"Dang rotten toy!" he sputtered, slamming the borrowed gun on the table. "Gi' me my own. I got two cartridges left. One'll do. Thar ain't no better place for it."
The crowd beneath Koppy's perch was growing fast. The Pole could hear their whispered exclamations, see the whites of their faces turned up to him for the report of each shot. In a wave of anger and misgiving he realised the rashness of adding another responsibility to those of leadership. Only too eagerly they were piling on his solitary shoulders the whole burden of the fight.
He must kill the boss! He must kill the boss!
It ran through his head like a threat—a dirge. His aim wavered. Bullet after bullet sped harmlessly about Torrance. A cold sweat broke out on the Pole. He leaned out to order others into the surrounding trees—but realised as he glowered into their upturned faces that this was no time for orders, but for action.
He reported a hit—boasted, shouted, forced himself to laugh exultantly.
Where would it all end?
He gripped his fists until the nails bit into his palms, and took a fresh hold of himself. With set teeth, steadier than he had ever been, he thrust the rifle out again along the branch.
At that instant Werner clambered up the grade—and close behind him
Morani.
Koppy gasped. A flash of pride at the unexpected temerity of two of his lieutenants. But it faded swiftly before two driving fears. Torrance had risen to meet them; and Koppy knew the force of that great fist. But if his own men won! Koppy had a vision of vanished glory—of lost leadership. Morani and Werner had taken their lives in their hands to accomplish that which he was failing to do from the protection of a tree.
Snapping his teeth together, he put his eye coolly to the rear sight. If his own men were in the way—well, that was their lookout. He was aiming at Torrance.