Anthony Harding stood with white face and clinched hands
during Byrne's recital of his identity. At its close he took a
threatening step toward the prostrate man, raising his long
sword, with a muffled oath. Billy Mallory sprang before him,
catching his upraised arm.
"Don't!" he whispered. "Think what we owe him now.
Come!" and the two men turned north into the jungle while
Billy Byrne lay upon his belly in the tall grass firing from time
to time into the direction from which came an occasional
spear.
Anthony Harding and Billy Mallory kept on in silence
along their dismal way. The crack of the mucker's revolver,
growing fainter and fainter, as they drew away from the scene
of conflict, apprised the men that their rescuer still lived.
After a time the distant reports ceased. The two walked on
in silence for a few minutes.
"He's gone," whispered Mallory.
Anthony Harding made no response. They did not hear
any further firing behind them. On and on they trudged.
Night turned to day. Day rolled slowly on into night once
more. And still they staggered on, footsore and weary. Mallory
suffered excruciating agony from his wound. There were times
when it seemed that it would be impossible for him to continue
another yard; but then the thought that Barbara Harding
was somewhere ahead of them, and that in a short time now
they must be with her once more kept him doggedly at his
painful task.
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