CHAPTER XXIII
The American Broom
VAULTING over the stone breastwork Don ducked beneath branches and reached the doorway of the first shelter, desiring to enter cautiously. Upon the instant he grasped the situation within the small space before him, though its precise explanation did not appear until later.
In a corner poor Judson was crouched, staring, shuddering, jabbering. On the floor Wilson lay sprawled out, as one having fallen heavily; inert, unconscious. Beside the fallen man and facing Judson the short, heavy, khaki-clad figure of another stood, pistol in hand, menacing the crazed soldier.
Don had approached quite silently; above the not very distant noise of firing and the jabbering man he had not been heard. But the man on his feet turned his head, his face aflame with hate. The boy, off his guard for the moment, yet with instant presence of mind, saw that he could not draw his automatic and use it, however skillfully, as quickly as the other, with his pistol, could swing and fire. But to dodge was quite another matter, and with a leap to one side Don had the wall between himself and the spy.
Even then the boy was not safe. There had been no cement to put together the stones of the shelter walls, the crevices were large enough to see through and for a bullet to pass through in some directions, if aimed with accuracy.
At the first shot from within the shelter, Don felt something strike his hip; another and another shot and he knew the spy was trying to shoot through a hole in the wall before which the boy stood. He had become the target of this would-be assassin, as he had once made the fellow his target from this same spot. Don could not retreat; a shot from the doorway, or from a crack, with the muzzle of the other’s pistol placed in it might easily get him. And Don dared not play the game for fear of hitting Judson.
Chance then favored him a little, even if against him with the creviced wall. Below where he stood a large rock on edge at the base of the wall extended a yard or more upward and from the corner of the doorway. Another shot came from the spy and, uttering an exclamation not unlike a groan, Don dropped to the ground. This bullet had been better aimed; it had dislodged a bit of stone through the crack and this had hit the lad a blow over his stomach that felt like the kick of a mule. Fair on the solar plexus the blow landed and there is no surer place where one may be hit to score a knock-out.
For an instant almost insensible with pain, then sickened and nearly helpless, his nervous energy at a standstill, but his mind struggling, groping, demanding swift self-consciousness and muscular action, the boy got upon his hands and knees.
Within the spy must have known that Don was hit; perhaps wounded or killed. A gasp of pain, then a sound as of falling and a struggle probably convinced him that his last shot had won the fight. But he must be sure.
The big rock prevented the fellow’s seeing what had happened to Don; therefore he crept stealthily forward to the wall, sought a crevice and tried to peep through it. All he could see at the downward angle was a figure apparently lying there. Inert? It did not move as the spy gazed. There could be little doubt of the outcome now.