And then I heard it--a shrill blast of sound in an octave of urgency; a
whistle, sure, but a warning one.
I stopped in my tracks from the shock of it. Yes, I knew from whom it
had come, all right. But I didn't know why.
And then the whistle broke off short. One instant it was in the air,
shrieking with a message. The next it was gone. But it left tailings,
like the echo of a death cry slowly floating back over the dead body of
the creature that uttered it.
I dropped behind a fragment of the rag-cliff. A shot barked out
angrily. Splinters of the rock crazed the morning air.
The little boy screamed. Just once.
I waited. There was a long silence after that. Then, finally, I took
off my hat and threw it out into the valley. The gun roared once more.
This time I placed it a little to the left below me. I took careful
sighting on the hand that held that gun--and I didn't miss it.
It was Harry Smythe, of course. When I reached him, he had the injured
hand tucked tightly in the pit of his other arm. There was a grim look
in his eyes and he nodded as I approached him.
"Good shooting, mate. Should be a promotion in it for you. Shooting
like that, I mean."
"That's nice to think about," I said. "Where's the boy? I owe him a
little something. If he hadn't whistled a warning, you could have
picked me off neat."
"I would." He nodded calmly.
"Where is he?"
"Behind the rock there. In that little alcove, sort of." He indicated
with his chin.