_Stampede_
Judd the Kite was enjoying himself hugely. His bestial sense of humor
was tickled. It was very funny, the contortions of the negro in the
orange ray-stream!
"Climb over!" he suggested, amid roars of laughter from the circle of
men. "Climb over, why don't you? I've turned off the current. There's
no electricity in the fence. You won't be hurt. Why don't you climb
over?"
Friday did not, could not answer. His lips were sucked tight together
now in wordless agony; the cheek muscles, strained taut, stood out
like welts of flesh; the huge body, bathed always in that steady glow
of orange, was slightly livid in patches. He hopped mechanically,
changing from one aching leg to the other; his eyes were closed half
the time, his whole being one dumb agony. He did not know when it
would end, but he still had faith.
Overhead, the flames of four tarred wood torches bobbed and reeled as
the men who held them reeled; seemed to shake in the gusts of laughter
and yells and oaths that came ceaselessly from the onlookers. And in
this distorted light the half-shadowed snouts and bodies of the
phantis, clustered behind their nine-foot-high fence, looked indeed
diabolical. The fence was high, for the creatures possessed surprising
jumping powers; it was composed of eight strands of wire, running
parallel a foot apart from each other, with inter-crossing supports.
The electric current, now turned off, always kept the phantis from
crashing through.
Judd smiled more widely. "I guess I'll increase the power," his coarse
lips pronounced. "We'll see how you can duck a strong thin beam. I'll
give you about five minutes to climb over. After that you'll be burned
down slowly to a cinder. Now--will you climb? See--I'm moving the
lever over. Watch, now, and feel--"
* * * * *
Suddenly his voice broke off short. There had been a hiss--a
_spang_--a slight whip of sound. He glanced around swiftly. No, his
men had not noticed it. They were still laughing, roaring, swaying in
drunken merriment. The Kite's lips curved upward again. He continued:
"Feel the heat increase. It's stronger, now, and--"
Again the _spang_, the whip, the streak of something swift. The men
noticed his expression and quieted somewhat. Judd was looking around
him, and even as he saw what it was there came a cry from a pirate
nearby.
"Look! The fence!"
Judd's eyes widened; his lips slackened and lost their smile. The
noise, the laughs, the shouts, screams and oaths died into the night;
frightened silence fell over the group, and all that was left were the
concerted bellowings and snortings from the enraged herd of beasts
just beyond.
All--except for another _spang_ that sounded as a streak of orange
light arrowed from somewhere through the flickering torchlight. And
with its coming the third parallel strand of the corral-fence whipped
apart with a little singing swish, shot neatly through, as were the
two below it. Ten feet of fence on each side slumped visibly.
"Someone's shooting it through!" came a scared whisper. Yet still the
brigands, held fascinated by fear and puzzlement, stared at the fence
and at the surging crowd of stampede-crazy animals beyond.
Another _spang_, another streak of light! With deadly accuracy the
shot clove the fourth strand. The lower half of a whole section of
fence was gone. Behind it the bucking, red-eyed phantis inched
forward, still afraid of the electric shock they thought was somewhere
there, but drawn to the opening by their hatred of the two-legged
creatures so near. Closer, closer! Then the befuddled pirates found
their senses. Even as the fifth arrow of light came from the invisible
marksman and snapped the fifth strand, a concerted cry of fear of the
advancing beasts went up from the crowd of men.
"Run! Run! They're coming! They're coming out!"
They turned, panic-stricken; the torches fell flaring to the ground,
to lie there in pools of flame; the brigands ran for the nearest
shelter, the dark bulk of the ranch house close by. They ran, fear
tingling their spines, in their ears the sound of the maddened
phantis.
* * * * *
From his vantage point on the roof of the ranch house, the Hawk
confirmed his quick decision that this was the only way.
Rapidly, as was his custom, he had reckoned the problem out minutely
and carefully; had considered and checked every possibility. He had
to shoot the fence, not the brigands. For he couldn't hope to get more
than a couple of them: a pirate toppling over dead would jar the
others into instant action; they would scatter in the darkness,
leaving the odds too great. And leaving, besides, small chance of
wiping out every one of the pirates.
As for Friday, he had to take his chance. There was, this way, a good
chance, if he used his brain. For, to the left, as close as the ranch
house to the corral, were the grave-pits he himself had dug some hours
before, and one was still empty, waiting to be filled. It offered
shelter, a good chance--if he used his brain. He, Carse, would do all
he could to protect him from the stampeding beasts while he ran.
Some of the pirates would be snared by the rush of phantis. Four or
five would probably reach the ranch house. That was what he wanted.
And that was what he got. His fifth shot fired, straight and true from
the ray-gun of the most accurate marksman of space, the Hawk lowered
the weapon and gazed at the scene resulting, a ghost of a smile on his
lips.
He saw the mob of creatures, in a bedlam of noise, sweep under the
fence that had for so long kept them back. Bellowing their hatred,
their cruel spurs eager for blood, they charged. Before them fled the
thin fringe of men, Friday on one flank. A man went down with a
scream; a half-grown horn knifed into him; he was trampled, gored,
spurred, and left a bloody welter of death in seconds. Another,
hearing the loud thud of feet just behind, turned with desperate eyes,
dodged, tripped, shrieked and was caught and ripped. Another and
another. In the dancing, flickering half-light of the flames of fire
and torches, a hellish scene of devastation and death spun out.
* * * * *
Carse was shooting again, with the cold mechanical precision of a
machine. There was Friday to be guarded. He was now separated from the
other men--cut off and edging to one side--to the side where was the
grave-pit! Dodging, wildly twisting and turning, he several times
barely escaped three or four phantis that thundered after him. The
leader took perhaps ten steps: then its body quivered and it tumbled
over and flopped on the ground, a little wisp of smoke curling from
its body. The other two went down in swift succession. But there were
many, and even as Friday melted into the shadows, a group of several
beasts detached themselves and roared after him. The deadly ray-gun on
the roof wrought swift slaughter amongst them, but some got into the
darkness beyond vision of the icy gray eyes.
Carse lowered his weapon. His face was very hard and very set. Would
they catch the negro? Tumble down on him if he made the pit? Well,
there was no helping it....
But the reckoning would soon be finished; the time was at hand. Cold
as the deeps of space despite the awful havoc he had just created,
totally without visible emotion, he drew the last unused ray-gun from
his belt and put it in the shabby holster. One would be enough.
Shadow-like, noiseless and swift, he moved towards the far end of the
roof.