And with that instantly I brought both feet together, raised my gun,
aimed quite coolly, drew the trigger carefully and shot him neatly in
the back.
I saw, and saw with a leap of pure exaltation, the smash of my bullet
between his shoulder blades. “Got him,” said I, dropping my gun and
down he flopped and died without a groan. “By Jove!” I cried with note
of surprise, “I’ve killed him!” I looked about me and then went forward
cautiously, in a mood between curiosity and astonishment, to look at
this man whose soul I had flung so unceremoniously out of our common
world. I went to him, not as one goes to something one has made or
done, but as one approaches something found.
He was frightfully smashed out in front; he must have died in the
instant. I stooped and raised him by his shoulder and realised that. I
dropped him, and stood about and peered about me through the trees. “My
word!” I said. He was the second dead human being—apart, I mean, from
surgical properties and mummies and common shows of that sort—that I
have ever seen. I stood over him wondering, wondering beyond measure.
A practical idea came into that confusion. Had any one heard the gun?