night was shattered by the bang of a gun. The slug fanned the top of my head as it zipped past
like a vicious hornet. That shooting was much too good. I threw myself flat, rolled my legs
under me, turned a somersault and was under cover again. The gun banged once more and the
slug flung up sand into my face.
I was now as calm as an old lady with burglars in the house. Sweating and swearing. I
plunged on, diving towards thicker cover, shaking the bushes, stamping the sand like a
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runaway rhinoceros. Again the gun banged, and this time the slug slid along the back of my
hand, breaking the skin and burning me as if I had been touched with a red-hot poker. I
dropped flat and lay panting, holding my hand, unable to see anything beyond roots and
branches and prickly sand-grass.
If Buffalo Bill out there took it into his head to close in for the kill I would be in a pretty
lousy position. I had to keep moving. The cabin still seemed to be a long way away, but there
was cover, and, providing I could move without making any noise, I still felt confident Id get
there. I wasnt going to take any more chances. Whoever it was out there could shoot. At that
distance he had nearly bagged me, and that is shooting of a very high order. I wasnt in a
panic, but I was sweating ice, and my heart was banging like a steam-hammer. I began to
crawl on hands and knees through the sand, moving as quickly as I could, making no noise. I
had gone about fifty feet when I heard a rustle of grass and a sudden snapping of a dry twig. I
froze, listening, holding my breath, my nerves creeping like spiders legs up and down my
spine. More grass rustled, followed by a soft, whoosing sound of disturbed sand: close, too
damned close. I lowered myself flat, lay hugging the sand, the hair on the back of my neck
bristling.
A few yards away a bush moved, another twig snapped, then silence. He was right on top
of me, and, listening, I imagined I heard him breathing.
There was nothing for me to do but wait, so I waited. Minutes ticked by. He probably
guessed I was right by him and he waited, too, hoping I would make a sound so he could
locate me. I was willing to wait like that all night, and, after what seemed to me hours, he
again shifted his position, but this time away from me. I still didnt move. I listened to his
footfalls as he moved from bush to bush, searching for me. Very slowly, very cautiously, I
came up on hands and knees. Inch by inch I raised my head until I could see through the
thinning branches of the scrub bush. Then I saw him. Big Boy! There he was in his fawn hat,
his shoulders like a barn door, his flattened nose and ear ugly in the moonlight. He stood
about thirty yards from me, a Colt .45 in his fist. He was half-turned away from me, his eyes
searching the bushes to my right. If I had had a gun I could have picked him off with no more
trouble than shooting a rabbit at the same distance with a shot-gun. But I hadnt got a gun,
and all I could do was to watch him and hope he would go away.
He remained motionless, tense, his gun arm advanced. Then he turned and faced me and
began to move towards me, a little aimlessly as if he wasnt sure if he was coming in the right
direction, but determined to find me.
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I began to sweat again. Ten good paces would bring him right on top of me. I crouched
down, listening to his cautious approach, my heart hammering, my breath held behind
clenched teeth.
He stopped within three feet of me. I could see his thick trousered legs through the bush. If
I could get his gun
He turned sp his back was towards me. I jumped him. My hands, my brain, my spring were
all directed on his gun. Both my hands closed on his thick wrist and my shoulder thudded into
his chest, sending him staggering. He gave a startled yelp: a blend of fury and alarm. I bent
his wrist, crushed his fingers, clawed at the gun. For a split second I had it all my own way.
He was paralysed by the surprise of my spring, by the pain as I squeezed his fingers against
the butt of the gun. Then as I had the gun he came into action. His fist slammed into the side
of my neck, a chopping blow, hard enough to drive a six-inch nail into oak. I shot into the
bushes, still clinging to the gun, trying to get my finger around the trigger, but not making it
before his boot kicked the gun out of my hand. It went sailing away into the scrub. Well, that
was all right. If I hadnt got it, he hadnt either.
He came at me with a shambling rush, tearing his way through the bushes to get at me. But
those sand bushes require respect. They dont like being rushed at, and he hadnt taken more
than a couple of leaping steps before his toe stubbed against a root and he went sprawling.
That gave me time to get to my feet and leg it towards the open. If we had to fight I wasnt
going to be hampered by a lot of grass turfs, scrub and bush roots. This guy was a lot heavier
than I, and had a punch like the kick of a mule, and I was still dazed from that chop on the
neck. I didnt want another. The only satisfactory way to fight him was to have plenty of
space to get away and come in again.
He was up on his feet and after me in split seconds, and he could move. He caught up with
me as I broke through the last screen of bushes. I dodged his first rush, socked him on the
nose as he came in again and collected a bang on the side of my head that made my teeth
rattle.
The moonlight fell fully on his face as he came in again: a cold, brutal, murderous mask;
the face of a man who intends to kill, and nobody or nothing is going to stop him. I jumped
away, wheeled back and slugged him on his squashed ear, sending him reeling, and that gave
me confidence. He might be big, but he could be hit and he could be hurt. He grunted,
crouched, shook his head, his hands moving forward with hooked fingers. I didnt wait for his
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rush, but went in hitting with both fists. But this time his face wasnt there, and his hands
fastened on the front of my coat, pulling me against him.
I jerked up my knee, but he knew all about that kind of fighting, and had already turned
sideways on, taking the hard jab of my knee against his thigh. One of his hands shifted and
grabbed at my throat as I slugged him in the ribs. He grunted again, but his fingers, like steel
hooks, dug into my windpipe.
Then I really went for him. I knew once he weakened me I was done for, and that
paralysing grip on my throat could sap my strength in seconds if I didnt break his hold. I
hammered at his ribs, then, as he still clung on, I dug my fingers into his eyes.
He gave a sharp screech, let go of my throat and staggered back. I went after him, belting
him about the body. He held his eyes and took what I handed out. There was nothing much he
could do about it, and I hammered him to his knees. There was no point in breaking my fists
on him, so I stepped back and waited for him to uncover. His breath came in short sobbing
gasps. He tried to get to his feet, but couldnt make it. Groaning, he dropped his hands to
hoist himself up, and that was what I was waiting for. I measured him, swung a punch at him
that came up from the sand and connected on the point of his jaw. He went over backwards,
flopped about, scrabbling in the sand like a wounded squirrel, started climbing to his feet, fell