Tigers-John Fetto

They entered as tigers, but fled like lambs, up out of the valley in they had been mistakenly been dropped. Hawley out front, walking to fast, not carefully. It wasn’t his mistake. The pilot’s? Or the staff officer who threw a dart at a map, stroked his chin and thought let’s see what they find there. Four men in, still four men, three behind Hawley, lungs aching to keep up. Behind them down below, bugles blared, summoning troops to chase them, but chase them where? Hawley had broken brush toward the river, then doubled back, leading them up the draw toward, toward a ridge. But beyond the ridge? There was no way of knowing, until he got there, just another hundred yards? More? Dirt sifted under his boots as he climbed. He could see the trees part to show sky. So close. And then the pop of gun fire, crackling like a fresh lit camp fire, slowly, and then rising. He slumped behind a the tree. When he peered around the trunk, he saw no men following. There was no one.