"Yes," said Elliott; "it was determined before that Mark's murderer was a good shot."
Then came another report, and we saw that again the murderer had fired. Oakes remained quiet. His body showed sprawled on the hill-side.
"Damnation!" cried Elliott. "Is Oakes dead? He does not answer with his revolver."
"No," cried Larkin. "I saw him move, and see—he is braced to prevent himself slipping down the hill. He knows he is a poor target, and is not anxious to move lest he slide into the pond. That grass is frosty and very slippery."
Then came the delayed crack of Quintus's weapon, and Maloney sprang into the air as he ran. He now went slowly and painfully, lurching forward along the crest of the hill.
"Slightly wounded, thank Fate—but Oakes could have killed him had he wished," cried Larkin.
We saw Quintus rise and follow Maloney, then drop to his chest again, as the latter wheeled and fired three shots rapidly at him in delirious excitement.
Oakes remained quiet and huddled, and despite the fact that Maloney was now an excellent target, he did not fire.
"Oakes is hit badly," exclaimed Elliott. Then the speaker did an unexpected thing. Seizing his revolver, he discharged the weapon again and again in the direction of Maloney. "A long shot," he muttered, "but I'll keep him guessing."
We could see the bullets hit somewhere near the fugitive, for he seemed disconcerted and turned toward the northern end of the pond, to run in that direction; he was now outlined on the crest of the hill. We heard another shot ring out—a shot sharp, staccato it was; and we then emitted a yell, for we knew by it that Oakes was alive. Maloney fired again, and again Elliott, by our side, tried two more long shots with his revolver.