"Are you hit, old man?" To Don's relief the other shook his head.
He seized Manning's arm, and, with that strength and vigor often given to those who find themselves in terrible danger, dragged him to his feet. The tension created by that momentary stoppage brought beads of cold, clammy perspiration to the faces of each.
Dunstan had halted and was yelling frantically for them to come on. A stream of bullets hummed past; a single shot struck the ground ahead.
The race was on once more.
It seemed almost miraculous that none of the runners was brought down during the fusillade that immediately followed. Don Hale could scarcely believe it possible. Renewed hope sprang into his heart; renewed strength came into his body.
A dozen yards only—ten—five.
Breathless, almost exhausted, the aviator's son fairly flung himself across the top of the ridge and down on the other side, and as he did so:
Zip! Zip! Crack!
A branch of a sapling, cut cleanly off by a bullet, came tumbling at his feet.
That final effort sent the boy in a heap. But he was happy—extraordinarily happy—filled, indeed, with a gratitude to providence so great that he could have found no words with which to give it expression. He was safe. Dunstan and Chase were safe—wonderful!—almost unbelievable!