'Hurry, Jake.' Vicky's voice spurred him on, and he ran back to the
dead horse, seized its hind legs and began wrestling it on to its back
with the girl's agonized cries as an accompaniment.
Grunting and straining, Jake lifted the horse by main strength until it
was balanced critically along its spine with the legs pointed loosely
at the morning sky, and now he could hear the approaching engine-beat
of the Rolls and the faint but excited voices of its occupants. He
denied the temptation to look around again and, instead, let the
carcass flop heavily over on to its other flank, freeing the frail body
of the child-woman beneath it.
Still panting with his efforts, Jake dropped on one knee beside her.
She was hit in the upper leg, he saw at once, the entry wound was six
inches above the knee, and when he felt swiftly for a bone-break, there
was another quick flood of dark crimson blood that poured warmly over
his fingers and drenched the slick satin of her breeches afresh. Jake
found the exit wound in the inside of her thigh, but knew by feel and
instinct that it had missed the bone. Still, she was losing blood
heavily and he inserted a forefinger into the tear in her breeches and
ripped the cloth cleanly to the ankle; he pulled it up exposing her
long slim leg to the crutch. The wound was deep and blue in the darkly
lustrous flesh, and Jake tore the flapping trouser-leg free and wound a
turn of it around the thigh above the wound.
Using both arms and the strength of his shoulders he drew the crude
tourniquet so tight that the flow of blood was instantly stemmed and he
tied the ends of the bandage with two swift turns, and then looked up
just as the RollsRoyce skidded to a violent halt across the front of
the armoured car.
There seemed to be a state of utter confusion amongst the occupants of
the Rolls, and again Jake felt a sense of unreality. In the front
seat, the driver gripped the steering wheel in one hand and a rifle in
the other with white knuckles and fingers that shook like those of a
man in fever.
His ashen face was shining with the sweat either of some terrible fever
or some equally terrible terror. On the seat beside him crouched a
small wiry figure with a rifle slung over one shoulder and with a brown
wizened monkey face partly obscured by a square black Leica camera with
an enormous bellows lens. In the back seat of the Rolls was a large
powerfully built man, with a granite face and the level controlled
manner of a man of action. A dangerous man, Jake recognized instantly,
and he saw that he was a major.
He held a rifle in one hand and with the other was trying to help to
his feet a smaller, more handsome man in a splendid uniform of
elegantly tailored black gabardine adorned with silver badges and
insignia.
On this officer's head, a brimless black helmet with a silver skull and
crossbones rode at a jaunty angle, like a pirate in a Christmas
pantomime, but the face below it was fixed in the same pale emotion as
that of the driver. It became clear to Jake that the last thing this
gallant wanted was to be helped to his feet. He was curled up in the
