It was the shattering blow of a bullet in the sleigh box above his head which roused la Mancha to turn and fight again. Hitherto he had merely disliked those men behind the snowdrifts, but now he wanted to skin, and burn a few of them slowly, and prayed to the saints that each bullet should inflict a painful and mortal wound, followed by a disagreeable hereafter.
Then he heard footsteps in the creaking snow, and knew that the troop surgeon had found the corpse beside him. He heard the doctor whisper: “Buck? Poor Buck!”
When la Mancha looked round again Dr. Miller was gone and a red-haired trooper was busy stripping the ammunition from the dead man’s belt.
“Down, fool,” said the Blackguard; “that scalp of yours draws fire—you ruddy oot.”
Red lay down on the edge of the dead man’s coat, and threw his feet across the Blackguard’s legs lest the snow should wet them. Then he grunted with content.
“Happy?” asked the Blackguard.
“’Ungry—gimme blood! Look there!”
Red jerked his thumb backwards over his shoulder and showed his chum how one of the officers, Inspector Sarde, lay near them. Sarde was hiding behind the next sleigh on the left, making an abject display of cowardice. “The lantern-jawed, swivel-eyed, white-livered, scarehead, misbegotten, jumped up son of a dog’s wife,” was the Blackguard’s comment.
“I kicked ’im,” Red grinned in ferocious joy, “cruel ’ard, too.”
“Red, help me to clear that bluff in front there; sight at one hundred yards, and fire low.”