Then Tudor came. Sheldon happened to be looking in his direction at the
moment he came into view, peering quickly up and down the avenue before
he stepped into the open. Midway he stopped, as if debating what course
to pursue. He made a splendid mark, facing his concealed enemy at two
hundred yards' distance. Sheldon aimed at the centre of his chest, then
deliberately shifted the aim to his right shoulder, and, with the
thought, "That will put him out of business," pulled the trigger. The
bullet, driving with momentum sufficient to perforate a man's body a mile
distant, struck Tudor with such force as to pivot him, whirling him half
around by the shock of its impact and knocking him down.
"'Hope I haven't killed the beggar," Sheldon muttered aloud, springing to
his feet and running forward.
A hundred feet away all anxiety on that score was relieved by Tudor, who
made shift with his left hand, and from his automatic pistol hurled a
rain of bullets all around Sheldon. The latter dodged behind a palm
trunk, counting the shots, and when the eighth had been fired he rushed
in on the wounded man. He kicked the pistol out of the other's hand, and
then sat down on him in order to keep him down.
"Be quiet," he said. "I've got you, so there's no use struggling.
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