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's wound, though not dangerous,
was enough to disable him and get him a furlough, and he determined
to take his son's body home, which the captain's influence enabled him to do.
Between his wound and his grief the old man was nearly helpless,
and accepted Darby's silent assistance with mute gratitude.
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