"Not if we drop far enough behind."
"They'd hear shooting and Will, at any rate, would ride back."
"He couldn't! He'd have to look after the girl and the column."
"All the same—Will's—"
"I know he is. Very well. I'll arrange it another way. You wait behind here."
So I rode along slowly, and he spurred his horse to a trot. But he did not hold the trot long. I could hear him objurgating, coaxing, encouraging, explaining, and the shrill voices of women answering, as he tried at one and the same time to pass the unfortunates in the dark and to make them see the grim necessity for speed. Soon I grew as busy as he, bullying litter-bearers and mothers burdened with crying babies. In times of massacre and war, survivors are not necessarily those who enjoyed the best of it. Nearly-drowned men brought to life again would forego the process if the choice were theirs, and there were nearly twenty women who would have preferred death to that night's march. But I did not dare load my horse with babies, since it would likely be needed before dawn for sterner work.
It was more than an hour before Fred loomed in sight again, standing beside his horse in wait for me. He, too, had resisted the temptation to relieve mothers of their living loads (not that they ever expected it).
"How did you manage?" I asked, for I could tell by his air that the errand had been successful.
"I lied to him."
"Of course. What did you say?"
"Said if the straggling got bad you and I might fall a long way behind and fire our pistols, so as to give the
