Only flight was left. Hanlon dropped the useless weapon and started off across the field as fast as he could run. He had not fully recovered his breath, and every muscle in his body shrieked from that fall and his unusual exertions.
He stumbled and staggered, but kept on running as fast as he could. Behind he could hear the yells of the gunman who was on his trail, apparently calling to someone else. The beam of the lantern held Hanlon almost steadily.
Still the Corpsman ran. He had no idea what lay ahead, or whether he was running toward safety or into more danger. There was no other cover he could see in the almost-dark—no trees nor bushes. Merely this meadow, almost flat, covered with a sort of blossomy grass not more than two or three inches high. Nor, even if he did find something, would he be long concealed from the lantern and the man who carried it.
Hanlon swerved, and ran toward but behind the lantern-carrier, hoping thus to elude him. In fact, he had passed behind the fellow before the light-rays picked him out again.
The beam held him steadily again, and Hanlon could hear those pounding feet coming nearer. A gun flamed out again, and Hanlon felt the excruciating pain of a burn on the side of his arm.
"Yipe, that was close," he gritted as he clamped his other hand over the wound, and tried to increase his speed. Weariness seemed forgotten for the moment, and he was able to spurt ahead.
Suddenly he saw twin beams of stronger light coming across the field to intercept him. "Oh, no," he gasped, "the trike!"
He swerved sharply to the right again, and ran on. Ahead he heard a strange sort of roar, and only after a moment or so could identify it. It sounded like the boom of breakers.
"Am I that near the sea?"
Again a sword of flame almost caught him. The car was roaring toward him, closer each second. He knew starkly that death or capture was a matter of moments only.