“Righto.”
Hawk led the way down into the thorn-bushes and dried-up plants. I followed close at his heels. We crouched as we went and kept well under cover. Hawk took a semicircular route, which I could see would ultimately bring us out by the side of the rock under which the sniper hid.
Now we caught a glimpse of the little dark figure—then we plunged deeper into the rank willow-growth and bore round to the right.
Hawk unslung the great jack-knife which hung round his waist and silently opened the gleaming blade. I did the same.
“I'll surprise him; you can leave it to me to get in a good slash,” said Hawk, and I saw the great muscles of his miner's arms tighten. “But if he gets one in on me,” he whispered, “be ready with your knife at the back of his neck.”
A few steps farther brought us suddenly upon the rock and the sniper. Hawk was immediately in front of me, and his arm was held back ready for a mighty blow. He stood perfectly still looking at the rock, and I watched his muscles relax.
“See it?” he said.
“What?”
“Dead.”
There was the Turk—a great heat-swollen figure stinking in the sunshine. As I moved forward a swarm of green and black flies, which had been feeding on his face and crawling up his nostrils, went up in a humming, buzzing cloud.