"D'ri!" the man gasped, and dropped down exhausted.

"D'ri?" the officer inquired.

"D'ri!" the man repeated. "It's thet air man they call D'ri. He's
roped in everybody thet come his way. They 're all settin' on the
hill up there beside him. Won't let a man move when he gits him."

The adjutant snickered as he spat an oath. He was made of iron,
that man Church.

"Post a guard around him," said he, turning to an officer. "The
dem fool 'd tek the hull garrison ef we did n't. I 'll go 'n' try
t' pull him off his perch."

"He 'll lay ye up," said the returned private, baring his bloody
leg. "Eff ye try t' fool with him ye'll limp. See what he done t'
me."

The adjutant swore again.

"Go t' the hospital," he commanded.

Then he strode away, but he did not return that night.

The moon was shining as the adjutant came, in sight and hailed the
group of prisoners.

"What ye settin' there fer?" he shouted.