say, Bob," shouted another voice, "do you remember what I said I would
do to that informer if I ever found out who he was? You are the fellow,
and here's your pay."

It was Bristow who spoke, and as he uttered these words he thrust the
muzzle of his carbine through the loophole in front of him. The chorus
of ejaculations and remonstrances which arose from the inside of the
dug-out showed that the rest of the deserters were not yet ready to
resort to the use of their firearms; but Bristow was almost half crazed
by rage and fear, and just as somebody seized him from behind and jerked
him away from the loophole, his carbine roared, and Bob Owens turned
halfway round and staggered back a step or two, as if he were struck and
about to fall.

This unexpected act excited Bob's troopers--with whom he was an especial
favorite--almost to frenzy. Believing that he had been seriously if not
fatally injured--it did not seem possible that anybody could miss a mark
of the size of his body at the distance of ten paces--one of them sprang
forward to support him, while the others discharged their carbines at
the loopholes in rapid succession. Their volley was not entirely without
effect, for a loud yell of agony came from the inside of the dug-out,
bearing testimony to the fact that one bullet at least had found a
target somewhere on the person of one of the deserters.

[Illustration: STORMING THE DUG-OUT.]

"Cease firing!" shouted Bob.

He gently released himself from the embrace of the strong arms that had
been thrown around him, and looked down at the gaping rent Bristow's
bullet had made in the breast of his coat. The missile had passed
through his thick carbine-sling and breast-belt, had cut into his coat,
vest and shirt, and ploughed a deep furrow through a well-filled wallet
which he carried in his inside pocket. Fortunately, it was a gla