Cragley's reply was a blue spurt from the muzzle of his pistol. The distance was much too far for accurate firing, but the charge went dangerously close. The outlaws immediately turned tail and ran for their craft. We waited for their next act, knowing that the battle had only commenced.
The space ship shot skyward, circling our wide clump of bushes. The survivors of the C-49 tensed themselves for a destructive bombardment from above. It did not come. Captain Cragley was plainly surprised. He was aware that the outlaw ship carried instant death if they chose to use it.
The craft hovered some two hundred feet above us. Cruising slowly in a circle, it suddenly dropped four objects well outside our improvised stronghold. The projectiles were shaped like torpedoes. The explosions which were expected never came. The projectiles stood straight up from the ground, their front ends imbedded deeply. It was all a strange procedure. Cragley was nonplussed.
"They probably contain explosives," ventured Quentin, answering the question he knew stood out in the captain's mind.
"I'm not so sure of that," said Cragley.
Meanwhile, I had been doing some rapid thinking. Anxiously, I watched the ship above us, keeping myself partially screened from view of any sniper who might be looking down. I turned to the captain, a wild plan outlined in my mind.
"Let me go out there," I offered. "I can——"
"Not on your life!" he exclaimed, placing a restraining hand upon my arm. "It's death to go out there!"
"It's death to remain," I assured him earnestly.
"But not definitely certain," he maintained. "For some reason or other they're holding off from us. We have an advantage of some kind, but damned if I know what it is."