“’E won’t never get the chance!” said Tom. “I got her lined jest in front of that myrtle, in the clear. ’E’s got to come by there. It ain’t more’n sixty yards at the outside. If I don’t drop ’im first shot, there’s eleven more, an’ I got a pocketful o’ cartridges, an’ we’re between ’im an’ the boat.”
Tom shut his left eye and sighted. His forefinger was crooked over the trigger. The barrel of his rifle rested steadily on the log.
Jean Petit broke into view, running. The canvas belt was in his hand.
“They’ve seen him,” whispered Dave. “Maybe they’re following him.”
Tom made no reply. He held his breath, as a kangaroo shooter does just before he squeezes the trigger gently to him.
Petit rounded the myrtle tree.
Chapter XVIII.
TOM PAGDIN GOES GUNNING.
Tom Pagdin’s crooked forefinger closed on the trigger. The sharp cr-r-rack of the Winchester was answered by a howl of pain from Jean Petit.