So urging his buckskin to unusual speed he turned into the Pine Croft drive and in his old buckboard rattled up toward the bungalow.
As he turned toward the stables the figure of a man, wildly dishevelled, hurled itself down the front steps and rushed toward a horse tied at the garden gate. It was Sleeman, white of face, wild of eye, mad with fear, and rushing as if hunted by ten thousand devils.
“What’s wrong? What’s up, Mr. Sleeman?” cried the minister, pulling his horse to a standstill.
As he spoke there came from the bungalow a succession of piercing cries, weird, wild, unlike anything he had ever heard, then the sound of a shot, then a long, loud wailing.
“God help us! What is that?” cried Mr. Fraser, making for the door. “Wait, you may be needed.” But Sleeman, tearing at the reins, had got them free and, flinging himself across his horse, swung off down the drive. Before he could get under way forth from the door came Paul, a smoking gun in his hand, cleared the steps at a single bound, and, eluding the grasp of the minister, rushed through the gate and pulled his gun upon the flying horseman. The shot went wide, a second and a third failed of the mark. The fourth shot found the foreleg of the horse. The animal stumbled, recovered itself, then finally plunged headlong to earth, flinging its rider heavily to the ground. With a glad yell the boy ran swiftly forward, his gun held steadily in position, waiting for the man to rise. But before he could get his “bead” the minister, shouting “Paul! Paul! don’t shoot! don’t shoot, boy!” had covered the intervening space and reached the boy’s side, just as the fleeing man struggled on the road side to his feet and running low made for the bushes.
As the minister touched the boy’s arm the flame leaped from the gun muzzle, the flying figure stumbled, fell, rose and disappeared in the underbrush.
“Paul! Paul! what are you doing? Stop! Stop! Listen to me, Paul.” The minister’s arms were thrown around the boy. But like one possessed and with a man’s strength the sinewy muscles writhed free from the encircling arms.
Breathless, bewildered, the boy stood a moment, summoning his wits and his strength, when from the doorway a voice came gasping, “Paul, boy! I want you.”
“Daddy!” cried the boy, and flinging his gun down he ran toward his father.
“Daddy! oh, Daddy, dear! are you hurt?” He caught his father in his arms and held him fast.