Her friend, Sergeant John

RIZZLED and gaunt, Sergeant John Macnamara stood well within the freight-shed where the deep shadows rendered his speckless khaki uniform, with the gray subsistence chevrons on its sleeves, all but invisible to any one glancing in from the withering glare outside.

San Pablo, a typical town of the Mexican border, seemed to have drawn its soiled skirts away from the little corrugated-iron mission church as though in disapproval. For the "tin chapel," as it was irreverently called, squatted in the dust by itself, and a scant six yards from the freight-house. It was upon this tiny church that the eyes of the old sergeant were fixed.

Few spots, in or about the town, ordinarily were less frequented than San Pablo's only house of worship, but now the place was unprecedentedly filled. Ambulances, Dougherty wagons, and saddled horses from the army post, ten miles away, stood under its shed. Around its doors lounged a few languidly interested spectators, Mexican and feminine to a unit. From within came the sound of the post chaplain's voice as it droned through the prayers of the marriage service.

Then the voice ceased, to be replaced by the sound of a reed organ, suffering from an impediment in its speech, upon which somebody was playing the Lohengrin wedding march. There was a fluttering stir and a hum of conversation. With a clack and a final wheeze, the organ stopped as the wedding party, consisting of officers and their womenkind, came pouring out into the porch, to hold an impromptu reception there.

The bride's answers to the noisy well-wishing of those who crowded about her seemed absent, and were expressed in monosyllables. Standing, as she was, on a step, her handsome, strong face, tanned by outdoor sports, could be seen above the others. She was frowning, and her eyes wandered here and there in evident search of something which she could not at once discern.

The old sergeant knew that it was he whom her eyes sought. For an instant his face lighted with joy, and involuntarily he came forward, so that he stood framed in the shadowed doorway. Seeing him there, she smiled, as she might have smiled upon her father had he been living, and beckoned.

Sergeant John lifted his campaign hat in response; then, as her husband attracted her attention to some one who spoke to her, drifted back into the freight-shed and out by another door, so passing from her sight. He knew that he could not for long keep from showing the great sadness that he felt, and sadness had no place near her at such a time.

The rails of the main line had begun to click, and a black speck which appeared between them seemed to force them apart where the distance had pinched them together. A minute or two later the train stopped, screaming against its brakes.

It was made up, for the most part, of tank and freight cars, intended to carry water, food, and ammunition to new-made camps along the Mexican border. But next the caboose there was a "tourist" sleeper, loudly vocal with the songs of recruits on the way to join their commands, and to the forward end of the train a private car had been attached. Into this the bridal pair was escorted by their chattering friends, as Sergeant John could hear, but not see.

For, when the train was slowing up, he had swung himself into a freight-car, where he made a couch from some cases of canned corned beef, covered with his blankets and overcoat, and there settled himself for the coming journey.

Never of a gregarious nature, he now was especially anxious to be alone. The scheme of his universe had been torn apart and its elements scattered. He must think it all out, and by himself. No one could help him.

It was the wedding that had brought all this about. For the bride was Miss Alice—his Miss Alice.

Captain Leaming, her father and Sergeant Macnamara's first troop commander, had been revered by him above all other men. They had gone up in the service together, these two, each in his own way. Almost of an age, they had become very interdependent, as the years went by; trusted and trusting. The sergeant had known Alice since and before the time when she had been left a tiny, motherless baby. He had loved her as did her own father, and with an additional love, like that of an adoring dog. He had even been known to neglect certain military duties when their performance would have conflicted with what he chose to consider as her welfare. Nothing else on earth could have made him do that.

But now everything had changed. Sergeant John had gone into the "chow" department. The cavalry never had been the same after Captain—then Colonel—Leaming had died. Now Miss Alice was married, and to Captain Lionel Crosslett. That was the thing so hard to bear—to Captain Lionel Crosslett.

Sergeant John wanted to be fair. Very hard indeed he tried to analyze, dispassionately and without prejudice, his reasons for so intensely disliking this man, and to give due weight to his merits.

Captain Crosslett, despite his service, his commission, and the uniform he wore, was and always must remain essentially a civilian. Never would he be able to fathom the hearts of his men. Never could he either feel or inspire that strong affection which may, and frequently does, exist between the officer and his enlisted comrade. He could not even understand it. He was not built that way. That was the worst that could be said.

On the other hand, this man undeniably was good-looking. He was no fool; his mind was even brilliant. The sergeant could not but own that in civil life, where he belonged, the man might have been tolerable enough—to civilians. As it was he generally managed to secure the liking of women.

In short, the old non-commissioned officer found that his attempt to formulate adequate cause for his dislike was a failure. He could only feel it; as did the entire enlisted force and many of the officers.

So Sergeant John gave up the attempt, and instead devoted his whole mind to expressing his opinion of a man who would willingly take his bride for her honeymoon to such a camp as the one to which they were bound. Unconsciously he uttered this opinion in time with a monotonous sort of jig, pounded out by a flat wheel, to which the cactus-dotted desert went dancing by. It took him some time, and afforded him much relief, of a sort.

Then, just as he had finished, the train came to a bumping halt. There were shouts and a blast of the whistle. A very young sergeant of infantry, who yet was the ranking non-commissioned officer in charge of the recruits in the rear car, dropped to the ground and hurried forward, yelling questions as he went.

Somebody answered these questions. Old Sergeant John was too far away to hear more than a word or two of the answers. But those words made him buckle on a cartridge-belt that he had laid aside and feel to make sure that the heavy, blued pistol was resting lightly in its holster. Then he hailed the young infantry sergeant, who was returning in an undecided sort of way to the place whence he had come.

"What'll be wrong, Marrtin?" he asked. "Thim Mexikins?" Sergeant Martin stopped, frowning perplexedly, and glad to have the opportunity of obtaining expert advice. An ordnance sergeant from the car behind came forward to listen.

"The rails is pulled up just beyond our cowketcher," the young man said. "We seen it only jus' in time. The Greasers done it, of course. What'd I better do?"

"Do!" repeated Sergeant John. "Do what yer arf'cers tells ye. What else?"

"But there ain't none," objected the youngster. "He missed the train, I guess. Anyhow, he was lef' behind."

None of the three thought of Captain Lionel Crosslett, there in that private car. No slight was intended; the fact of his bearing a commission never crossed their minds at this time, which seemed likely to become one of stress. Yet all of the three, each in his differing degree, were disciplined men.

The two older non-commissioned officers glanced at each other meaningly, and Sergeant John had turned pale under his tan. They both knew the sort of men who had taken up those rails—offscourings of Sonora, they were outlawed at home and posing as rebels or bandits as expediency dictated. Governments were nothing to them; on either side of the border they would be hanged promptly and deservedly, if caught. It was to suppress the incursions of such bands into the United States that the border camps were maintained.

The three sergeants could see nothing of what went on at the head of the long train. It lay in a cut around a sharp curve. Why didn't it back out of such a bad position and on to the open plain? That is what the old sergeant wanted to know. Then, as though in answer to his unspoken question, a man—one of the train-hands—came running up from the rear.

"All right?" called some one.

"They've lifted the rails behind us, too," the train-hand replied. "I can't see hide nor hair of the rails nor the men what took 'em—they ain't nowhere!"

The young sergeant's jaw dropped. Old Macnamara turned on him sharply.

"Get thim rookies out av thot cyar an' inta loine!" he rasped. "Quick, now! Hear?"

"There ain't a ca'tridge in th' bunch, an'—" Sergeant Martin began.

"Do what ye're towld, an' do ut quick!" roared Sergeant John.

He had not the slightest right to give a command of any sort, but Martin obeyed. Pouring from their car, excited and expectant, the recruits formed. Already the ordnance sergeant was busy—also without authority—in the car he had left, and in a moment two sweating corporals were serving out clips of cartridges and running back for fresh armfuls.

Toward the head of the train, where lay the "honeymoon special," as Sergeant John had mentally named the private car, men already were hurrying, all armed with the heavy army six-shooter—department men, like the old sergeant himself, and civilian clerks, for the most part, with a heavy sprinkling of train-hands.

At a run which many a younger man might well have envied, Sergeant John started to join them. Even as he did so there came a chorus of shrill, Mexican yells, punctuated by the sound of shots—the sharp crack of high-power rifles, and heavier reports made by the black powder burned in the pistols. Hearing this, the sergeant ran faster still; then stopped as though he had run against a physical barrier, as he heard his name called from he knew not where. But there was no mistaking the voice. The call came again.

"Sergeant John! Here—over here! Oh, Sergeant Johnnie—come!"

Then Sergeant John saw her—and him. They were standing on the edge of the curved cut in which the train had stopped. Though his arm had been thrown around her waist, yet she seemed the protector—he the protected. Running to the edge of the bank, Sergeant John held out his arms to her, as he had done so many times when she was a child—and not very long before, as he reckoned time.

"Joomp!" he commanded.

A little spirt of dust flew up from the ground, close by her feet, and the rifle-ball which had caused it went singing away into space, as a glanced bullet will. But the eyes of Miss Alice were on her husband, and she paid no heed either to it or the command.

"Help him down!" she demanded. "He's ill—can't you see?"

Then for the first time Sergeant John glanced at the bridegroom. His face was white, and not with a healthy pallor, but with the ghastly white of a fish-belly. He swayed as he stood, and his knees seemed hardly able to support him.

Two more bullets sung by with their high-pitched, hornet-like note. With an effort Captain Crosslett gathered his strength, and swinging his wife over the edge of the bank, dropped her and followed. Still on her feet and balancing herself with her arms, she slid to the bottom, a miniature avalanche of sand following her. Her husband fell into the ditch like a half-empty sack and lay there, a mere huddle of clothes. She bent over him, but he weakly pushed her away.

"Sergeant," he gasped, "take her—quick—and put her in a safe spot, if there is one. I'm all right."

Sergeant John nodded, and without waiting for her consent lifted her in his arms. For the moment there was no safer spot than that upon which they were, but it would not be safe for long, he knew. Running to the car he had left, he placed her in it and vaulted after. Then he laid her in a little alleyway formed by boxes of tinned stuff.

"Will ye stay here, now?" he demanded.

"Send him to me!" she begged. "He's not fit to be out there. And anyway he's not in charge of those recruits—they're infantrymen."

"He's th' only arf'cer we have, darlint," he said, in gentle reproof.

Another bullet whined through one open door and out of the opposite one. Dropping her face on her hands as she lay on the old sergeant's blankets, Alice began to cry softly, but with great, shuddering sobs which racked her strong young body almost as though they would tear it apart. A keen pang of resentment shot through the old man's heart at the thought of Lionel Crosslett having won such love from this woman—when there were so many others in the world.

Then he took himself severely to task. Probably it was her sobs which caused him to do this; he never, even in her childhood days, could resist those. And, after all, she could not be blamed. The man was her husband, wedded not three hours before. He was ill, too, and, in spite of that, trying to do his duty.

"Annyhow, 'twill be no more than a bit av a skirmish," he ventured, with awkward sympathy. She raised her head angrily.

"What do I care whether it's a little battle or a big one!" she cried. "It's war—and men are killed in war! I hate it—hate it! I never dreamed until now that I could hate so!"

She dropped her face once more and lay there trembling, though her sobs were stilled. At that moment the voice of Sergeant Martin barked out crisp commands.

"Load!"

The breech-blocks snapped and rattled.

"As skirmishers—on centre squad—forward—double time—march!" The recruits yelled as they sprang forward. Turning very quickly, Sergeant John would have left the car, but his Miss Alice was quicker still. Flinging herself upward, she clasped one of his arms in both her hands.

"Go to him, Sergeant Johnnie! Go to him! Take care of him and bring him back to me!" she cried. "Bring him back safe to me! I shall die if you don't—I'll go and die out there—with him! So promise me—now!"

Sergeant John looked at her in amazement. This was a new Miss Alice. Never had he known her in this guise. Never had he dreamed that any voice could express the agonized, vibrant earnestness that hers had done. But she had commanded. Far might it be from him to begin at this late day to deny due obedience. With clumsy tenderness he tried to unclasp her hands.

"Faith. I'll do me best, honey," he said. Her hands fell away instantly, and he leaped to the ground.

The bullets were coming more thickly now, for already the skirmish-line had reached the top of the bank. Behind them Captain Crosslett scrambled weakly in a vain attempt to overtake the men and gain his place at their head. But he did gain the crest of the bank and passed beyond it.

"Th' capt'in is wake," said Sergeant John, trotting alongside. "Will he take me arrm?"

"Thanks, sergeant—no," panted the officer. "I'm all—right. I'll—be—able to"

The crashing blast of a volley came from the far side of a little rise, a mere wrinkle in the desert's hot, dry face. The swift, irregular rattle of shots fired at will followed it. The air became resonant with the venomous song of the bullets.

The skirmish-line stopped, hesitated, and stood fast. Mexicans are vile shots as a class, yet three of the recruits dropped, one of them screaming horridly. Despite the efforts of the non-commissioned officers to stop them, their comrades began to fire wildly, though nothing of the enemy, save now and then the pointed crown of a sombrero, could be seen.

They were good boys, those recruits, thought Sergeant John, otherwise they would not stand as they were doing. He hated those men behind the sand-hill with a personal and deadly hatred. Picking up the rifle dropped by one of the wounded he fired at a head which appeared for an instant, and the head vanished, leaving its heavy sombrero to roll down until it settled, nearly half-way to the line of the Americans. This heartened the inexperienced boys, as little things sometimes will. They laughed.

"Now's th' toime, Marrtin!" shouted old Sergeant John. "Give 'em th' bay'nit! Lave our lads git a lick at thim—they'll niver stand th' cowld steel!"

As he turned, in order to speak, his eye fell once more upon Miss Alice's husband, and his promise to her, for the moment forgotten, recurred to his mind.

The man was ill; there could be no doubt as to that. Ghastly though his face had been before, now it was terrible. Dripping with sweat, drawn, and unspeakably haggard, it was the face of one who has been through torments such as men fear in the hereafter. And then, with a sickening sense of pity. Sergeant John recognized the disease. He had seen it once before and only once, for it is not common, fortunately. But having seen it, one does not forget.

For it was fear that he saw—not cowardice—fear. The awful, uncontrollable fear innocently implanted by a mother in the mind of her unborn child, there to remain, probably unsuspected by the child itself, until circumstances bring it forth. So, to the satisfaction of Sergeant John, his old repugnance now had explained itself. At the same time it vanished, for the sergeant saw that the husband of Miss Alice was fighting, with the whole strength of his being, for the manhood which should have been his birthright.

Martin had not ordered the charge so warmly recommended by Sergeant John. The recruits were untried, and he had hesitated until the psychological moment had passed. But, driven by desperation, the Mexican bandits had taken the offensive. With shrill screams of self-encouragement they sprang to their feet and came rushing down the gentle slope. In their surprise the recruits gave back. It was only for a moment, to be sure, before their non-commissioned officers had steadied them again. But for poor Crosslett that moment was too much. Shrieking, he turned and fled.

With devout thanks to the powers that rule such things. Sergeant John realized that none but he had seen this act. He was thinking only of Miss Alice now, and thinking with a swiftness until then unknown even to his quick, Celtic mind.

Well the old sergeant knew what the realization of this terrible weakness would mean to this new-wed wife—a soldier's daughter, born and bred in the service. Better by far her lifelong mourning for a first and perfect love than that this should occur. Yet that realization was reaching her as fast as a fear-crazed man could run.

It was a matter of seconds now. Sergeant John threw the rifle to his shoulder, and almost of their own accord the sights ranged themselves into line with the head of the fleeing man. Then another thought stayed the tightening grip of his trigger-hand.

It was not a new thought, but he had forgotten it—that in civil life this man still could find his place; that he would give happiness to the woman who loved him; that he might live respected, and at his death be mourned decently by others as well as she. And all of this was, after all, what a woman lived for.

So the muzzle dropped a little and the rifle spoke. The husband of Miss Alice went headlong with a bullet neatly placed through the exact centre of a knee-joint.

The man was senseless when Sergeant John reached him. There was blood on his head, but that did not matter; it had struck on a jagged fragment of "malpai" rock as he fell. It was the bullet wound to which the sergeant gave his attention.

He stopped all chance of possibly fatal bleeding by means of an improvised tourniquet made of a bandanna and the cleaning rod. He had finished his task and was rising when he was struck in the back with a blow like one which a club might have made. Sergeant John knew what it was. He had felt bullets before.

"Lungs," he said thickly to himself. "Still ther's enough o' me left so's I can finish ut. So she'll not foind out—an' most loike he'll not remimber—glory be!"

Drawing his pistol Sergeant John fired a shot into the sand, glanced furtively around to see that he was not observed, and then placing the weapon in Crosslett's hand, closed his Angers around it. He felt no pain, but he was very weary when he had done this. It had proved to be unexpectedly hard work. So he lay down, his head pillowed on his arm. The sound of the sputtering shots grew fainter, and finally ceased as a rocking sea of oblivion seemed to bear him gently and restfully away.

Then, how long afterward he had no idea, he felt a sharp prick in his arm, and heard the voice of the old post surgeon.

"He'll probably recognize you, Alice," the doctor was saying. "Don't count on it, though. And, anyway, it'll only be for a minute or two—merely forcing the last rally."

Perfectly well Sergeant John understood what was said. He had heard that sort of thing many times before when standing by the recumbent form of some comrade. And now it was his turn. Well, it was about time, he supposed. But he was glad that he could feel a little new strength flowing through his veins, beginning at that prick in his arm, for he still had his task to finish.

Something warm and wet, coming from above, fell upon his cheek and was quickly wiped away. Opening his eyes, he saw the face of Miss Alice, as she bent over him. He tried to speak, but could not because his lips were so dry. She held a glass to them. He drank and was refreshed.

"Don't stop here, darlint," he begged huskily. "Thim Mexikins—" "They've gone—all gone," she hastened to reassure him. "Three troops came from the post. But you mustn't talk, Sergeant Johnnie; it'll hurt you."

"Nothin'll hurrt me now. How's th' capt'in?"

She did not answer at once. She could not trust her voice. So the doctor replied in her stead.

"He'll be all right. Have to retire, though, I fear. Stiff leg," he said, and very gruffly, for he was deeply moved.

"And I'm glad glad—that he'll have to leave!" Miss Alice broke forth passionately. "I couldn't stand the army after this. You saved him for me, Sergeant Johnnie. I can't thank you in words for a thing like that, but"

Here her treacherous voice became choked and Sergeant John took prompt advantage of the opportunity to speak.

"Did he tell ye thot—about me savin' him?" he asked eagerly.

"No. He couldn't. He can't remember anything that happened, just at that time. Nothing until a little while ago, since his head was hurt."

Sergeant John smiled. This was as it should be—as he hoped it might be. Resolutely he gathered his little remaining strength.

"’Twas him—what—thried t' save—me," he gasped. "He tuk me gun—an'—got the man what—shot me."

It was very hard for him to speak now, his breath was so short. But it was worth the effort, he thought, when he saw the look of happy pride in the face of his Miss Alice. So much there was that some of it actually seemed reflected in his own. "It was like him to do that," she managed to say.

"It was," he agreed. "He's a—brave man. An' now—good-by, Miss Alice—darlint. I'll be goin'"

He did not finish. A little shudder passed over him, and then, with a lie on his lips and a great joy in his heart, Sergeant John had fared forth into the great unknown.