white-faced trusty ran out of the cook-house; another. 9009 kept on, going down the middle of the yard, slowly, looking to right and to left. A trusty showed his head at the door of the cell-house. 9009 shot him, wantonly, gleefully, full in the face—a long shot, but he could not miss, he felt he could not miss, never miss. A flick of dust sprang from the ground at his feet, over his head a brief snarl passed, almost simultaneously the cracks of two rifles rang heavy between the walls; he grinned and pumped a new cartridge into the breech of his gun.
And then he began to run; going low, he made for the “Stone Building.” The rifles cracked again; bullets struck to his right and to his left. He reached the end of the “Stone Building,” halted, gave a swift look, then sprang forward toward the wall with a great self-announcing yell. He reached the wall, shot along it like a rabbit, then, when he was out of sight of the men above, quietly slipped back into the shadow of the “Stone Building.” A laugh cleft his face as he saw the guards upon the wall, back toward
