Another bullet came whistling through the woods and thunked into a tree overhead.
"They've spotted the source of the beam," van Alen said. "Let's get moving."
"Where to?"
"Anywhere. We've got to misdirect them. I've only got two charges left."
Again came the rustling of branches behind them. Van Alen's horse again, Kesley thought, but this time he was wrong. The bandits were upon them.
All six at once—making a suicide charge on the man with the blaster. They came piling into the copse on foot, swarming around Kesley and van Alen, leaping and clawing and punching.
Van Alen's blaster spurted once, and a sharp-featured bandit took the charge in his stomach. He pitched forward on the Antarctican, who tried desperately to wriggle out from under the corpse. He did—but not before another bandit had seized the hand that held the blaster. There was a bright flare overhead suddenly, and the birds shrieked wildly. With an angry curse at having wasted the last charge, van Alen broke free of the man and hurled the useless blaster away.
Meanwhile Kesley found himself busy. His knife dripped red; he had slashed it into one man's arm, then ripped downward. Another had seized his wrist as he drew back for a second thrust.
Kesley grimaced and groped for the other man's eyes. In the darkness of the copse not even the moon aided vision; it was impossible to see more than a foot or so, and Kesley contended with half-seen shapes rather than men.
The bandit twisted upward sharply. A bolt of pain shot through Kesley's arm. Numbed, he let the knife slip from his grasp. It vanished underfoot.