The Luck of the Kid

by Ridgwell Cullum

Every now and again Usak paused in the shelter of a great forest bole, and his fierce eyes searched for opening in the barrier of undergrowth that hid the waters of the river beyond. His patience seemed inexhaustible. Effort was unrelaxing. He was spurred by a lust that was all-consuming.

So he kept pace with the moving vessel that was behind him on the river. His object was to keep ever ahead of it, not remaining a second longer at any given point than his purpose demanded. On, and on, with the swift, silent gait of the hunter, he passed from tree to tree but never did he permit himself to pass out of gunshot of his quarry.

He paused at a fallen tree. To the right of him, looking down the river, was a narrow break in the tangle of undergrowth. He rested his queer, long rifle and searched over the sights, holding a definite spot on the shining waters covered. The man was deadly in his deliberation. Twice he re-adjusted his sights. Then at last, apparently satisfied, stretched prone on the ground under cover of the protecting tree trunk, he waited with the weapon pressed hard into his shoulder, his lean tenacious finger on the trigger, and an eye, that displayed no shadow of mercy, glancing over his sights.

The moments passed in deathly silence. The trees above him creaked in the super-heated twilight. But none of the forest sounds distracted him. His keen ears were listening for one familiar sound. His searching eyes were waiting for one vision in the narrow opening of the undergrowth.

The sound came. And into the open flashed the prow of the approaching canoe. It was more than two hundred yards from the man’s place of concealment, but the distance had been calculated to a fraction with the skill of a great hunter. The finger pressed the trigger.

The hidden man leaped to his feet, a grim look of satisfaction shining in his eyes. He had witnessed the thing he desired. He had seen the man at the vessel’s prow fall forward. And he knew it was the man who had taken the place of an earlier victim.

He was off on the run as an answering shot rang out, and he heard the spat of a bullet strike one of the tree trunks somewhere behind him. There was another shot, and another. But each shot found its home in the upstanding tree-trunks far in the rear of him, and left him grimly unconcerned. It was a battle to the death in a fashion of which he was absolutely master. It mattered not to him if the canoe continued on its course, or retreated, or if the enemy abandoned the river and sought to continue the fight in the twilight of the forests. He knew he held him at his mercy on this great bend of the river. For the far bank was walled by the granite of the great hills which closed in the arena of the Fire Hills. There was no escape.

After awhile he paused again at the foot of a tree that had been rudely storm-blasted. Its crown was shorn and lay a vast tangle on the ground beside it. In a moment, with rifle slung, he had swarmed the broken trunk and lodged himself in the lower branches which still remained. He gazed out over the top of the undergrowth, and a great length of the sweep of the river was spread out before his hungry eyes. The canoe was just entering his field of vision. He settled himself with his back to the tree-trunk, and his knees were bent in a squatting posture with his feet supported on a projecting limb which also helped to screen him from those on the river. He adjusted his sights and prepared to hurl death from his hiding-place.

Slowly he pressed the trigger and his ancient weapon faithfully responded. The ivory sights were unfailing to an eye behind which burned so fierce a desire. He saw the result even with the rifle still pressed to his shoulder, and unconsciously he pronounced the triumphant thought in his mind.

“Four!”