Whatever Mr. Clemens was about to say, he didn’t get the chance. Off in the woods to our right there was a loud crack! and almost at the same instant a spurt of dust kicked up mere inches from my shoe tip. “Bloody hell, someone’s shooting,” cried Sir Denis. “Get down!” He followed his own advice, flopping on his belly like a small boy sledding down a hill.
But Mr. Clemens craned his neck and looked toward the woods. For a brief moment, he was an excellent target, until I took two steps, hit him from behind, and knocked him as flat as any man I’d ever tackled on the football field—just as another shot rang out. I did my best not to land on him with my whole weight, but even so he landed with a loud “Oof!” He lifted up his head to glare at me. “Jesus, Wentworth . . .”
“Stay down,” I said, breathlessly. I put my arm across his back to enforce my order. “That last shot might have been aimed right between your eyes.”
“Where the hell is the shooter?” said Mr. Clemens, still sounding more annoyed than concerned. “I hope to God he’s out of bullets.”
“I can’t see the blighter,” said Sir Denis, working the lever of his gun again. He was lying prone, peering toward the woods whence the shot had come. Even as he spoke, there came a third crack! and I heard something whiz overhead.
“Sh-t!” said Mr. Clemens, flattening himself out even more. There was no mistaking the fear in his voice, now.
“Just stay down,” I said, trying as much as possible to shield my employer with my own body, while at the same time wishing I could do something to make myself very small. We had almost no cover here.
“There you are!” said Sir Denis, and I heard the air gun make its soft sound again. There was a high-pitched cry from the woods, and then I heard someone thrashing through the brush. Had Sir Denis hit his target, or simply frightened him off?
Almost without thinking, I jumped up to pursue. Mr. Clemens reached out and tripped me. I fell flat on my face. “Damn fool, stay down yourself,” Mr. Clemens said in an angry voice. “Let the son of a bitch get away. I don’t need you getting shot.”
“Yes, better keep heads down,” said Sir Denis. “It might be worth your life to pursue—that’s an Enfield if ever I heard one. The blackguard can get off four or five rounds to my one—though he doesn’t seem to fancy getting shot at in his turn. He could turn and make a stand even if he’s wounded. I suggest we get back to shelter.”
“Shelter is the sweetest word I’ve heard today,” said Mr. Clemens. “What do we do, jump up and run for it?” He looked back toward the orchard, some twenty yards away.
“You can’t run,” I pointed out. “If he’s still out there shooting, it’d be suicide.”
“Here’s what we do,” said Sir Denis. “I’ll stay here and do what I can to suppress the blighter’s fire. You two crawl back to the orchard—the trees should give us enough cover to get to the stables, and from there I think we’ll be safe.”
“I hope to hell we’re safe a long time before I get there,” said Mr. Clemens. He got up on his knees and elbows, and I did the same—trying very hard to keep a low profile—and crawled to the orchard. It seemed to take forever, though it probably took only a few minutes. Our clothes were badly soiled by the time we got there, but that seemed preferable to getting bullet holes in them.
We reached the shelter of the trees, and looked out to see Sir Denis crawling toward us on hands and knees. He made rather good time, I thought, considering that he was still carrying the gun. He rose to a crouch when he reached us, and said in a low voice, “There haven’t been any more shots. I think the rascal left when he realized I was returning his fire.”
“Well, let’s get out of here before he comes back,” said Mr. Clemens. We got gingerly to our feet, and dodged through the trees, trying to make as much speed as possible without exposing ourselves too much. I, for one, kept looking over my shoulder, worrying that someone might be drawing a bead on me at any moment. But we reached the shelter of the stables without further incident.
There, we were met by a slow-looking old fellow in dirty overalls pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. “ ’Ullo, Sir Denis,” he said, with a jovial salute. “Been ’avin’ a bit of a shoot?”
Sir Denis shook his head. “Look here, Blevins, we’ve got a poacher out there, or maybe something worse. Have you seen anyone with a gun on the property? Anyone who doesn’t belong here, I mean?”
“Why, not at all, Sir Denis,” said the servant, with a bewildered look on his ill-shaven face. “I been inside muckin’ out the stables, and I didn’t even know you was out until I ’eard the shots. Vigured it was target practice and nothin’ else.”
“Well, keep an eye out,” said Sir Denis. “Somebody just fired in our direction. I think we frightened him off, but I wouldn’t be too sure. I’d stay close to the house and stables, if I were you. I don’t want my people getting shot any more than I do my guests, you know.”
“Aye, Sir Denis,” said Blevins, a worried look on his face. “I’ll not stick out my neck too var, you can be sure o’ that.”
“Good lad,” said Sir Denis. “If you see or hear anything amiss, let someone at the house know right away.”
We walked quickly across the garden to the main house, still doing our best
