And
now at last came the other shot from Vidal himself.
Rod Norton's was that type of man which finds caution less to his
liking than headlong action; furthermore, in the present crisis,
caution had seemed the acme of foolhardiness. There are times when
true wisdom lies in taking one's chance boldly, flying half-way to meet
it. Now, as three bullets sang by him, he gathered himself; then,
before the sharp reports had died in his ears, he sprang forward,
hurling himself across the room, striking with his lifted gun as he
went, missing, striking again and experiencing that grinding, crunching
sensation transmitted along the metal barrel as it struck a man fair
upon the head. The man went down heavily and Norton stood over him,
praying that it was Vidal Nunez.
Then it was that Julius Struve, having deserted his post at the rear,
smashed through a window with the muzzle of his shotgun, sending the
shade flipping up, springing back from the square of faint light as he
cried out sharply:
"All right, Nort?"
"All right!" cried Norton. "I'm against the north wall; rake the other
side and the bar with your shotgun if they don't step out. You and
Cutter together. I've got Rickard and Nunez out of it. Drop your gun,
Galloway; lively, while you've got the chance.
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