the macadam road, and now there was only a roadster between us; and I knew it and they didn’t.
From near the radiator Kilcourse spoke softly:
“I’m going to try to knock him off from the ditch. Take a shot at him now and then to keep him busy.”
“I can’t see him,” the girl protested.
“Your eyes’ll be all right in a second. Take a shot at the car anyway.”
I moved toward the radiator as the girl’s pistol barked at the empty touring car.
Kilcourse, on hands and knees, was working his way toward the ditch that ran along the south side of the road. I gathered my legs under me, intent upon a spring and a blow with my gun upon the back of his head. I didn’t want to kill him, but I wanted to put him out of the way quick. I’d have the girl to take care of, and she was at least as dangerous as he.
As I tensed for the spring, Kilcourse, guided perhaps by some instinct of the hunted, turned his head and saw me—saw a threatening shadow.
Instead of jumping I fired.
I didn’t look to see whether I had hit him or not. At that range there was little likelihood of missing. I bent double and slipped back to the rear of the roadster, keeping on my side of it.
Then I waited.
The girl did what I would perhaps have done in her place. She didn’t shoot or move toward the place the shot had come from. She thought I had forestalled Kilcourse in using the ditch and that my next play would