It was Harry Smythe, of course. When I reached him, he had the injured hand tucked tightly in the pit of his other arm. There was a grim look in his eyes and he nodded as I approached him.
"Good shooting, mate. Should be a promotion in it for you. Shooting like that, I mean."
"That's nice to think about," I said. "Where's the boy? I owe him a little something. If he hadn't whistled a warning, you could have picked me off neat."
"I would." He nodded calmly.
"Where is he?"
"Behind the rock there. In that little alcove, sort of." He indicated with his chin.
I started forward. I watched him, but I went toward the rock.
"Just a minute, mate."
I stopped. I didn't lower my gun.
"That bloody wench we spoke about yesterday. You know, out in front of that shack? Well, just a thought, of course, but if you pull me in and if I get it, what'll become of her, do you suppose? Mean to say, I couldn't support her when I was dead, could I?"