Don, it must be remembered, was not a soldier; he had not been enlisted as a fighting man. His first experience on the front was as a saver of life, instead of one who was expected to kill, though in the latter capacity he had visited upon one spy and the murderer of his dear friend Billy Mearns a just revenge. Now with the Intelligence Division it had not been expected of him to enter battle, nor to use firearms, except in extreme cases. But for the last two days he had been allied with several extreme cases involving a most warlike undertaking and to play the soldier had been as much his part as that of any member of the squad with Herbert Whitcomb. The taking part in war, of shooting, under excitement, at the enemy line, or picking out figures in that line as special marks to hit seemed truly enough the office of a fighting man, but the act of deliberately shooting down an individual, especially when the victim was unaware of his peril, must appear to him who reasons more of an assassination than warfare. Justifiable homicide, it might indeed be, for there may be such a thing, even outside of the bounds of war, but in the deliberate act itself there cannot be utter disregard of its cold-blooded character.
To what extent these considerations entered Don Richards’ head are now uncertain; he has never given expression to the incident in full, but it may easily be inferred, judging from the boy’s humanity and right-mindedness, that for a little disinclination held him, perhaps only for the turn of a few seconds; then bold circumstance demanded action.
The three men came on up the hill, walking now more and more slowly and finally advancing with some caution. They were easily a hundred and fifty yards away when they halted, facing the spruces. And then the khaki-clad figure deliberately raised its arm and pointed out, with evident care, the precise position of the fortified squad of Americans.
It is possible that even then the spy would have got away with his ruse, so earnest had been Lieutenant Whitcomb’s orders to his men. Perhaps Don did not feel exactly bound by these orders; Herbert had frankly admitted that he was independent of the command, though bound by courtesy and necessity to generally act with the squad. Perhaps, under the stress of the moment, Don forgot orders, purposes, strategy. The spy, clad in the uniform of those against whom he was striving, condemned to death by his occupation, the most contemptible and often the most dangerous of enemies, stood there, openly giving information to his friends of that which he had in some way become possessed. It was a sight to make the justice-loving blood of any patriotic lad boil.