SECOND TIME WEST

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 62, Issue 162, 22 April 1942, Page 6

SECOND TIME WEST

(jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiHiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii I SERIAL STORY. I

| By T. C. BRIDGES. |

E (Copyright). §

CHAPTER XXVII. THE BATTLE RAGES. “Got me in the leg,” Nat explained swiftly. “Leave me right here. I’ll lay fitill and they’ll think I’m a goner. You get hack to the house and tell ’em what we done. Leave me here, I tell you.” he repeated, but Jim, stooping swiftly swung him up on his back and ran for shelter. Bullets whizzed and hummed like wasps, but Jim gained a rock and dropped Nat behind it. As men came running towards them he and Nat opened fire. In the red light of the dancing flames anything like accurate shooting was impossible. To make it still more difficult their attackers were spread out widely. “Get in above em,” shouted Buck Coulton. “They’re the ones as set our horses adrift. Shoot the stuffing out of ’em.” Jim saw two men swing to the left and dive in among the rocks and bushes on the slope. He sent a couple of swift shots but failed to stop them. His spirits, sank for there was nothing to protect him and Nat from the rear. In spite of his wound Nat had his wits about him.

“Creep back a bit, Jim, and try and get ’em before they spot you. I’ll hold these fellers off in front.” It was good advice, and Jim took it He had to crawl on his belly like a snake to reach a clump of bushes a dozen paces behind the rock, but he got there unseen. Behind him the firing was heavier. Three men at least were trying to get Nat, bullets pinged off the rock, and lead spattered through the foliage just above his own head. But Nat’s steady shooting kept his opponents at a distance. Jim saw ia bush move and plugged a quick shot into it. A yell told him that his bullet had got home. Next instant his pistol was wrenched from his hand with a shock that numbed his whole arm. The second man, firing at the flash, had been lucky enough to hit Jim’s weapon. Now all thlait Jim could do was to lie as flat as possible. He knew that it was only a matter of moments before the raider would realise what had happened, then the end was certain. Again there wias a quivering in the wiry branches of a des;ert shrub. The fellow was creeping up. Nat was still shooting, but his shots were less frequent. He must, Jim knew, be losing a lot of blood, and, plucky as he was, it was not likely he could hold out much longer. The bush shook again, and the red firelight showed the crown of a h)at. Jim knew that the fellow was trying the old trick of raising his hat on a stick. Probably he believed that he had finished Jim, but wished to make sure. Behind Jim the firing ceased altogether. Either Nat had collapsed or he had used his last cartridge —most likely the former. The idea came to Jim of making a dash back to Nat and getting his gun. It was almost certain death, but anything was better than lying where he was and waiting for the shot, that must surely end his life. “Rush ’em! They’re finished!” came Coulton’s voice. Jim turned his head and saw three men running towards the rock where Ntat lay. At the same moment the Kettle Drum man in front of him raised his pistol. Before the latter could pull the trigger a thundering report roared out. Screams of agony came from the three running men. Two toppled, the third swung and fired wildly. A square figure plunged out of the bush above. He flung a shotgun to his shoulder and fired again. The third man went down, then picked himself up, and bolted for his life. “I’ll learn you!” shouted the man with the gun, and Jim almost laughed as lie recognised the familiar voice of Noah Trant. It is an odd fact that a man who will stand like a rock against a pistol can’t stick a shotgun. The fellow opposite Jim got the wind up, spraffig to his feet, and, bent double, raced away among the bush. Jim let him go. He was only too glad to see the last of him. “This way!” Jim shouted to Triant. “Nat’s hurt.” Nat, Jim found, had fainted, and, small wonder, for there was a regular pool of blood where he had been lying. “The dirty dogs!” growled Trant, as he started tying up Nat’s leg with his handkerchief. "Looks like they got you too,” he added, as be noticed the blood stained handkerchief round Jim’s, head. “Nothing to signify,” Jim told him. “Can we get Nat back to the house?” “There ain’t no one to stop us as far ia;s I know. Them as ain’t dead is running after their horses.” He looked up at Jim. “You did a good job when you turned them horses loose.” “And you did a better one with your old scatter gun,” Jim told him. “There was a fellow drawing a bead on me when you let loose.” “I can’t handle them pistols nohow,” Trant told him. “But I done a bit o’ rabbit shooting when I were a nipper.” He looked up. “Here come some of the chaps. Now we’ll be iall right.” Two of the Painted Cross boys came running. They picked up Nat and carried him in. Jim and Trant followed. Dave Condon met Jim at the door. “I’m mighty glad to see you alive,” were his first words. “I made sure them hounds had got you. Come right in.” He drew Jim into the big hallsitting room and poured him a badly needed drink. (To be continued).

The characters in tms story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public on nnvate pronertr•