He counted the next seconds by his own fierce heart-beats.
Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. It seemed to him
that a second was never so short before. At sixty he would
fire if he saw no evidence of weakening in Fremont. And he
did not believe that Fremont would weaken. He was coming
to understand that Fremont was obsessed with the idea that
he was protecting Nestor by the course he was taking.
This being true, he would remain loyal to the very end.
Thirty-nine. The leader seemed about to lift his hand as a
signal for the squad to level their guns, when a shout came
from up the slope, and a figure every whit as ragged and
disreputable in appearance as the men gathered about the
prisoner swung into sight, leaping over ledges and lifting
voice and hand in warning as he advanced.
The men, now swinging their guns into position, paused and
held them motionless while they gazed at the intruder. The
leader shifted about uneasily and muttered something under
his breath. Released, for the moment at least, from the
strain he had been under, Jimmie dropped back in his hiding
place, his weapon clattering to the ground. It was not the fact
of his own peril that had wrought him up to the point of breaking,
but the thought that it might be necessary for him to take a human life.
It seemed to the boy that there was displeasure half hidden in the
leader's manner as he conferred with the messenger. He did not appear
to approve of the interruption.
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