________________________________________________
_ Barely had Sheldon reached the Balesuna, when he heard the faint
report of a distant rifle and knew it was the signal of Tudor,
giving notice that he had reached the Berande, turned about, and
was coming back. Sheldon fired his rifle into the air in answer,
and in turn proceeded to advance. He moved as in a dream, absent-
mindedly keeping to the open beach. The thing was so preposterous
that he had to struggle to realize it, and he reviewed in his mind
the conversation with Tudor, trying to find some clue to the
common-sense of what he was doing. He did not want to kill Tudor.
Because that man had blundered in his love-making was no reason
that he, Sheldon, should take his life. Then what was it all
about? True, the fellow had insulted Joan by his subsequent
remarks and been knocked down for it, but because he had knocked
him down was no reason that he should now try to kill him.
In this fashion he covered a quarter of the distance between the
two rivers, when it dawned upon him that Tudor was not on the beach
at all. Of course not. He was advancing, according to the terms
of the agreement, in the shelter of the cocoanut trees. Sheldon
promptly swerved to the left to seek similar shelter, when the
faint crack of a rifle came to his ears, and almost immediately the
bullet, striking the hard sand a hundred feet beyond him,
ricochetted and whined onward on a second flight, convincing him
that, preposterous and unreal as it was, it was nevertheless sober
fact. It had been intended for him. Yet even then it was hard to
believe. He glanced over the familiar landscape and at the sea
dimpling in the light but steady breeze. From the direction of
Tulagi he could see the white sails of a schooner laying a tack
across toward Berande. Down the beach a horse was grazing, and he
idly wondered where the others were. The smoke rising from the
copra-drying caught his eyes, which roved on over the barracks, the
tool-houses, the boat- sheds, and the bungalow, and came to rest on
Joan's little grass house in the corner of the compound.
Keeping now to the shelter of the trees, he went forward another
quarter of a mile. If Tudor had advanced with equal speed they
should have come together at that point, and Sheldon concluded that
the other was circling. The difficulty was to locate him. The
rows of trees, running at right angles, enabled him to see along
only one narrow avenue at a time. His enemy might be coming along
the next avenue, or the next, to right or left. He might be a
hundred feet away or half a mile. Sheldon plodded on, and decided
that the old stereotyped duel was far simpler and easier than this
protracted hide-and-seek affair. He, too, tried circling, in the
hope of cutting the other's circle; but, without catching a glimpse
of him, he finally emerged upon a fresh clearing where the young
trees, waist-high, afforded little shelter and less hiding. Just
as he emerged, stepping out a pace, a rifle cracked to his right,
and though he did not hear the bullet in passing, the thud of it
came to his ears when it struck a palm-trunk farther on.
He sprang back into the protection of the larger trees. Twice he
had exposed himself and been fired at, while he had failed to catch
a single glimpse of his antagonist. A slow anger began to burn in
him. It was deucedly unpleasant, he decided, this being peppered
at; and nonsensical as it really was, it was none the less deadly
serious. There was no avoiding the issue, no firing in the air and
getting over with it as in the old-fashioned duel. This mutual
man-hunt must keep up until one got the other. And if one
neglected a chance to get the other, that increased the other's
chance to get him. There could be no false sentiment about it.
Tudor had been a cunning devil when he proposed this sort of duel,
Sheldon concluded, as he began to work along cautiously in the
direction of the last shot.
When he arrived at the spot, Tudor was gone, and only his foot-
prints remained, pointing out the course he had taken into the
depths of the plantation. Once, ten minutes later, he caught a
glimpse of Tudor, a hundred yards away, crossing the same avenue as
himself but going in the opposite direction. His rifle half-leaped
to his shoulder, but the other was gone. More in whim than in hope
of result, grinning to himself as he did so, Sheldon raised his
automatic pistol and in two seconds sent eight shots scattering
through the trees in the direction in which Tudor had disappeared.
Wishing he had a shot-gun, Sheldon dropped to the ground behind a
tree, slipped a fresh clip up the hollow butt of the pistol, threw
a cartridge into the chamber, shoved the safety catch into place,
and reloaded the empty clip.
It was but a short time after that that Tudor tried the same trick
on him, the bullets pattering about him like spiteful rain,
thudding into the palm trunks, or glancing off in whining
ricochets. The last bullet of all, making a double ricochet from
two different trees and losing most of its momentum, struck Sheldon
a sharp blow on the forehead and dropped at his feet. He was
partly stunned for the moment, but on investigation found no
greater harm than a nasty lump that soon rose to the size of a
pigeon's egg.
The hunt went on. Once, coming to the edge of the grove near the
bungalow, he saw the house-boys and the cook, clustered on the back
veranda and peering curiously among the trees, talking and laughing
with one another in their queer falsetto voices. Another time he
came upon a working-gang busy at hoeing weeds. They scarcely
noticed him when he came up, though they knew thoroughly well what
was going on. It was no affair of theirs that the enigmatical
white men should be out trying to kill each other, and whatever
interest in the proceedings might be theirs they were careful to
conceal it from Sheldon. He ordered them to continue hoeing weeds
in a distant and out-of-the-way corner, and went on with the
pursuit of Tudor.
Tiring of the endless circling, Sheldon tried once more to advance
directly on his foe, but the latter was too crafty, taking
advantage of his boldness to fire a couple of shots at him, and
slipping away on some changed and continually changing course. For
an hour they dodged and turned and twisted back and forth and
around, and hunted each other among the orderly palms. They caught
fleeting glimpses of each other and chanced flying shots which were
without result. On a grassy shelter behind a tree, Sheldon came
upon where Tudor had rested and smoked a cigarette. The pressed
grass showed where he had sat. To one side lay the cigarette stump
and the charred match which had lighted it. In front lay a
scattering of bright metallic fragments. Sheldon recognized their
significance. Tudor was notching his steel-jacketed bullets, or
cutting them blunt, so that they would spread on striking--in
short, he was making them into the vicious dum-dum prohibited in
modern warfare. Sheldon knew now what would happen to him if a
bullet struck his body. It would leave a tiny hole where it
entered, but the hole where it emerged would be the size of a
saucer.
He decided to give up the pursuit, and lay down in the grass,
protected right and left by the row of palms, with on either hand
the long avenue extending. This he could watch. Tudor would have
to come to him or else there would be no termination of the affair.
He wiped the sweat from his face and tied the handkerchief around
his neck to keep off the stinging gnats that lurked in the grass.
Never had he felt so great a disgust for the thing called
"adventure." Joan had been bad enough, with her Baden-Powell and
long-barrelled Colt's; but here was this newcomer also looking for
adventure, and finding it in no other way than by lugging a peace-
loving planter into an absurd and preposterous bush-whacking duel.
If ever adventure was well damned, it was by Sheldon, sweating in
the windless grass and fighting gnats, the while he kept close
watch up and down the avenue.
Then Tudor came. Sheldon happened to be looking in his direction
at the moment he came into view, peering quickly up and down the
avenue before he stepped into the open. Midway he stopped, as if
debating what course to pursue. He made a splendid mark, facing
his concealed enemy at two hundred yards' distance. Sheldon aimed
at the centre of his chest, then deliberately shifted the aim to
his right shoulder, and, with the thought, "That will put him out
of business," pulled the trigger. The bullet, driving with
momentum sufficient to perforate a man's body a mile distant,
struck Tudor with such force as to pivot him, whirling him half
around by the shock of its impact and knocking him down.
"'Hope I haven't killed the beggar," Sheldon muttered aloud,
springing to his feet and running forward.
A hundred feet away all anxiety on that score was relieved by
Tudor, who made shift with his left hand, and from his automatic
pistol hurled a rain of bullets all around Sheldon. The latter
dodged behind a palm trunk, counting the shots, and when the eighth
had been fired he rushed in on the wounded man. He kicked the
pistol out of the other's hand, and then sat down on him in order
to keep him down.
"Be quiet," he said. "I've got you, so there's no use struggling."
Tudor still attempted to struggle and to throw him off.
"Keep quiet, I tell you," Sheldon commanded. "I'm satisfied with
the outcome, and you've got to be. So you might as well give in
and call this affair closed."
Tudor reluctantly relaxed.
"Rather funny, isn't it, these modern duels?" Sheldon grinned down
at him as he removed his weight. "Not a bit dignified. If you'd
struggled a moment longer I'd have rubbed your face in the earth.
I've a good mind to do it anyway, just to teach you that duelling
has gone out of fashion. Now let us see to your injuries."
"You only got me that last," Tudor grunted sullenly, "lying in
ambush like--"
"Like a wild Indian. Precisely. You've caught the idea, old man."
Sheldon ceased his mocking and stood up. "You lie there quietly
until I send back some of the boys to carry you in. You're not
seriously hurt, and it's lucky for you I didn't follow your
example. If you had been struck with one of your own bullets, a
carriage and pair would have been none too large to drive through
the hole it would have made. As it is, you're drilled clean--a
nice little perforation. All you need is antiseptic washing and
dressing, and you'll be around in a month. Now take it easy, and
I'll send a stretcher for you." _
Read next: CHAPTER XXVIII - CAPITULATION
Read previous: CHAPTER XXVI - BURNING DAYLIGHT
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