But even as I whirled and plunged towards it I heard the sharp metallic click of ejectors above me and then the thump as he closed the breech of the reloaded gun, and at the same time the swift and deadly rustling of dry hay as he ran towards the front of the loft. I was trapped.
While I was squeezing myself through the half-blocked door he would be right above me, leaning out of that opening with the shotgun barrels less than six feet above my head. He’d cut me in two, like cheese under an axe blade. I veered and slammed against the wall with a hand to stop myself from going on into the opening and being blown to pieces. I whirled. There was no other way out, and all he had to do was jump to the ground and come in after me.
Then my mind began functioning a little better, and I realized there had to be another way out somewhere because he hadn’t come in at the front. I was running even as I heard the heavy thud of his feet against the ground outside the door, and was already three-quarters of the way to the rear wall when the light cut off behind me and I knew he had made it and was squeezing through the doorway with his gun. But there was no sign of a door or opening of any kind ahead of me. And I was already past the ladder. Before I could turn and make it up into the loft to try to get out the front that way, he would blow my legs from under me and kill me at his leisure. There was nothing to do but keep going. I could hear him struggling with the door. I swept my eyes frantically across the cracks of light ahead of me, and then I saw it, one that was a little wider at the bottom than at the top. It had to be the plank he had pried loose to get in. I hit it head on, without slackening speed at all. It gave and my right shoulder tore loose the one next to it, and then I was out into blinding sunlight, fighting to keep my balance because if I fell now I was dead. I stayed on my feet somehow, and when I was running under control again I leaned and cut sharply to the left, like a half-back turning the corner, to get out of line with the opening behind me.
All the muscles in my back were drawn up into icy knots as I pounded across the open ground expecting at any second to feel the shot charge come slamming into it, but there was only silence behind me. I turned on one more burst of speed and then risked a glance over my shoulder. There was no sign of him, and I was nearly a hundred yards from the corner of the barn, well beyond the dangerous range of a shotgun. I cut left again and began running towards the car before he could head me off. I made it and looked back, sobbing for breath as I fumbled in my pocket for the keys. He was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t even come out. His gun was useless at this distance and he was standing quietly inside somewhere, just waiting for me to go away. As long as I didn’t know who he was, he could always try again. I shuddered. He was in no danger of my coming back to get a look at him; a shotgun at point-blank range is one of the deadliest and messiest weapons in the world.
I scrambled into the car and whirled it out onto the road, conscious that I was dripping blood all over the seat. I had to keep wiping my eyes free to drive. When I had put a mile behind me I slid to a stop and got out to see if I could find out how bad they were; I had an idea they were isolated pellets from a blown pattern, but they hurt excruciatingly and were making a mess of the car whether the loss of blood was serious or not. I felt the top of my head. The scalp was split for some three inches where a shot pellet had raked across it, but the pellet itself was gone. I ripped off my shirt, spraying buttons into the road, wiped the blood and dust from my face with it, and looked at my arm. A single pellet had grazed it in a long and deepening gash downwards from the shoulder before it penetrated. I could feel it just under the surface in some muscle near my elbow. It felt large. A No. 2, at least, and
While I was squeezing myself through the half-blocked door he would be right above me, leaning out of that opening with the shotgun barrels less than six feet above my head. He’d cut me in two, like cheese under an axe blade. I veered and slammed against the wall with a hand to stop myself from going on into the opening and being blown to pieces. I whirled. There was no other way out, and all he had to do was jump to the ground and come in after me.
Then my mind began functioning a little better, and I realized there had to be another way out somewhere because he hadn’t come in at the front. I was running even as I heard the heavy thud of his feet against the ground outside the door, and was already three-quarters of the way to the rear wall when the light cut off behind me and I knew he had made it and was squeezing through the doorway with his gun. But there was no sign of a door or opening of any kind ahead of me. And I was already past the ladder. Before I could turn and make it up into the loft to try to get out the front that way, he would blow my legs from under me and kill me at his leisure. There was nothing to do but keep going. I could hear him struggling with the door. I swept my eyes frantically across the cracks of light ahead of me, and then I saw it, one that was a little wider at the bottom than at the top. It had to be the plank he had pried loose to get in. I hit it head on, without slackening speed at all. It gave and my right shoulder tore loose the one next to it, and then I was out into blinding sunlight, fighting to keep my balance because if I fell now I was dead. I stayed on my feet somehow, and when I was running under control again I leaned and cut sharply to the left, like a half-back turning the corner, to get out of line with the opening behind me.
All the muscles in my back were drawn up into icy knots as I pounded across the open ground expecting at any second to feel the shot charge come slamming into it, but there was only silence behind me. I turned on one more burst of speed and then risked a glance over my shoulder. There was no sign of him, and I was nearly a hundred yards from the corner of the barn, well beyond the dangerous range of a shotgun. I cut left again and began running towards the car before he could head me off. I made it and looked back, sobbing for breath as I fumbled in my pocket for the keys. He was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t even come out. His gun was useless at this distance and he was standing quietly inside somewhere, just waiting for me to go away. As long as I didn’t know who he was, he could always try again. I shuddered. He was in no danger of my coming back to get a look at him; a shotgun at point-blank range is one of the deadliest and messiest weapons in the world.
I scrambled into the car and whirled it out onto the road, conscious that I was dripping blood all over the seat. I had to keep wiping my eyes free to drive. When I had put a mile behind me I slid to a stop and got out to see if I could find out how bad they were; I had an idea they were isolated pellets from a blown pattern, but they hurt excruciatingly and were making a mess of the car whether the loss of blood was serious or not. I felt the top of my head. The scalp was split for some three inches where a shot pellet had raked across it, but the pellet itself was gone. I ripped off my shirt, spraying buttons into the road, wiped the blood and dust from my face with it, and looked at my arm. A single pellet had grazed it in a long and deepening gash downwards from the shoulder before it penetrated. I could feel it just under the surface in some muscle near my elbow. It felt large. A No. 2, at least, and
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