he was wounded. But the next moment she beheld him bring his rifle into action, and then run forward, and repeat the movement, and again run forward. Then he ducked lower, and rose again, and suddenly dropped down into the bed of the creek, completely out of sight.
He remained there for what seemed an interminable length of time to her. The vicious snapping and popping of the distant guns crept ominously closer, second by second. They would be on him, she felt, before he could escape. They would cut him off before he could even climb from the creek-bed.
Then, in the clear light, she saw his head emerge. She caught sight of him worming cautiously back, dodging and rounding into each land-depression. The gun-shots began again, until they became a rhythm of hollow sound, like quick and impatient hammer-pounds on a plank. She saw that he was wet to the knees, and breathing hard, as he stumbled back to the car.
Then, as she saw the wet and dripping can, all her being was centred on the thought of her own thirst, of how her dry throat ached and throbbed for water. She scarcely noticed that the firing had ceased, that the line of skulking and scattered figures had fallen mysteriously away. She only knew that McKinnon had
