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The evening relief of sentries had just been made by Company K. The sun had dropped his huge glowing ball of molten copper behindthe hills to the west of Masillo. The waning light was playing hide and seek with the flickering, erratic shadows of wood and brake. At the edge of the little clearing just outside the town stood a khaki clad sentry. He was leaning upon his rifle and gazing abstractedly into the jungle, thinking, perhaps, of that rancher’s daughter in far-away Montana. As he stood there musing, his attention was suddenly attracted by a rustling sound amid the undergrowth some distance away. He instantly brought his gun to a ready, and peered excitedly into the jungle. The sound grew plainer.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
A shape as of a man creeping stealthily along through the brake upon his hands and knees became dimly discernible. Again the sentry’s voice rang out.
“Halt, or I fire!”
The shape, now plainly that of a man, crept nearer and still nearer.
The Krag cracked like a huge whip, a thin, filmy cloud of smoke arose from the nitro, and the creeping form in the brake fell forward upon its face without a sound.
“Corporal of the guard, post seven!” shouted the sentry.
The regulation call was unnecessary for, immediately the rifle cracked, a squad of the sentry’s comrades with the corporal at their head rushed to the spot.
“I’ve bagged a brown belly, I think,” said the sentry, waving his hand in the direction of the spot where his quarry had fallen.
The corporal, followed by his men, cautiously approached the spot indicated by the sentry. A few minutes search in the cane and they came upon a body clothed in tattered khaki. Hanging from the belt at the dead man’s side, was the recently decapitated head of a Filipino.
The startled corporal turned the body over upon its back. He gave one horrified glance of recognition at the dead man’s face and exclaimed, “My God! It’s Johnny!”
Tenderly the men in khaki raised the limp form of their fallen comrade and silently bore it past the horror stricken sentry into the camp. Halting before the captain’s tent, they laid the body down and covered it reverently with a blanket.
The corporal approached the door of the tent and addressing his commander, said sorrowfully, his eyes wet with tears, “Sir, Johnny has returned.”
Captain Benning sprang to his feet and exclaimed, “Where is he; why does he not report?”
“He is here, sir,” replied the corporal. The captain went to the door of the tent, and not seeing Johnny, looked at the corporal inquiringly.
The corporal pointed to the body lying almost at the officer’s feet and said, “That’s him, sir.”
The captain raised the blanket, and gazed long and silently at the dead soldier and the gory testimonial of duty performed that lay beside him.
The silence was finally broken by the corporal, who said, as his hand rose slowly insalute—
“Sir, Johnny has made good.”
And the captain replied, huskily:
“Yes, boys, too good.”