shooting at. Go ahead.”
Bending as close to the ground as I could, I followed Jack up the path. The position stretched the slash in my back—a scalding pain from between my shoulders almost to my waist. I could feel blood trickling down over my hips—or thought I could.
The going was too dark for stealthiness. Things crackled under our feet, rustled against our shoulders. Our friends in the bush used their guns. Luckily, the sound of twigs breaking and leaves rustling in pitch blackness isn’t the best of targets. Bullets zipped here and there, but we didn’t stop any of them. Neither did we shoot back.
We halted where the end of the bush left the night a weaker gray.
“That’s it,” Jack said about a square shape ahead.
“On the jump,” I grunted and lit out for the dark cottage.
Jack’s long slim legs kept him easily at my side as we raced across the clearing.
A man-shape oozed from behind the blot of the building and his gun began to blink at us. The shots came so close together that they sounded like one long stuttering bang.
Pulling the youngster with me, I flopped, flat to the ground except where a ragged-edged empty tin-can held my face up.
From the other side of the building another gun coughed. From a tree-stem to the right, a third.
Jack and I began to burn powder back at them.
A bullet kicked my mouth full of dirt and pebbles. I spit mud and cautioned Jack: