It was a pretty trick, for it put me between two fires. I was on the
spy's pistol hand as he turned, and he let fly at me, not out of
calculated bravery, as his face plainly showed, but in a flurry of
despair. The motive behind a shot, however, does not matter. It's the
bullet that counts, and his got me just above the left elbow. I was up in
my stirrups, aiming at the sergeant, who was pulling his horse round to be
at me. I saw splinters fly from a bough to his right.
I had not looked to the spy. Now a shot rang out down the lane on his
side. It was followed by a piercing shriek, and this by another shot. In
between the shots, the serjeant wheeled round, and raced off down the lane
for dear life, spurring and flogging like a maniac. It was useless to
follow. My rein hand had lost its grip, my arm felt aflame, and blood was
already dripping fast from my helpless fingers.
Looking down the lane, I saw Weir lying in the road, and a strange
horseman climbing down from his saddle. I rode up to him.
"How d'ye do?" he said affably. "Sorry I could not get the other chap for
you, but I meant having Turnditch.
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