He had doubled forward, reflexing to the blow. He was dead, stone dead; his crafty spirit issued upon the red trail of ball through his brain.
“Thank God,” I rejoiced.
She had sunk back wearily.
“That is the last.”
“Won’t they try again, you think?”
“The last spare shot, I mean. We have only our two left. We must save those.” She gravely surveyed me.
“Yes, we must save those,” I assented. The realization broke unbelievable across a momentary hiatus; brought me down from the false heights, to face it with her.
A dizzy space had opened before me. I knew that she moved aside. She exclaimed. 299
“Look!”
It was the canteen, drained dry by a jagged gash from the sharpshooter’s lead.