The Last Shot | Page 6

right. She shared his elation. Then he

found that the other was uninjured, just as she cried in distress:
"But your hand--oh, your hand!"
His left hand hung limp from the wrist, cut, mashed, and bleeding. Its
nerves numbed, he had not as yet felt any pain from the injury. Now he
regarded it in a kind of awakening stare of realization of a deformity to
come.
"Wool-gathering again!" he muttered to himself crossly.
Then, seeing that she had turned white, he thrust the disgusting thing
behind his back and twinged with the movement. The pain was
arriving.
"It must be bandaged! I have a handkerchief!" she begged. "I'm not
going to faint or anything like that!"
"Only bruised--and it's the left. I am glad it was not the right," he
replied. Westerling arrived and joined Marta in offers of assistance just
as they heard the prolonged honk of an automobile demanding the right
of way at top speed in the direction of the pass.
"Thank you, but they're coming for me," said Lanstron to Westerling as
he glanced up the road.
Westerling was looking at the wreck. Lanstron, who recognized him as
an officer, though in mufti, kicked a bit of the torn cloth over some
apparatus to hide it. At this Westerling smiled faintly. Then Lanstron
saluted as officer to officer might salute across the white posts, giving
his name and receiving in return Westeling's.
They made a contrast, these two men, the colonel of the Grays, swart
and sturdy, his physical vitality so evident, and the captain of the
Browns, some seven or eight years the junior, bareheaded, in
dishevelled fatigue uniform, his lips twitching, his slender body
quivering with the pain that he could not control, while his rather bold
forehead and delicate, sensitive features suggested a man of nerve and

nerves who might have left experiments in a laboratory for an
adventure in the air. There was a kind of challenge in their glances; the
challenge of an ancient feud of their peoples; of the professional rivalry
of polite duellists. Lanstron's slight figure seemed to express the
weaker number of the three million soldiers of the Browns;
Westerling's bulkier one, the four million five hundred thousand of the
Grays.
"You had a narrow squeak and you made a very snappy recovery at the
last second," said Westerling, passing a compliment across the white
posts. Marta could literally see a white post there between the two.
"That's in the line of duty for you and me, isn't it?" Lanstron replied, his
voice thick with pain as he forced a smile.
There was no pose in his fortitude. He was evidently disgusted with
himself over the whole business, and he turned to the group of three
officers and a civilian who alighted from a big Brown army automobile
as if he were prepared to have them say their worst. They seemed
between the impulse of reprimanding and embracing him.
"I hope that you are not surprised at the result," said the oldest of the
officers, a man of late middle age, rather affectionately and teasingly.
He wore a single order on his breast, a plain iron cross, and the insignia
of his rank was that of a field-marshal.
"Not now. I should be again, sir," said Lanstron, looking full at the
field-marshal in the appeal of one asking for another chance. "I was
wool-gathering. My mind was off duty for a second and I got a lesson
in self-control at the expense of the machine. I treated it worse than it
deserved, and it treated me better than I deserved. But I shall not
wool-gather next time. I've got a reminder more urgent than a string
tied around my finger."
"Yes, that hand needs immediate attention," said the doctor. He and
another officer began helping Lanstron into the automobile.
"The first flight ever made over a range--even a low one! Thirty miles

straightaway!" remarked the civilian, making a cursory examination of
the wreck of the machine which was a pattern known by his name.
"Very educational for our young man," said the field-marshal, and at
sight of Mrs. Galland paused while they exchanged the greetings of old
friends.
"Your Excellency, may we send back for you, sir?" called the doctor.
He was not one to let rank awe him when duty pressed. "This hand
ought to be at the hospital at once."
"I'm coming along. I've a train to catch," replied His Excellency,
springing into the car. "No more wool-gathering, eh?" he said, giving
Lanstron a pat on the shoulder. To Lanstron this pat meant another
chance.
"Good-by!" he called to the young girl, who was still watching him
with big, sympathetic eyes. "I am coming back soon and land in the
field, there, and when I do. I'll claim