Bluffer's luck

by W. C. Tuttle

Then he got to his feet, turned to the right around the shed and ran swiftly on his toes, praying that he might not kick a tin can or run into anything. He had his bearings fairly well and it was easier to see ahead as soon as he got away from the buildings.

He didn’t know where the man was, didn’t wait to investigate further, but kept on running. Ahead of him was the dark bulk of a house, and he halted just in time to save himself from running into the fence.

Over the fence he went, dropping to his hands and knees, while he figured out his bearings. Then he went cautiously ahead, his hands reaching out in front of him, until he could touch the building. Quickly he worked to the right, found the corner and moved a few feet to the corner of the unrailed porch. From where he stopped he could reach out and touch the front door of the Prentice house.

Hashknife had been there possibly a full minute when he heard the latch of the old gate click softly. He slipped his gun loose, gripping it tightly and stepped up on the edge of the porch. He could hear the soft slither of gravel as the man came down the walk.

He stopped a few feet away, and Hashknife took a deep breath. He was afraid the man could see him, but his fear was unfounded, for at that moment the man whistled three soft notes. It sounded to Hashknife like the first three notes in “Taps,” as played by a bugler. Then the man came on boldly, moving up the three or four steps to the top of the porch.

He was within reach of Hashknife now, panting slightly. He moved forward and something struck Hashknife’s left elbow. A dish rattled.

“What in hell!” grunted the man.

There was no waiting now. Hashknife jerked forward, struck in the direction of the man’s head, and almost at the same time he reached out his left hand. The swinging gun reached its mark, the man grunted foolishly, and fell forward in to Hashknife, forcing him back against the wall, and at that moment the door opened behind Hashknife.

Came the clatter of falling dishes, smashing on the porch, the rattle of the heavy tray, a sharp exclamation of wonder from the doorway, and Hashknife whirled and dived straight in through the doorway, striking his left shoulder heavily as he came in.

He went to his knees, badly off balance, while a revolver spurted a flame a foot above his body, and the windows of the house danced from the concussion. Again the spurt of orange-coloured flame licked out through the darkness low enough to have scorched him, but he had dropped flat on the carpet.