Once he stumbled over a rut in the ground and the nearest man gained several yards. Another shot rang out and this time he heard it snarl angrily over his head. There was fifty yards to go. In ordinary circumstances he could have made it, but the loss of blood from his wound had weakened him, and he knew that it would be but a matter of a few yards at the finish between him and the foremost of his pursuers⁠—point blank range.

He halted abruptly and swinging in his tracks fired blindly at the nearest man. He took no conscious aim, for he knew himself for a rotten shot. He intended it only as a demonstration to check pursuit. But luck was with him. He saw the first man stop in his stride, and seat himself abruptly on the ground, nursing his ankle while he cursed venomously and loudly.