Huddled1 behind a rock which was scarcely larger than his body, groveling in the white, soft sand like a turtle making a nest for its eggs, Carrigan told himself this without any reservation. He was, as he kept repeating to himself for the comfort of his soul, in a deuce of a fix. His head was bare—simply because a bullet had taken his hat away. His blond hair was filled with sand. His face was sweating. But his blue eyes were alight with a grim sort of humor, though he knew that unless the other fellow's ammunition2 ran out he was going to die.
For the twentieth time in as many minutes he looked about him. He was in the center of a flat area of sand. Fifty feet from him the river murmured gently over yellow bars and a carpet of pebbles3. Fifty feet on the opposite side of him was the cool, green wall of the forest. The sunshine playing in it seemed like laughter to him now, a whimsical sort of merriment roused by the sheer effrontery5 of the joke which fate had inflicted6 upon him.
Between the river and the balsam and spruce was only the rock behind which he was cringing7 like a rabbit afraid to take to the open. And his rock was a mere8 up-jutting of the solid floor of shale9 that was under him. The wash sand that covered it like a carpet was not more than four or five inches deep. He could not dig in. There was not enough of it within reach to scrape up as a protection. And his enemy, a hundred yards or so away, was a determined10 wretch—and the deadliest shot he had ever known.
Three times Carrigan had made experiments to prove this, for he had in mind a sudden rush to the shelter of the timber. Three times he had raised the crown of his hat slightly above the top of the rock, and three times the marksmanship of the other had perforated it with neatness and dispatch. The third bullet had carried his hat a dozen feet away. Whenever he showed a patch of his clothing, a bullet replied with unerring precision. Twice they had drawn11 blood. And the humor faded out of Carrigan's eyes.
Not long ago he had exulted12 in the bigness and glory of this country of his, where strong men met hand to hand and eye to eye. There were the other kind in it, the sort that made his profession of manhunting a thing of reality and danger, but he expected these—forgot them—when the wilderness13 itself filled his vision. But his present situation was something unlike anything that had ever happened in his previous experience with the outlawed14. He had faced dangers. He had fought. There were times when he had almost died. Fanchet, the half-breed who had robbed a dozen wilderness mail sledges15, had come nearest to trapping him and putting him out of business. Fanchet was a desperate man and had few scruples16. But even Fanchet—before he was caught—would not have cornered a man with such bloodthirsty unfairness as Carrigan found himself cornered now. He no longer had a doubt as to what was in the other's mind. It was not to wound and make merely helpless. It was to kill. It was not difficult to prove this. Careful not to expose a part of his arm or shoulder, he drew a white handkerchief from his pocket, fastened it to the end of his rifle, and held the flag of surrender three feet above the rock. And then, with equal caution, he slowly thrust up a flat piece of shale, which at a distance of a hundred yards might appear as his shoulder or even his head. Scarcely was it four inches above the top of the rock before there came the report of a rifle, and the shale was splintered into a hundred bits.
Carrigan lowered his flag and gathered himself in tighter. The accuracy of the other's marksmanship was appalling17. He knew that if he exposed himself for an instant to use his own rifle or the heavy automatic in his holster, he would be a dead man before he could press a trigger. And that time, he felt equally sure, would come sooner or later. His muscles were growing cramped18. He could not forever double himself up like a four-bladed jackknife behind the altogether inefficient19 shelter of the rock.
His executioner was hidden in the edge of the timber, not directly opposite him, but nearly a hundred yards down stream. Twenty times he had wondered why the fiend with the rifle did not creep up through that timber and take a good, open pot-shot at him from the vantage point which lay at the end of a straight line between his rock and the nearest spruce and balsam. From that angle he could not completely shelter himself. But the man a hundred yards below had not moved a foot from his ambush20 since he had fired his first shot. That had come when Carrigan was crossing the open space of soft, white sand. It had left a burning sensation at his temple—half an inch to the right and it would have killed him. Swift as the shot itself, he dropped behind the one protection at hand, the up-jutting shoulder of shale.
For a quarter of an hour he had been making efforts to wriggle21 himself free from his bulky shoulder-pack without exposing himself to a coup-de-grace. At last he had the thing off. It was a tremendous relief when he thrust it out beside the rock, almost doubling the size of his shelter. Instantly there came the crash of a bullet in it, and then another. He heard the rattle22 of pans, and wondered if his skillet would be any good after today.
For the first time he could wipe the sweat from his face and stretch himself. And also he could think. Carrigan possessed23 an unalterable faith in the infallibility of the mind. "You can do anything with the mind," was his code. "It is better than a good gun."
Now that he was physically24 more at ease, he began reassembling his scattered25 mental faculties26. Who was this stranger who was pot-shotting at him with such deadly animosity from the ambush below? Who—
Another crash of lead in tinware and steel put an unpleasant emphasis to the question. It was so close to his head that it made him wince27, and now—with a wide area within reach about him—he began scraping up the sand for an added protection. There came a long silence after that third clatter28 of distress29 from his cooking utensils30. To David Carrigan, even in his hour of deadly peril31, there was something about it that for an instant brought back the glow of humor in his eyes. It was hot, swelteringly hot, in that packet of sand with the unclouded sun almost straight overhead. He could have tossed a pebble4 to where a bright-eyed sandpiper was cocking itself backward and forward, its jerky movements accompanied by friendly little tittering noises. Everything about him seemed friendly. The river rippled32 and murmured in cooling song just beyond the sandpiper. On the other side the still cooler forest was a paradise of shade and contentment, astir with subdued33 and hidden life. It was nesting season. He heard the twitter of birds. A tiny, brown wood warbler fluttered out to the end of a silvery birch limb, and it seemed to David that its throat must surely burst with the burden of its song. The little fellow's brown body, scarcely larger than a butternut, was swelling35 up like a round ball in his effort to vanquish36 all other song.
The little warbler, that he might have crushed between thumb and forefinger38, gave him a lot of courage.
Then the tiny chorister stopped for breath. In that interval39 Carrigan listened to the wrangling40 of two vivid-colored Canada jays deeper in the timber. Chronic41 scolds they were, never without a grouch42. They were like some people Carrigan had known, born pessimists43, always finding something to complain about, even in their love days.
And these were love days. That was the odd thought that came to Carrigan as he lay half on his face, his fingers slowly and cautiously working a loophole between his shoulder-pack and the rock. They were love days all up and down the big rivers, where men and women sang for joy, and children played, forgetful of the long, hard days of winter. And in forest, plain, and swamp was this spirit of love also triumphant44 over the land. It was the mating season of all feathered things. In countless45 nests were the peeps and twitters of new life; mothers of first-born were teaching their children to swim and fly; from end to end of the forest world the little children of the silent places, furred and feathered, clawed and hoofed46, were learning the ways of life. Nature's yearly birthday was half-way gone, and the doors of nature's school wide open. And the tiny brown songster at the end of his birch twig47 proclaimed the joy of it again, and challenged all the world to beat him in his adulation.
Carrigan found that he could peer between his pack and the rock to where the other warbler was singing—and where his enemy lay watching for the opportunity to kill. It was taking a chance. If a movement betrayed his loophole, his minutes were numbered. But he had worked cautiously, an inch at a time, and was confident that the beginning of his effort to fight back was, up to the present moment, undiscovered. He believed that he knew about where the ambushed48 man was concealed49. In the edge of a low-hanging mass of balsam was a fallen cedar50. From behind the butt34 of that cedar he was sure the shots had come.
And now, even more cautiously than he had made the tiny opening, he began to work the muzzle51 of his rifle through the loophole. As he did this he was thinking of Black Roger Audemard. And yet, almost as quickly as suspicion leaped into his mind, he told himself that the thing was impossible. It could not be Black Roger, or one of Black Roger's friends, behind the cedar log. The idea was inconceivable, when he considered how carefully the secret of his mission had been kept at the Landing. He had not even said goodby to his best friends. And because Black Roger had won through all the preceding years, Carrigan was stalking his prey52 out of uniform. There had been nothing to betray him. Besides, Black Roger Audemard must be at least a thousand miles north, unless something had tempted53 him to come up the rivers with the spring brigades. If he used logic54 at all, there was but one conclusion for him to arrive at. The man in ambush was some rascally55 half-breed who coveted56 his outfit57 and whatever valuables he might have about his person.
A fourth smashing eruption58 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 kit59.
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 unintelligible60 shout in response to the rifle shot. It occurred to David that he might make a trumpet61 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 humiliation62 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 perking63 its head and seesawing64 on its long legs as it watched with inquisitive65 inspection66 the unusual manifestation67 of life behind the rock. Its twittering note had changed to an occasional sharp and querulous cry. Carrigan wanted to wring68 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 flattened69 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 clump70 of deeper foliage71. 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 cartridge72. He felt the mighty73 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 discomfort74 of the thought, and in spite of himself a tremor75 of apprehension76 ran up his spine77. 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 tilting78 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 tightened79. 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 plunged80 them suddenly into hot water, and what was left of his skull81 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 revolving82 thing—yet his still fighting mental vision pictured clearly for him a monstrous83, 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 movement. The wood warbler was cheeping inquiringly at this sudden change in the deportment of his friend behind the shoulder of shale. The sandpiper, a bit startled, had gone back to the edge of the river and was running a race with himself along the wet sand. And the two quarrelsome jays had brought their family squabble to the edge of the timber.
It was their wrangling that roused Carrigan to the fact that he was not dead. It was a thrilling discovery—that and the fact that he made out clearly a patch of sunlight in the sand. He did not move, but opened his eyes wider. He could see the timber. On a straight line with his vision was the thick clump of balsam. And as he looked, the boughs84 parted and a figure came out. Carrigan drew a deep breath. He found that it did not hurt him. He gripped the fingers of the hand that was under his body, and they closed on the butt of his service automatic. He would win yet, if God gave him life a few minutes longer.
His enemy advanced. As he drew nearer, Carrigan closed his eyes more and more. They must be shut, and he must appear as if dead, when the other came up. Then, when the scoundrel put down his gun, as he naturally would—his chance would be at hand. If a quiver of his eyes betrayed him—
He closed them tight. Dizziness began to creep over him, and the fire in his brain grew hot again. He heard footsteps, and they stopped in the sand close beside him. Then he heard a human voice. It did not speak in words, but gave utterance85 to a strange and unnatural86 cry. With a mighty effort Carrigan assembled his last strength. It seemed to him that he brought himself up quickly, but his movement was slow, painful—the effort of a man who might be dying. The automatic hung limply in his hand, its muzzle pointing to the sand. He looked up, trying to swing into action that mighty weight of his weapon. And then from his own lips, even in his utter physical impotence, fell a cry of wonder and amazement87.
His enemy stood there in the sunlight, staring down at him with big, dark eyes that were filled with horror. They were not the eyes of a man. David Carrigan, in this most astounding88 moment of his life, found himself looking up into the face of a woman.
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1
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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shale
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| n.页岩，泥板岩 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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15
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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16
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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28
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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vanquish
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| v.征服，战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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39
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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40
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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41
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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grouch
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| n.牢骚，不满；v.抱怨 | |
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43
pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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44
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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45
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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46
hoofed
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| adj.有蹄的，蹄形状的，装蹄的v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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48
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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49
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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50
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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51
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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52
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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53
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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54
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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55
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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56
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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57
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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58
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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61
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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62
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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63
perking
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| （使）活跃( perk的现在分词 )； （使）增值； 使更有趣 | |
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64
seesawing
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| v.使上下（来回）摇动( seesaw的现在分词 )；玩跷跷板，上下（来回）摇动 | |
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65
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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