A Last Camp
ing fire which kicked up some dust, but caused no damage.
The Chinese on this side of the white men's stronghold had learned the fate of their fellows and did not await the coming of the "gun of many tongues."
Gray saw a half dozen figures melting into the dunes, and emptied the automatic at them, firing at a venture. He thought at least one of his shots had taken effect. Pressing forward, he and the Kirghiz—who had gained enormous confidence from the display of the automatic—drove their assailants for some distance. When the Chinese had passed out of sight, Gray hurried back to the knoll.
There he found Sir Lionel seated with his back against the roll of canvas with the excited Kirghiz.
"The coast seems to be clear," observed Gray. "We can set out"
The Englishman coughed, and tried to smile. "I stay here, I'm afraid," he objected. "It's my rotten luck, Captain Gray. One of the beggars potted me in that last volley. A chance shot."
He motioned to his chest, where he had opened the shirt. The cloth was torn by the bullet. "Touched the lung, you know"—again he coughed, and spat blood—"badly."
Gray made a hasty examination of the wound. It was bleeding little outwardly; but internal bleeding had set in.
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