"He has the box!" he screamed. "He has the rifle!"
"He has no ammunition but what's in the magazine," said I; and that started Will off swearing at himself all over again from the beginning.
"You damned yegg!" he complained as he knotted two strips of shirt. "This would never have happened if you hadn't sneaked out to steal the contents of the box!"
Suddenly Coutlass screamed again, like a mad stallion smelling battle.
"There he is! There the swine is! I see him! I hear him! Give me that—"
He reached for my rifle, but I was too quick that time and stepped back out of range of his arm. As I did that the blood burst anew from his wounds. He put his left hand to his side and scattered the hot blood up in the air in a sort of votive offering to the gods of Greek revenge, and, brandishing the long knife, tore away into the dark.
"I see him!" he yelled. "I see the swine! By Gassharamminy! To-night his naked feet'll blister on the floor of hell!"
We followed him, enthralled by mixed motives made of desire and a sort of half-genuine respect for the courage of this man, who claimed three countries and disgraced each one at intervals in turn. We did not go so fast as he. We were not so enamored of the risks the dark contained.
Suddenly there came out of the blackness just ahead a marrow-curdling cry—agony, rage, and desperation—that surely no human ever uttered—roar, yelp of pain, and battle-cry in one.
"Help!" yelled Coutlass. "Help! Oh-ah! Ah!"