Barely had Sheldon reached the
Balesuna, when he heard the faint
report of a distant rifle and
knew it was the signal of Tudor,
giving notice that he had reached
the Berande, turned about, and
was coming back. Sheldon fired
his rifle into the air in answer,
and in turn proceeded to advance.
He moved as in a dream, absent-
mindedly keeping to the open
beach. The thing was so preposterous
that he had to struggle to realize
it, and he reviewed in his mind
the conversation with Tudor,
trying to find some clue to the
common-sense of what he was doing.
He did not want to kill Tudor.
Because that man had blundered
in his love-making was no reason
that he, Sheldon, should take
his life. Then what was it all
about? True, the fellow had insulted
Joan by his subsequent remarks
and been knocked down for it,
but because he had knocked him
down was no reason that he should
now try to kill him.
In this fashion he covered
a quarter of the distance between
the two rivers, when it dawned
upon him that Tudor was not on
the beach at all. Of course not.
He was advancing, according to
the terms of the agreement, in
the shelter of the cocoanut trees.
Sheldon promptly swerved to the
left to seek similar shelter,
when the faint crack of a rifle
came to his ears, and almost
immediately the bullet, striking
the hard sand a hundred feet
beyond him, ricochetted and whined
onward on a second flight, convincing
him that, preposterous and unreal
as it was, it was nevertheless
sober fact. It had been intended
for him. Yet even then it was
hard to believe. He glanced over
the familiar landscape and at
the sea dimpling in the light
but steady breeze. From the direction
of Tulagi he could see the white
sails of a schooner laying a
tack across toward Berande. Down
the beach a horse was grazing,
and he idly wondered where the
others were. The smoke rising
from the copra-drying caught
his eyes, which roved on over
the barracks, the tool-houses,
the boat- sheds, and the bungalow,
and came to rest on Joan's little
grass house in the corner of
the compound.
Keeping now to the shelter
of the trees, he went forward
another quarter of a mile. If
Tudor had advanced with equal
speed they should have come together
at that point, and Sheldon concluded
that the other was circling.
The difficulty was to locate
him. The rows of trees, running
at right angles, enabled him
to see along only one narrow
avenue at a time. His enemy might
be coming along the next avenue,
or the next, to right or left.
He might be a hundred feet away
or half a mile. Sheldon plodded
on, and decided that the old
stereotyped duel was far simpler
and easier than this protracted
hide-and-seek affair. He, too,
tried circling, in the hope of
cutting the other's circle; but,
without catching a glimpse of
him, he finally emerged upon
a fresh clearing where the young
trees, waist-high, afforded little
shelter and less hiding. Just
as he emerged, stepping out a
pace, a rifle cracked to his
right, and though he did not
hear the bullet in passing, the
thud of it came to his ears when
it struck a palm-trunk farther
on.
He sprang back into the protection
of the larger trees. Twice he
had exposed himself and been
fired at, while he had failed
to catch a single glimpse of
his antagonist. A slow anger
began to burn in him. It was
deucedly unpleasant, he decided,
this being peppered at; and nonsensical
as it really was, it was none
the less deadly serious. There
was no avoiding the issue, no
firing in the air and getting
over with it as in the old-fashioned
duel. This mutual man-hunt must
keep up until one got the other.
And if one neglected a chance
to get the other, that increased
the other's chance to get him.
There could be no false sentiment
about it. Tudor had been a cunning
devil when he proposed this sort
of duel, Sheldon concluded, as
he began to work along cautiously
in the direction of the last
shot.
When he arrived at the spot,
Tudor was gone, and only his
foot- prints remained, pointing
out the course he had taken into
the depths of the plantation.
Once, ten minutes later, he caught
a glimpse of Tudor, a hundred
yards away, crossing the same
avenue as himself but going in
the opposite direction. His rifle
half-leaped to his shoulder,
but the other was gone. More
in whim than in hope of result,
grinning to himself as he did
so, Sheldon raised his automatic
pistol and in two seconds sent
eight shots scattering through
the trees in the direction in
which Tudor had disappeared.
Wishing he had a shot-gun, Sheldon
dropped to the ground behind
a tree, slipped a fresh clip
up the hollow butt of the pistol,
threw a cartridge into the chamber,
shoved the safety catch into
place, and reloaded the empty
clip.
It was but a short time after
that that Tudor tried the same
trick on him, the bullets pattering
about him like spiteful rain,
thudding into the palm trunks,
or glancing off in whining ricochets.
The last bullet of all, making
a double ricochet from two different
trees and losing most of its
momentum, struck Sheldon a sharp
blow on the forehead and dropped
at his feet. He was partly stunned
for the moment, but on investigation
found no greater harm than a
nasty lump that soon rose to
the size of a pigeon's egg.
The hunt went on. Once, coming
to the edge of the grove near
the bungalow, he saw the house-boys
and the cook, clustered on the
back veranda and peering curiously
among the trees, talking and
laughing with one another in
their queer falsetto voices.
Another time he came upon a working-gang
busy at hoeing weeds. They scarcely
noticed him when he came up,
though they knew thoroughly well
what was going on. It was no
affair of theirs that the enigmatical
white men should be out trying
to kill each other, and whatever
interest in the proceedings might
be theirs they were careful to
conceal it from Sheldon. He ordered
them to continue hoeing weeds
in a distant and out-of-the-way
corner, and went on with the
pursuit of Tudor.
Tiring of the endless circling,
Sheldon tried once more to advance
directly on his foe, but the
latter was too crafty, taking
advantage of his boldness to
fire a couple of shots at him,
and slipping away on some changed
and continually changing course.
For an hour they dodged and turned
and twisted back and forth and
around, and hunted each other
among the orderly palms. They
caught fleeting glimpses of each
other and chanced flying shots
which were without result. On
a grassy shelter behind a tree,
Sheldon came upon where Tudor
had rested and smoked a cigarette.
The pressed grass showed where
he had sat. To one side lay the
cigarette stump and the charred
match which had lighted it. In
front lay a scattering of bright
metallic fragments. Sheldon recognized
their significance. Tudor was
notching his steel-jacketed bullets,
or cutting them blunt, so that
they would spread on striking--in
short, he was making them into
the vicious dum-dum prohibited
in modern warfare. Sheldon knew
now what would happen to him
if a bullet struck his body.
It would leave a tiny hole where
it entered, but the hole where
it emerged would be the size
of a saucer.
He decided
to give up the pursuit, and
lay down in the grass, protected
right and left by the row of
palms, with on either hand the
long avenue extending. This he
could watch. Tudor would have
to come to him or else there
would be no termination of the
affair. He wiped the sweat from
his face and tied the handkerchief
around his neck to keep off the
stinging gnats that lurked in
the grass. Never had he felt
so great a disgust for the thing
called "adventure." Joan had
been bad enough, with her Baden-Powell
and long-barrelled Colt's; but
here was this newcomer also looking
for adventure, and finding it
in no other way than by lugging
a peace- loving planter into
an absurd and preposterous bush-whacking
duel. If ever adventure was well
damned, it was by Sheldon, sweating
in the windless grass and fighting
gnats, the while he kept close
watch up and down the avenue.
Then Tudor
came. Sheldon happened to be
looking in his direction
at the moment he came into view,
peering quickly up and down the
avenue before he stepped into
the open. Midway he stopped,
as if debating what course to
pursue. He made a splendid mark,
facing his concealed enemy at
two hundred yards' distance.
Sheldon aimed at the centre of
his chest, then deliberately
shifted the aim to his right
shoulder, and, with the thought, "That
will put him out of business," pulled
the trigger. The bullet, driving
with momentum sufficient to perforate
a man's body a mile distant,
struck Tudor with such force
as to pivot him, whirling him
half around by the shock of its
impact and knocking him down.
"'Hope I haven't killed the
beggar," Sheldon muttered aloud,
springing to his feet and running
forward.
A hundred feet away all anxiety
on that score was relieved by
Tudor, who made shift with his
left hand, and from his automatic
pistol hurled a rain of bullets
all around Sheldon. The latter
dodged behind a palm trunk, counting
the shots, and when the eighth
had been fired he rushed in on
the wounded man. He kicked the
pistol out of the other's hand,
and then sat down on him in order
to keep him down.
"Be quiet," he said. "I've
got you, so there's no use struggling."
Tudor still attempted to struggle
and to throw him off.
"Keep quiet, I tell you," Sheldon
commanded. "I'm satisfied with
the outcome, and you've got to
be. So you might as well give
in and call this affair closed."
Tudor reluctantly relaxed.
"Rather funny, isn't it, these
modern duels?" Sheldon grinned
down at him as he removed his
weight. "Not a bit dignified.
If you'd struggled a moment longer
I'd have rubbed your face in
the earth. I've a good mind to
do it anyway, just to teach you
that duelling has gone out of
fashion. Now let us see to your
injuries."
"You only got me that last," Tudor
grunted sullenly, "lying in ambush
like--"
"Like a wild Indian. Precisely.
You've caught the idea, old man." Sheldon
ceased his mocking and stood
up. "You lie there quietly until
I send back some of the boys
to carry you in. You're not seriously
hurt, and it's lucky for you
I didn't follow your example.
If you had been struck with one
of your own bullets, a carriage
and pair would have been none
too large to drive through the
hole it would have made. As it
is, you're drilled clean--a nice
little perforation. All you need
is antiseptic washing and dressing,
and you'll be around in a month.
Now take it easy, and I'll send
a stretcher for you."
|