CROSSING THE LINE
Nick Rabig was a young man of powerful build, and under ordinary
conditions Tom would have had his work cut out for him. But the
surprise and the shock had taken all the fight out of the traitor, and
Tom's sinewy hands never relaxed until Rabig's face was purple and he
lay limp and gasping. Then Tom improvised a gag and thrust it into the
rascal's mouth and rapidly bound his hands and feet.
When he had the miscreant helpless, Tom rose panting to his feet and
looked about him. There was no sign that the struggle had attracted
attention. Rabig himself had had no time to utter a cry for help.
The renegade had revived sufficiently now to understand what had
happened, and his face was a study of conflicting emotions. Rage and
hate and fear showed in his features. He recognized Tom, and he knew
that his treachery stood discovered. He knew that with the evidence
against him he was doomed to stand before a firing squad if he should
be taken into the American lines.
Tom looked at him as one might look at a leper.
"You low-down traitor!" he said bitterly. "You vile scoundrel! I've
caught you at last and caught you dead to rights. You're the most
contemptible thing that breathes. You're a disgrace to your uniform.
You ought to be wearing a wooden overcoat and you will when Uncle Sam
lays his hands on you. I ought to kill you myself this minute."
His hand clenched the pistol which he had taken from Rabig's pocket,
and a look of craven fear came into the traitor's eyes.
"Oh, don't be afraid," said Tom scornfully. "I'm not going to do it.
Perhaps you'll suffer more if I let you live than if I killed you.
You're a marked and branded man. You're a man without a country. The
very men you've sold yourself to look upon you as a yellow dog.
"Now, Rabig, listen to me," Tom went on with deadly earnestness. "I'm
going to strip you of the uniform you've disgraced. I'll have to untie
your hands for a minute to get the coat over your arms, but I've got
the drop on you and if you make the slightest move except to do what I
tell you to you're a dead man."
Rabig was too cowed to do anything but obey, and in a few minutes Tom
had stripped him of coat and trousers and put them on himself. He
re-bound Rabig's hands tightly. Then he went through the pockets of
the coat.
As he had expected he found the pass that had admitted Rabig to the
German lines. Opposite the word "_Losung_," which Tom knew meant
"countersign," was scribbled the word "Potsdam."
"I guess this thing that brought you over will take me back," Tom
remarked. "Now, Rabig, I'm going to leave you here with your German
friends. They'll pick you up after a while, though I don't care
whether they do or not. I'm going back to the boys of the old
Thirty-seventh and tell them just what has happened to Nick Rabig, the
traitor. So long, Benedict Arnold."
With a parting glance of contempt Tom left the traitor and went down
the hill with a confidence that he was very far from feeling.
He had the pass and the countersign, but he was not sure that these
would be sufficient. Perhaps an officer would be called by the sentry
to make sure that everything was all right. Perhaps the sentry at the
point where he should try to pass the line might be the same one who
had let Rabig through, and he might notice the difference in personal
appearance. Any one of a dozen things might happen to arouse suspicion.
Luckily it was growing dark and Tom had pulled Rabig's hat well down
over his face, yet not so far as to make it appear that he was trying
to evade scrutiny. He walked on briskly to a point where a sentry on
duty before an opening in the wire fence was standing.
"_Halt! Wer da?_" hailed the sentry.
"_Ein Freund_," replied Tom.
"_Losung._"
"_Potsdam._"
At the same time Tom carelessly extended the pass which the sentry
glanced at and returned to him with a curt gesture, in which Tom
thought he saw contempt. But it meant that he was free to pass, and he
did so with an air of indifference.
His heart was beating so fast that it seemed as if he would suffocate.
At every step he feared to hear a shout behind him that would tell him
that the ruse was discovered. But the fortune that had frowned upon
him so many times of late this time was friendly. Behind him were the
usual camp noises and nothing more.
In a few minutes he had gotten out of sight of the lines and was in the
woods at a point where the trees grew thickly and only a half-beaten
trail led through the underbrush. Then he quickened his pace and soon
found himself running.
If he were pursued, he had fully made up his mind what he would do. He
would never again see the inside of a German prison. He had the
revolver and he would fight to the last breath. He might go down,
probably would, considering the odds that there would be against him,
but he would die fighting, and would take one or more of his enemies
with him.
He was racing along now at top speed and he only slackened his gait
when he knew that he had put miles behind him. By that time it had
grown wholly dark, and in the woods it was as black as pitch. He was
safe for that night at least. His enemies could not have seen him if
they had been within ten feet of him.
And the darkness brought with it a word of warning. While in one sense
it was a protection, on the other it had in it an element of danger.
He could no longer know the direction in which he was traveling. He
knew the danger there was of traveling in a circle. If he kept on he
might swing around in the direction of the German lines. And it would
be a sorry ending to his flight to have it finish at the very point
from which he had started.
He made up his mind that he would curl himself up in some thicket and
snatch a few hours of sleep. At the first glimmer of dawn he would
resume his journey. Then he could see, no doubt, the American lines,
from which he knew he could not be very far away. The big guns, too,
that had now settled down to their nightly muttering, would be in full
cry at dawn, and sound as well as sight would help him.
He found a heavy clump of bushes into which he crawled. He had no fear
of oversleeping. He knew that his burdened mind would keep watch while
his body slept, and that he would surely wake at the first streak of
dawn.
Some distance ahead of where the old Thirty-seventh was posted on the
far-flung battle line, the Army Boys were on sentry duty. It was the
turn of Corporal Wilson's squad to perform this irksome task, and they
were glad that it was nearly over and that soon they would be relieved.
Their beats adjoined each other and there were times when they met and
could exchange a few words to break the monotony of the long grind.
"This sentry stuff doesn't make a hit with me," grumbled Bart. "I'm
getting blisters on my feet from walking."
"Where do you expect to get them, on your head?" laughed Frank. "Cheer
up, old man. The sun will be up in a few minutes and then the relief
will be along."
"It can't come too soon," chimed in Billy. "Gee, but I'm hungry! This
early morning air does sure give you an appetite."
"If only something would happen," complained Bart. "It's the deadly
monotony of the thing that gets my goat. Now if a Hun patrol should
come along and stir things up, it would be worth while."
A sharp exclamation came from Frank.
"Look out, fellows!" he warned. "I saw those bushes moving over on the
slope of that hill just now and there isn't a bit of wind."
In an instant they had their rifles ready.
The bushes parted and a figure stepped forth into the open.
"Why, it's one of our fellows!" said Bart, as he saw the American
uniform.
"Been out on scout duty, I suppose," remarked Billy.
Frank said nothing. His keen eyes noted the newcomer and his heart
began to thump strangely.
As the soldier came nearer he took off his hat and waved it at them.
A yell of delight broke from the startled group.
"It's Tom! It's Tom! It's Tom!"