of dislodging the
sharp-shooter when a man appeared on the edge of the wood. He moved
swiftly across the sheltered ground, stooping low until he reached the
edge of the exposed place, where he straightened up and made a dash
across it. He was recognized instantly by some of the men of his company
as Little Darby, and a buzz of astonishment went along the line. What
could he mean, it was sheer madness; the line of white smoke along
the wood and the puffs of dust about his feet showed that bullets were
raining around him. The next second he stopped dead-still, threw up his
arms, and fell prone on his face in full view of both lines. A groan
went up from his comrades; the whole company knew he was dead, and on
the instant a puff of white from the rock and a hissing bullet told that
the sharp-shooter there was still intrenched in his covert. The men were
discussing Little Darby, when someone cried out and pointed to him. He
was still alive, and not only alive, but was moving--moving slowly but
steadily up the ridge and nearer on a line with the sharp-shooter, as
flat on the ground as any of the motionless bodies about him. A strange
thrill of excitement went through the company as the dark object dragged
itself nearer to the rock, and it was not allayed when the whack of
a bullet and the well-known white puff of smoke recalled them to the
sharp-shooter's dangerous aim; for the next second the creeping figure
sprang erect and made a dash for the spot. He had almost reached it when
the sharp-shooter discovered him, and the men knew that Little Darby had
underestimated the quickness of his hand and aim; for at the same moment
the figure of the man behind the rock appeared for a second as he sprang
erect; there was a puff of white and Little Darby stopped and staggered
and sank to his knees. The next second, however, there was a puff from
where he knelt, and then he sank flat once more, and a moment later
rolled over on his face on the near side of the rock and just at its
foot. There were no more bullets sent from that rock that day--at least,
against the Confederates--and that night Little Darby walked into his
company's bivouac, dusty from head to foot and with a bullet-hole in his
clothes not far from his heart; but he said it was only a spent bullet
and had just knocked the breath out of him. He was pretty sore from it
for a time, but was able to help old Cove to get his boy's body off and
to see him start; for the old man'