The Lost Valley | Page 3

a Colt--in my experience it never
jams--but I rather fancied my present weapon would do all that was
required, so I slipped back the safety catch with my thumb and whirled
round on my heel to face whatever was coming.
The overture was already over and the invisible marksman had settled
down to steady firing. The fat man was now almost on top of me, and I
saw instantly that that brought me right into the line of fire. It takes a
long time in the telling, but, as I figured it out afterwards, from the
instant the first shot missed the old chap down to the moment I pulled
the trigger, more than half a minute could not have elapsed.
There was only one place in sight where a man could take cover, and
that was a bunch of rocks just a little to the left of my position. I let off
a fancy shot in that direction, and a second later the reply rang out. The
cliff overhead shed a shower of dust on top of the pair of us, and the fat
man crouched into the corner. I knew now where my man was, so I
waited until he exposed himself, as I saw he must do when he fired
again.
"Gimme the gun!" the fat man demanded in the interval.
"Shut up!" I said, without turning my head. "I'm a better shot than you,
I reckon, and, anyway, it's just as much my funeral now as yours. He's
had a shot at me, and that's a thing I don't forgive in a hurry."
"Well, of all the----," I heard him say, and then the rest of his remark
was drowned in the report of my weapon. I had spotted a white wrist
back of a gleam of polished metal and, taking a sporting chance, I let
drive. The other man's gun dropped to the sand, and a yell told me that
I had made no mistake.
"Here's where I come in," I said, and, forgetting the condition of my
feet, I sprinted towards the rocks. But the other fellow had decided that
the place was getting too hot for him, and he made off along the sand as
fast as his legs could carry him. He must have been in excellent trim,

for he shot along the heavy track as if he was running on the
cinder-path, and I saw before I had gone fifty yards that I hadn't a
chance in the world of catching him. Also there were half a dozen black
specks of men a mile or so along the beach, and my reason told me that
homicide before witnesses wasn't likely to prove a healthy pastime. So
I swallowed my pride and, consoling myself with the thought that some
day we might meet again, I wheeled about and made back to the nook.
The fat chap had shed his bathing suit and was climbing into his clothes
when I arrived. He beamed at me and his whole face crinkled into
smiles. I was so afraid that he was going to make a silly speech that I
pushed his automatic into his hands and said, "You'd better take this,
old man. The other party's in swift retreat and, from the condition of his
wrist, I don't fancy you'll receive another billet-doux for some time to
come."
"Well, I'm hanged if you're not the coolest chap I've ever laid eyes on,"
the fat man said admiringly.
"You were nearer being shot," I hinted, "and, if you don't mind me
saying so, the sooner you struggle into those clothes of yours and get
home to mother, the safer you'll be. I don't object to fighting for you
once in a while, but I'll see you further before I make a habit of it."
"Um!" said the fat man, "I'm sorry. I'd hoped to persuade you to take it
on permanently."
I thought at first that he was joking, but the way he looked at me
showed that he was in deadly earnest. For all his flippancy there was
something back of his eyes, a trace of fear that kept peeping out every
now and then, that told me he went in danger of his life. I hated to have
to refuse him, but I had very good reasons, which I intended to keep to
myself, too, for not putting my life into danger too often. So I told him
point-blank that if he wanted to hire a bodyguard he'd have to go
somewhere else. He wasn't as put out at my reply as I would have
expected. Instead he smiled up at me--for all his bulk I towered over
him--and there was a touch of gameness in that smile that I rather liked.
I couldn't help