The Flaming Forest | Page 6

one conclusion for
him to arrive at. The man in ambush was some rascally half-breed who
coveted his outfit and whatever valuables he might have about his
person.
A fourth smashing eruption among his comestibles and culinary
possessions came to drive home the fact that even that analysis of the
situation was absurd. Whoever was behind the rifle fire had small
respect for the contents of his pack, and he was surely not in grievous
need of a good gun or ammunition. A sticky mess of condensed cream
was running over Carrigan's hand. He doubted if there was a whole tin
in his kit.
For a few moments he lay quietly on his face after the fourth shot. His
eyes were turned toward the river, and on the far side, a quarter of a
mile away, three canoes were moving swiftly up the slow current of the
stream. The sunlight flashed on their wet sides. The gleam of dripping
paddles was like the flutter of silvery birds' wings, and across the water
came an unintelligible shout in response to the rifle shot. It occurred to
David that he might make a trumpet of his hands and shout back, but
the distance was too great for his voice to carry its message for help.
Besides, now that he had the added protection of the pack, he felt a
certain sense of humiliation at the thought of showing the white feather.
A few minutes more, if all went well, and he would settle for the man
behind the log.
He continued again the slow operation of worming his rifle barrel
between the pack and the rock. The near-sighted little sandpiper had

discovered him and seemed interested in the operation. It had come a
dozen feet nearer, and was perking its head and seesawing on its long
legs as it watched with inquisitive inspection the unusual manifestation
of life behind the rock. Its twittering note had changed to an occasional
sharp and querulous cry. Carrigan wanted to wring its neck. That cry
told the other fellow that he was still alive and moving.
It seemed an age before his rifle was through, and every moment he
expected another shot. He flattened himself out, Indian fashion, and
sighted along the barrel. He was positive that his enemy was watching,
yet he could make out nothing that looked like a head anywhere along
the log. At one end was a clump of deeper foliage. He was sure he saw
a sudden slight movement there, and in the thrill of the moment was
tempted to send a bullet into the heart of it. But he saved his cartridge.
He felt the mighty importance of certainty. If he fired once--and
missed--the advantage of his unsuspected loophole would be gone. It
would be transformed into a deadly menace. Even as it was, if his
enemy's next bullet should enter that way--
He felt the discomfort of the thought, and in spite of himself a tremor
of apprehension ran up his spine. He felt an even greater desire to
wring the neck of the inquisitive little sandpiper. The creature had
circled round squarely in front of him and stood there tilting its tail and
bobbing its head as if its one insane desire was to look down the length
of his rifle barrel. The bird was giving him away. If the other fellow
was only half as clever as his marksmanship was good--
Suddenly every nerve in Carrigan's body tightened. He was positive
that he had caught the outline of a human head and shoulders in the
foliage. His finger pressed gently against the trigger of his Winchester.
Before he breathed again he would have fired. But a shot from the
foliage beat him out by the fraction of a second. In that precious time
lost, his enemy's bullet entered the edge of his kit--and came through.
He felt the shock of it, and in the infinitesimal space between the
physical impact and the mental effect of shock his brain told him the
horrible thing had happened. It was his head--his face. It was as if he
had plunged them suddenly into hot water, and what was left of his

skull was filled with the rushing and roaring of a flood. He staggered
up, clutching his face with both hands. The world about him was
twisted and black, a dizzily revolving thing--yet his still fighting mental
vision pictured clearly for him a monstrous, bulging-eyed sandpiper as
big as a house. Then he toppled back on the white sand, his arms flung
out limply, his face turned to the ambush wherein his murderer lay.
His body was clear of the rock and the pack, but there came no other
shot from the thick clump of balsam. Nor, for a time, was there