For a moment the group remained immovable; De Richleau with the reins in one hand and his whip in the other; Simon leaning back in the sleigh; Rex standing in the snow beside the horses; and the soldier halted, his rifle raised, only a few feet away.
The Duke gave a sharp, rasping command in Russian. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that the man was taken off his guard. Before he had realized what he was doing he had jerked back his shoulders and raised his rifle preparatory to “grounding arms”; the next second he had checked his automatic impulse, but it was too late. The instant his eyes left the American’s face and his rifle tilted Rex sprang upon him, and they crashed to the ground together.
By the mercy of Heaven the rifle did not go off. Simon and the Duke leapt from the sleigh. Rex and the Red Guard were rolling in the snow; first one on top, then the other.
“Don’t shoot,” cried the Duke anxiously, as he saw Simon whip out his big automatic.
The struggle was brief; the soldier was a big fellow, but not big enough to put up a serious fight once Rex had him in his powerful grip. In less than a minute he was on his back with Van Ryn’s hands tight about his throat.
Simon did not hesitate — the lesson of Sverdlovsk had not been lost upon him. The man must be silenced somehow, or De Richleau’s long knife would be between his ribs. He stooped and hit the man a stunning blow on the head with the butt end of his pistol.
The Red Guard lay still, a grey heap on the whiteness of the snow.
“What’ll we do with this bird?” asked Rex.
“Can’t leave him here,” said Simon. “He’ll raise the alarm when he comes to.”
“Throw him in the bottom of the sleigh,” De Richleau suggested. “We will deal with him later.”