"I wonder how badly he's hurt," mused Curtis. "There isn't strength enough left in him to put up a fight, but there's enough left to pull a trigger if I tackle the other chap. Hello, he's got the hiccoughs; why, that's queer."
The man became quiet, and again Curtis relapsed into thought, to be disturbed a second time by the sound of knocking on boards. Looking around, his eyes fell directly upon the eyes of the Bashi Bazouk, and he felt as though he heard some one crying for help when no help was near. The man was resting upon his back and both elbows. For a moment those bloodshot, praying, awful eyes were fixed upon Curtis; then they swept the dingy hut and went out like panes of glass when the light is extinguished in a room. The man fell backward, fluttered on the hard planks and was still. Curtis shuddered.
"That wasn't nice," he muttered, "but this is no time for sentiment."
The other Turk stood by the body of his dead comrade, looking down at the ghastly, upturned face. Curtis pinched the muscles of his own right arm with the fingers and thumb of his left hand, and moved his doubled fist tentatively up and down.
"Where shall I hit him?" he mused. "In the chin or back of the ear? He must never know what struck him."
Bending over, he untied the long strip of cloth about his foot and unwound it. Taking it in his hands he pulled several times on it, to test its strength.
"Strong as a hemp rope. You could hang a man with that."
It was Panayota's blue homespun.
"Hey!" he called to the Turk. "You there. Say, look at this foot of mine, will you, and see what you think of it."
The man kneeled. Curtis drew back his arm, but realized that he could not get sufficient swing in a sitting posture.