And the Yeah, Welcome back everyone to

to one thousand one classic Short Stories and Tales.

This is your host, John Hagenorn.

Today, a story from Jack London,

one of my favorite authors, called War.

And now our story.

He was a young man, not more than 24 or 5, and he might have sat his horse with the careless grace of his youth had he not been so cat-like intense. His black eyes roved everywhere, catching the movements of twigs and

branches where small birds hopped, questing ever onward to the changing vistas of trees and brush, and returning always to the clumps of undergrowth on either side.

And as he watched, so did he listen, though he rode on in silence, save for the boom of heavy guns from far to the west.

This had been sounding monotonously in his ears for hours, and only its cessation would have aroused his notice.

For he had business closer to hand.

Across his saddle but was balanced a carbine.

To so tensely was he strung that a bunch of quail

exploding into flight from under his horse's nose, startled him to such an extent that automatically,

instantly he had reined in and fetched the carbine halfway to his shoulder.

He grinned sheepishly, recovered himself, and rode on.

So tense was he, so bent upon the work he had to do, that the sweat stung his eyes unwiped,

and unheated rolled down his nose and spattered his saddle pommel. The band of his

cavalryman's hat was fresh stained with sweat. The Roan horse under him was

likewise wet. It was high noon of a reckless day of heat. Even the birds and squirrels did not dare the sun, but sheltered

in shady hiding places among the trees. Man and horse were littered with leaves and dusted

with yellow pollen.

...