Billy gave hurried glances about and rustled under the branches like a
snake over to where old trusty lay. In ten minutes more he was worming
his way up the side of Stark mountain, while Pat was fortifying himself
well within the little station, behind tables and desks for the night,
and scanning the Valley from the dusty window panes.
Billy parked his wheel in its usual place and continued up the hill to
the opening at the back, then stood long listening. Once he thought he
heard something drop inside the kitchen door, but no sound followed it
and he concluded it had been a rat. Half way between himself and the
back door something gleamed faintly in the starlight. He didn't
remember to have seen anything there before. He stole cautiously over,
moving so slowly that he could not even hear himself. He paused beside
the gleam and examined. It was an empty flask still redolent. Ummm!
Booze! Billy wasn't surprised. Of course they would try to get
something to while away their seclusion until they dared venture forth
with their booty. He continued his cautious passage toward the house
and then began to encircle it, keeping close to the wall and feeling
his way along, for the moon would be late and small that night and he
must work entirely by starlight. It was his intention after going
around the house to enter and reconnoitre in his stocking feet. As he
neared the front of the house he dropped both hands to his sweater
pockets, the revolver in his right hand with its two precious
cartridges, the flash light which he had taken care to renew in Economy
in his left hand, fingers ready to use either instantly. He turned the
corner and stole on toward the front door, still noiseless as a mouse
would go, his rubber sneakers touching like velvet in the grass.
He was only two feet from the front stoop when he become aware of
danger, something, a familiar scent, a breathlessness, and then a
sudden stir. A dark thing ahead and the feeling of something coming
behind. Billy as if a football signal had been given, grew calm and
alert. Instantly both arms flashed up, and down the mountain shot two
long yellow winks of light, and simultaneously two sharp reports of a
gun, followed almost instantly by another shot, more sinister in sound,
and Billy's right arm dropped limply by his side, while a sick wave of
pain passed over him.
But he could not stop for that. He remembered the day when Mark had
been coaching the football team and had told them that they must not
stop for anything when they were in action. If they thought
their legs were broken, or they were mortally wounded and dying, they
must not even think of it. Football was the one thing, and they were to
forget they were dead and go ahead with every whiff of punch there was
in them, blind or lame, or dead even, because when they were playing,
football was the only thing that counted. And if they were sick or
wounded or bleeding let the wound or the sickness take care of itself.
They were playing football! So Billy felt now.