At length, after Leslie had been in ambush for nearly three hours, he saw Turnbull approaching among the trees, carrying what appeared to be a map or plan in his hand, which he consulted from time to time, with
frequent pauses to stare about him as though in search of certain landmarks. As the burly ruffian drew nearer, Dick took a revolver from his pocket and finally scrutinised it to make absolutely certain that it was in perfect working order. Slowly the fellow approached, muttering curses below his breath at the unevenness of the way and the unsimilarity of the landscape with that described in the document which he carried. Presently he went, stumbling and execrating, close past the spot where Leslie remained concealed, and the latter at once rose to his feet and followed him noiselessly, at a distance of some fifteen paces. In this fashion the two men covered a distance of about a quarter of a mile, when Turnbull once more paused to consult his map.
At the same moment Leslie halted, and, levelling his revolver at the boatswain’s head, said—
“It is no good, Turnbull; you will never find the place without my help. No, you don’t! Throw up your hands. Over your head with them, quick, or I’ll fire! Do you hear what I say, sir? Well, take that, then, you obstinate mule, as a hint to do as you are told in future!”
And as Leslie spoke he pulled the trigger of his revolver, and sent a bullet through the man’s left arm, shattering the bone above the elbow.
For, with the sound of Dick’s voice, Turnbull had faced about, and, with a bitter curse, made as though he would plunge his hands into the side-pockets of the pilot jacket that he was wearing. As the shot struck him he gave vent to another curse that ended in a sharp howl of anguish as he flung his uninjured arm above his head.
“What the blazes are ye doin’ of?” he yelled in impotent fury. “D’ye know that you’ve broke my arm?”
“Sorry,” remarked Dick, nonchalantly, “but you would have it, you know. I distinctly ordered you to throw up your hands, and you immediately attempted to plunge them into your pockets to get at your revolvers. If you compel me to shoot again I shall shoot to kill, so I hope that, for your own sake, you will make no further attempt to do anything foolish. Now, right about face, and march. I will tell you how to steer. And be very careful to keep that right hand of yours well above your head.”
“Ain’t you goin’ to bind up this wound of mine for me, then?” demanded Turnbull. “And what right have you got to shoot at me, I’d like to know?”