Page:Arthur Stringer - Gun Runner.djvu/360

 ached. He chose his man and emptied his shell until the powder-smoke hung thick and acrid about the little rifle-pit, until his face was streaked and smutted with it, as though it had been lampblacked. He fired until his eyes smarted with the drifting fumes and his lungs ached with their stench. He fired until a sickening smell of scorching oil rose from the metal of his rifles and the empty shells littered the pit-bottom.

But in the end he held the dodging and shifting little denim-clad figures in check, puzzled by the fury of his fire. He swept his appointed ground clear. He allowed no worming and skulking rifleman to advance even twenty paces beyond the creek-bank.

They drew back under cover, bewildered, wondering how many men that overturned car could have held. The staccato of sound dwindled down to a sulky and intermittent dribble of reports. McKinnon saw it, with a shout of gratitude, for he knew that he had reached his utmost limit.

He staggered back to gulp down great swallows of tepid water from the gasoline-can which the girl was holding up for him. Then he helped her reload, and waited for the smoke to lift.

"Have they gone?" she asked.