The couple were not fifty feet apart when this interchange took place. The Italian was an expert with firearms and had he not been incited by so consuming a passion, he assuredly would have got his man. He missed by a hair’s breadth, but the cool Simmons Pendar did better. He saw his enemy’s body twitch, the Italian staggered backward a couple of paces, and the pistol dropped from his grasp.
The detective knew, however, that he had only winged him. In truth he had not tried to kill but only to wound, and he succeeded. In that moment Pendar, who generally held himself well in hand, felt such a thrill of anger that he determined to end the wretch’s power for evil forever. He sighted his weapon with the utmost care, and had the conditions been favorable, he assuredly would have scored a “bull’s eye,” but it must be remembered that the aeroplane was in action, and already in the air, heading westward and going at a speed of thirty or forty miles an hour.
Moreover, Bohunkus Johnson at this point got into the game. He had seated himself, as we remember, on the porch and was sulking over the reproof of Harvey Hamilton. Now when he saw him going off without him, he sprang to his feet; leaped down the few steps, dashed forward and shouted:
“Hold on, Harv! Yo’ve forgot something!”
But his friend could not wait for him. In the racket made by the motor, he heard nothing, and, if he had caught the words he would have paid no heed. Far more weighty matters claimed his undivided efforts. The action of the colored youth, however, brought him in direct line with the Italian, and the fast receding detective dared not fire because of the danger of hitting the negro or some member of the group of staring spectators.
The incidents described took so brief a time that no one who witnessed them understood what had taken place until all was ended. Certainly they could not have dreamed of its meaning. Why the drummer seated behind the young aviator should turn about and exchange shots with another man who seemed also to be a drummer, was more than any person could figure out, unless he laid it to bitter business rivalry.
Conversation between Harvey Hamilton and Detective Pendar was impossible, nor was it necessary. The few sentences spoken were sufficient, though had there been the opportunity, the man would have asked for more particulars. Although on this warm summer day he wore no top coat, he carried two pairs of patent handcuffs, and his weapon still held four charges, which no man in the world better knew how to utilize. He would have been very glad to stand up in front of the raging Catozzi with both their revolvers cracking and only a few paces between them, but the time had not yet come for a duel of that kind. He gave his intensest attention to what was before him while Harvey Hamilton was equally resolute with his duty.
Catozzi was not hit so hard as he thought when the twinge first thrilled his shoulder. The bullet of the detective inflicted only a flesh wound, and the man rallied instantly from the shock. He recovered his weapon and for a minute watched the aeroplane speeding away like an enormous bird. Then he noted that its line of flight was directly over the spot. Not a vestige of doubt remained as to what this meant.
The landlord had come out on the porch during the stirring incidents and now approached the Italian.
“What the mischief did that man mean by shooting at you? Did he hurt you bad?”