Instinct was his only guide. That
instinct which belongs to the man accustomed to the constant use of a
revolver.
His shot rang out. Again came a cry, inarticulate, fierce. Then
followed the sound of a falling body. Then he let loose a second shot.
But even as it sped he had his answer. Four tongues of flame leaped
out at him in the darkness, and four bullets smote viciously into the
wood behind him.
His second shot had cost him a sharp penalty. The flesh of his forearm
had been ripped by one of those four bullets and he felt the trickle of
warm blood over the unscored flesh.
He crouched behind his barrier. The joy of battle for the highest
stakes for which a man can play was undiminished in him. The wounds he
had received left him all unconcerned. In the thrill of the moment he
had no time for them. The desire to kill was strong, and he knew he
could already count two victims.
But the general in him was foremost, even in the excitement of battle.
The number of his opponents, their next move. These things concerned
him seriously.
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