The Luck of the Kid

by Ridgwell Cullum

He re-loaded. The canoe was in full view now, and the temptation was irresistible. Again he pressed the trigger, and another life had passed.

He lowered his weapon and watched. The short man amidships was about to answer. He saw a rifle raised. The shot echoed against the granite walls behind it. And something like a smile lit the hunter’s eyes, for the man had fired into the forest far below where he was securely seated. Instantly he re-loaded, and, a moment later, a sixth victim fell to his lethal weapon.

He dropped from his “crow’s nest” and ran on through the dark aisles that hid him so well. Every foot of the way was mapped in his mind. He had laid his trail with the skill of a man who, knowing his craft, will not yield one fraction of his advantage. So he passed on to where the forest narrowed down by reason of the Fire Hill, whose ponderous slopes came down almost to the river bank.

He passed from the forest and began the ascent of the hill. Here there was no cover but the rough, protruding boulders on the blackened slopes. But he had reached a point of calculated recklessness when he knew he must court greater chances for the success he desired. There had been ten men in the canoe when first he had welcomed the sight of it upon the river. Ten men, all of whom had participated in the wanton destruction of everything in the world that had meant life, and hope, and home to him. Now there were only four.

The canoe was within a mile of its destination, and he had decided before that destination was reached only one single man of its complement must remain alive. His purpose was implacable. Vengeance consumed the man. And it was the vengeance that only the savage heart of a creature of his ancestry could have contemplated.

He passed on up the slope with the speed of some swiftfooted forest creature. And the smoke haze rising from the summit partially obscured the drab of his clothing against the blackened ground. Up towards the belching crown he moved, but ever with a glance flung backward lest the increasing density of the smoke cloud should mar his view of the things below.

At last he came to a halt. The point had been reached when he dared proceed no farther. The haze, in the brilliant air, was sufficient to screen him without obscuring his vision of the river. So he took up a position behind a boulder, and leant upon it with his rifle supported for steadiness on its clean-cut surface. For some moments he watched the fierce efforts of the remainder of the crew of the canoe to make the shelter of the house something less than a mile away to his left.

Yes, there were four of them only. And all four were paddling literally for their lives. He watched them closely, a devilish smile lighting his satisfied eyes. And he saw that the rhythm of their stroke had been lost, and the speed of the vessel was infinitely slow. Oh, yes, he understood. Panic had done its work. The panic inspired by complete impotence. They were there a target for just so long as they were in the open of the river. There was no shelter for them anywhere. The granite of the far wall of the river cut off escape, and the forest on the hither side contained the deadly, unseen danger. So there was nothing left them but to race on, zigzagging a course down the river in the hope of escape from the deadly fire.

He re-adjusted the sights of his rifle and judged his distance. Slowly and very deliberately he pressed the trigger. The shot passed over the canoe. He re-loaded without concern, and his second shot left only three paddles dipping. The man in the bow of the boat squatted drooping and clutching for support.

He waited for the final result of his shot, and it came as the man yielded his hold and dropped helplessly into the bottom of the boat. Again he laid his weapon. Two more shots rang out from the smoke shroud of the burning hill. Then, after a brief interval, two more carried their deadly burden. The man re-loaded again and again till a pile of empty shells lay close beside him. Then, at last, he rose from his crouching position and stretched his cramping limbs. He slung his hot rifle upon his shoulder, and stood gazing down upon the slowly moving boat as it laboured over the water. He was completely satisfied. Now there was left but one man to drive the heavy vessel to the haven which should mean shelter from his murderous sniping.