"Okay, Stokely," said Archer, "I'll give you a better break than you'd give me—I'll prove it to you. You're facing me now. Raise either arm, and I'll tell you which one it is."
Stokely seemed to hesitate, then raised both arms to the horizontal.
"You're pretty sharp, at that," Archer told him, "when it comes to thinking from your own corner. You raised both of them."
Stokely's arms dropped, but not all the way. There was a motion as of applying the hypodermic.
Quickly, Archer drew the sleeves of his shirt over his arms. But he had counted too heavily on Stokely's preoccupation. The latter turned rigidly, as if continuing the injection, and fired.
Archer felt a shock which spun him half around, but could not tell just where he was hit, for the moment. He began to run awkwardly through the loose rocks toward the sanctuary of the pile of boulders, raising his jacket high to screen his head. In doing so, the location of his wound became evident with a jab of pain. His left arm was useless.
The next instant, the glaring beam of Stokely's flashlight picked him out, and the second bullet spanged against a boulder just as he ducked behind it, peppering his cheek with rock dust.
Stooping low, Archer moved around the pile, as the crunching sound of Stokely's rapid footsteps came closer. He cursed the luck that had enabled Stokely to cripple him. He felt his paralyzed arm gingerly—the bullet had struck just below the shoulder, and he guessed that the bone was broken, but the wound did not seem to be bleeding much.
There was no use making a break for the next heap of rocks over this treacherous ground, even if he knew precisely where it lay. He would simply have to play tag with Stokely until—
Suddenly, the footsteps slowed and seemed to stumble. There was a clattering among the rocks and the lancing beam of the flashlight cut off. Darkness and silence descended.