She laid the rifle level across a low branch, drew the stock snug and laid her cheek to it and her steady finger on the trigger.
"When I say'squeeze,' let him have it! Do you understand, Eve?"
"Perfectly."
Then, with one pistol poised for a drop shot, McKay stepped forward and jerked open the man's pack. And the man neither stirred nor spoke. For a few minutes McKay remained busy with the pack, turning out packets of concentrated rations of American manufacture, bits of personal apparel, a meagre company outfit, spare ammunition—the dozen-odd essentials to be always found in an American hunter's pack.
Then McKay spoke again:
"Eve, keep him covered. Shoot when I say shoot."
"Right," she replied calmly. And to the recumbent and unstirring figure McKay gave a brief order:
"Get up! Hands up!"
The man rose as though made of steel springs and lifted both hands.
Water still ran from his chin and lips and sweating cheeks. But McKay, resting the muzzle of his pistol against the man's abdomen, looked into a face that twitched with laughter.