CHAPTER XXIII The American Broom

VAULTING over the stone breastwork Don ducked beneath branches and reached the doorway of the first shelter, desiring to enter cautiously. Upon the instant he grasped the situation within the small space before him, though its precise explanation did not appear until later.

In a corner poor Judson was crouched, staring, shuddering, jabbering. On the floor Wilson lay sprawled out, as one having fallen heavily; inert, unconscious. Beside the fallen man and facing Judson the short, heavy, khaki-clad figure of another stood, pistol in hand, menacing the crazed soldier.

Don had approached quite silently; above the not very distant noise of firing and the jabbering man he had not been heard. But the man on his feet turned his head, his face aflame with hate. The boy, off his guard for the moment, yet with instant presence of mind, saw that he could not draw his automatic and use it, however skillfully, as quickly as the other, with his pistol, could swing and fire. But to dodge was quite another matter, and with a leap to one side Don had the wall between himself and the spy.

Even then the boy was not safe. There had been no cement to put together the stones of the shelter walls, the crevices were large enough to see through and for a bullet to pass through in some directions, if aimed with accuracy.

At the first shot from within the shelter, Don felt something strike his hip; another and another shot and he knew the spy was trying to shoot through a hole in the wall before which the boy stood. He had become the target of this would-be assassin, as he had once made the fellow his target from this same spot. Don could not retreat; a shot from the doorway, or from a crack, with the muzzle of the other’s pistol placed in it might easily get him. And Don dared not play the game for fear of hitting Judson.

Chance then favored him a little, even if against him with the creviced wall. Below where he stood a large rock on edge at the base of the wall extended a yard or more upward and from the corner of the doorway. Another shot came from the spy and, uttering an exclamation not unlike a groan, Don dropped to the ground. This bullet had been better aimed; it had dislodged a bit of stone through the crack and this had hit the lad a blow over his stomach that felt like the kick of a mule. Fair on the solar plexus the blow landed and there is no surer place where one may be hit to score a knock-out.

For an instant almost insensible with pain, then sickened and nearly helpless, his nervous energy at a standstill, but his mind struggling, groping, demanding swift self-consciousness and muscular action, the boy got upon his hands and knees.

Within the spy must have known that Don was hit; perhaps wounded or killed. A gasp of pain, then a sound as of falling and a struggle probably convinced him that his last shot had won the fight. But he must be sure.

The big rock prevented the fellow’s seeing what had happened to Don; therefore he crept stealthily forward to the wall, sought a crevice and tried to peep through it. All he could see at the downward angle was a figure apparently lying there. Inert? It did not move as the spy gazed. There could be little doubt of the outcome now.

It was compatible with the German’s usual methods to shoot all three of these Americans through the head before he made for over the hill to rejoin his friends. The wounded man inside had opposed his entrance and had been flung unconscious upon the floor; the shell-shocked youth might be better dead, but first he would make sure of the fellow outside—the spy-catcher. Faugh! One shot around the corner of the doorway, the pistol held low, would complete the business.

“I must think; I must get on my feet; I must fight him, fight him!” These thoughts crowded into Don’s still befuddled brain; he wanted to sink down and rest, to ease the torture in his body, but violent death was hovering near again. He could not give up; he must fight.

His eyes were open; his hand still clutched the pistol; he was still kneeling. And then, as he half sank down again, an object round, tubular, shining, came slowly from the doorway, past the end of the big stone. For a moment Don gazed at it with a sort of dumb fascination; then his senses, with another struggle for mastery, became a little more acute.

The other’s weapon was thrust farther forward; the fingers of the hand that grasped it appeared. Lifting his own gun and at the distance of hardly a yard, the boy, with a mighty effort at steadiness, fired point blank at the weapon and the hand. The thing that had been his target seemed to dissolve; the struck pistol went bounding along on the stones; the hand was withdrawn. A cry from the shell-shocked man was the only sound then heard within.

The result of his shot proved a partial tonic to Donald. He got to his feet, his mind still a little cloudy, and staggering forward, entered the shelter. His antagonist, with another weapon, might have killed him then, for the boy was still far from alert. But the spy stood with his back against the stone wall, a hand thereon to steady himself, and the other hand, a mass of torn flesh, hanging and dripping big red splotches on the floor.

“I guess,” said the boy, thickly, “I’ll just finish you now. I know who you are. I’ll just——” and then the sunlight seemed to be blotted out and without a further effort Don dropped.

For one moment the spy gazed at him; then he leaped toward the automatic lying on the floor. His good left hand was about to clutch it; he would yet wreak vengeance and get away.

“Drop that and stick up your paws! Hello, Don! What’s this? Have you killed him? Then, I’ll kill——”

“I Guess,” Said the Boy Thickly, “I’ll Just Finish You Now”

“No, no! He’s all right. He shot me here in the hand—you can see for yourself. I—he mistook me for a German. I came in here to help these——”

Herbert motioned the fellow to silence. “You’ll tell that at Headquarters. Stand where you are! My men will be here in a minute and attend to you. I think, too, we’ll have enough on you.”

Hours later, toward sundown, Lieutenants Whitcomb and Richards walked from the army kitchen to the captain’s tent, but paused without for a chat. Whitcomb, now first officer of the company under Captain Lowden, was talking:

“I know just how it felt, Don; been hit there boxing. Hurts for a little while; you did mighty well to keep up under it as you did. Well, news for you: The captain wants another lieutenant and with your commission you fit in without more red tape. So he sent a messenger to Colonel Walton asking for your transfer, and now that you’ve landed that spy, they’ve granted it. So tomorrow, old scout, we go on again together.”

“Nothing could tickle me more, Herb! I guess I know enough of this military business now to carry on.”