The shot rang out, a dreadful noise, and frozen all, as though to poise, we stopped in noman's foggy field not knowing what fate next would yield. The echoes into silence died. Then hoped we all our fears had lied. Another step Tom took forward— again, that gun, so loud was heard— and Tom fell back, red smear, no face. Then backward, Jake, he tried to race, but thundering as a cruel god, the bullet sent him to the sod. Quite still he lay, quite still he bled; quite still those two, quite still and dead. Then all at once, they all broke free, and desperately, all tried to flee. A storm of lead and smoke and death, and none were left to draw new breath save I who laid down like them all who'd by a gun been made to fall.
Tale Told 