Shooting for Life.

Hastings Standard, Issue 91, 11 August 1896, Page 4

Shooting for Life.

Mr Cutcliffe Hyne tells in a clever manner the story of a couple of young Englishmen in Peru who were captured by a notorious guerilla fighting in the Chilian service, and condemned to death on the following conditions—that one should be hung by the neck from a tree, and the other given a rifle to cut the rope by shooting it " They handed me the rifle loaded and cocked. It was a single shot Winchester, and I found out afterwards, though I did not know it then, that, either through fiendish wish to farther hamper my aim, or through pure forgetfulness, they had left the sights cocked up at 300 yards. But that did not matter; the elevation was a detail of minor import; and, besides, I was handling the weapon as a game shot fires, with head up and eyes glued on the mark, the rifle barrel following the eyes by instinct alone. Yon must remember that I had no stationary mark to aim at. My poor comrade writhing and swaying at the end of his tether, and the well rope swung hither and thither like some contorted pendulum. Once I fired, twice I fired, six times, ten times, and still the rope remained uncut, and the bullets rattled harmlessly agnin-t the- white- walls of the chapel beyond. With the eleventh shot came a tinkle of broken glass, and the bell, after a couple of hurried nervous clangs, ceased tolling altogether. With the thirteenth shot a shout went up from the watching crowd. I had stranded the rope, and the body which dangled beneath the magnolia tree began slowly to gyrate. iS Then came a halt in the firing. I handed the Winchester back to the fellow who was reloading, but somehow or other the exploded cartridge had jammed is the breech. I danced : and raged before him is my passion «wl tauta round

I veiled in ecstacies of Merriment. Only ; Garcia did not laugh. He re-rolled a fresh cigarette with his thin yellow fingers, and leisurely rocked himself in the split cane chair. The man could not have been more unmoved if he had been overlooking a performance of Shakspeare. At last I tore the Winchester from the hands of the fellow who was fumbling with it, and clawed at the jammed cartridge myself, breaking my nails and smearing the breech block with blood. If it had been welded into one solid piece it could scarcely have 'been firmer. But the thrill of the moment gave my hands the strength of pincers. The brass case moved from side to side ; it began to crumple; and I drew it forth and hurled it from me ; a mere ball of shapeless, twisted metal. Then one of the brutes gave me another loaded weapon. The mark was easier now. The straggles of my poor friend had almost ceased, and though the well rope still swayed, its movements were comparatively rhythmical, and to be counted upon. I snapped down the sights, put the butt-plate to my shoulder and cuddled the stock with inv cheek. Here for the first time

was a chance of something steadier than a snapshot. I pressed home the trigger as the well rope reached one extremity of its swing. Again a few loose ends sprang from the rope, and again the body began slowly to gyrate. But was it Methuen I was firing to save, or was I merely wasting shot to cat down a mass of cold dead clay. " Think that more agony was compressed for me iiito a few minutes than most men meet with in a life time. Even the onlooking guerillas were so stirred that for the first time their gibing ceased, and two of them of their own accord handed me cartridges. I slipped one home and closed the breech lock. The perspiration was running in a stream from my chin. Again I fired. Again the well rope was snipped, and I could see the loosened strands ripple out as a snake unwraps itself from a branch. One more shot. God in Heaven, I missed ! Why was I made to be a murderer like this ? Garcia's voice came to me coldly, " Your last chance, senor. I can be kept waiting no longer. And I think yon are wasting time. Your friend seems to have quitted vis already.' Another cartridge. I sank to one knee, and rested my left elbow on the other. The plaza was hung on breathless silence. Every eye was strained to see the outcome of the shot. The men might be inhuman in their cruelty, but they were human enough in their curiosity. The body swung to one end of its swing ; I held my fire. It swung back, and the rifle muzzle followed. Like some mournful pendulum, it passed through the air, and then aglow of certainty filled me like a drink. I felt I could not miss that time, and I ! fired ; and the body, in a limp and shapeless heap, fell to the ground."— Pearson's Magazine.