Major Oldyn, commanding the Horse Battery, was coming
back from a dinner in the Civil Lines; was driving after his usual custom--
that is to say, as fast as the horse could go.
"A orf'cer! A blooming spangled orf'cer," shrieked Simmons; "I'll make a
scarecrow of that orf'cer!" The trap stopped.
"What's this?" demanded the Major of Gunners. "You there, drop your rifle."
"Why, it's Jerry Blazes! I ain't got no quarrel with you, Jerry Blazes. Pass
frien', an' all's well!"
But Jerry Blazes had not the faintest intention of passing a dangerous
murderer. He was, as his adoring Battery swore long and fervently, without
knowledge of fear, and they were surely the best judges, for Jerry Blazes, it
was notorious, had done his possible to kill a man each time the Battery went
out.
He walked toward Simmons, with the intention of rushing him, and knocking him
down.
"Don't make me do it, Sir," said Simmons; "I ain't got nothing agin you. Ah!
you would?"--the Major broke into a run--"Take that then!"
The Major dropped with a bullet through his shoulder, and Simmons stood over
him. He had lost the satisfaction of killing Losson in the desired way: hut
here was a helpless body to his hand. Should be slip in another cartridge, and
blow off the head, or with the butt smash in the white face? He stopped to
consider, and a cry went up from the far side of the parade-ground: "He's
killed Jerry Blazes!" But in the shelter of the well-pillars Simmons was safe
except when he stepped out to fire.
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