He had left the firing-line, crawled away in the dark, and found a quiet spot to die in.
"So! This is good luck!" Wutzler doffed his coolie hat, slid out of his jacket, tossed both down among the oil-jars, and stooping over the dead man, began to untwist the scarlet turban.

In the dim light his lean arms and frail body, coated with black hair, gave him the look of a puny ape robbing a sleeper.

He wriggled into the dead man's jacket, wound the blood-red cloth about his own temples, and caught up musket, ramrod, powder-horn, and bag of bullets.--"Now I am all safe," he chuckled.

"Now I can go anywhere, to-night." He shouldered arms and stood grinning as though all their troubles were ended.
"So! I am rebel soldier.

We try again; come .-- Not too close behind me; and if I speak, run back." In this order they began once more to scout through the smoke.