'You've done for me,' the gunman said in the voice of a ghost.
Lee said, 'Yep, you're bleeding a lot. Reckon I have. Is that McConville over there?'
'Morton. Ain't no McConville.'
'Wouldn't that be dandy. What's he carrying?'
'Go stick your head up your ass.'
'Oh, you're a nice man. Now hold your tongue.'
Keeping low, he patted the man's chest and sides to make sure he wasn't carrying another weapon, and then, ignoring him, turned his attention to the other end of the warehouse. In one way, it didn't matter if he and McConville stood and hid from each other all day long. Captain van Breda could load his cargo without being shot at, and get away with it. But sooner or later, either Lee or McConville was going to have to move, and the first one to do so would probably die.
Suddenly a fusillade of shots rang out, and bullets thudded into the walls behind Lee and the tarpaulin- covered machinery in front. Two or three struck the columns, and whined off into the corners.
And in the middle of the barrage, Lee—who was crouching low behind the machinery—suddenly found himself knocked to the floor and dizzy with shock. Had he taken a bullet? Was he hurt? It was the strangest sensation—and then with a horrible lurch of nausea, he saw his Hester in the grasp of the fallen gunman's good hand. He had her around the throat. Lee was choking with her, but the outrage—a stranger's hand on his daemon!—was worse.
He dragged his rifle round till the barrel was hard against the man's side, and shot him dead.
Hester leapt away and into Lee's arms, and he'd never felt her tremble so violently.
'All right, gal, it's over,' he whispered.
'It ain't,' she whispered. 'There's still McConville.'
'Think I'd forgot that, you dumb rabbit? Git a hold a yourself.'
He rubbed her ears with his thumb and put her down gently. Then he looked out again, very cautiously, along the line of columns to the stack of barrels at the other end of the empty floor. There was no movement.
But Lee realized with a little flicker of hope that McConville wasn't only brutal: he was stupid too. A clever man would have done nothing, held his fire, kept as still as a stone until Lee had either killed or been killed by the other man. If Lee came out on top he might have thought all the danger was gone, and McConville could pick him off when his back was turned. Instead of that, what did the fool do but give himself away. So there might be a chance.
Those columns ... two rows of eight, equally spaced along the length of the building, back and front. When Lee looked past the left side of the row at the front, by the windows, he could see the whole room, almost, clear across the center of the big floor to the stack of barrels; but when he looked past the right side of the columns, he could see nothing but the narrow passage between the front wall and the row of overlapping columns, right down to the side wall at the far end.
But that meant in turn that McConville would have the same view. If Lee moved along between the row of columns and the front wall, he'd be invisible to the other man for some of the way, at least.
It was the best chance he had. He looked down at Hester, and she flicked her ears: ready. Lee quickly filled the magazine of the Winchester (and what a sweet weapon this was) and set off, making as little noise as leather-shod feet could on a wooden floor.
For the first three or four columns he was safely invisible, and he was ready to snap a shot as soon as anything moved into sight at the other end. The further he got, though, the more dangerous, because as the angle increased so did the gaps between the columns.
Couldn't be helped. Take the rest at a run. He stopped at the last point where he was still fully concealed, opposite the big doors right in the center that opened for goods to come up by the hoist, and then gripped the rifle and ran.
And in the same moment he thought,
The sun was pouring in through the windows. McConville had been able to follow his progress every step of the way; and no sooner had Lee realized that than two shots rang out, and he dropped. He was hit, but he had no idea where. He'd sprawled in the space between the second and third columns. With all his might he dragged himself up and flung himself forward towards the rack of barrels. If he was close against it on this side, McConville wouldn't be able to see him.
Maybe.
He made it, and slipped down to the floor. Hester was close by, trembling. Lee brought his finger to his lips, and he could do that because his hand was free, and his hand was free because he'd dropped the rifle.
It lay out in the open, several feet away and unreachable.
He sat there with his back to the lower rack of barrels, smelling the stinking fish oil, feeling his blood race, listening to every drip and creak and scrape and click, and holding back the pain that was prowling around just waiting to pounce.
It was his left shoulder, as he discovered a few moments later. Where exactly he didn't know, because the pain inconsiderately took up residence like a bully and demanded all the feeling there was; but Lee tried to move his left hand and arm and found them still working, though badly weakened, so he guessed McConville's bullet hadn't found a bone.
Damn, there was blood all over the place. Where the hell was that coming from? Was he hit somewhere else as well?
He shook his head to clear it, and drops of blood flew off and splashed across his face. Simultaneously his left ear felt as if a tiger had taken a bite out of it, and Lee had to hold his breath to avoid gasping. Well, ears did bleed, no doubt about it, and if it was no worse than that, then it was better than it might have been.
Silence in the warehouse, apart from the drip of blood onto the floor.
Outside, the distant sounds of work, and the cry of seagulls.
