Read Online Once Upon a Time in the North by Philip Pullman - Free Book Online
Authors: Philip Pullman
Tags: Fantasy:Juvenile
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pressed against the column, felt as well as heard the bullets striking his narrow shelter. McConville wouldn't miss too many times with a rifle.
The first volley of shots came to an end.
Lee ran again, past the second column, on to the first—a little further from McConville, making it safer as the angle tightened; and closer to the other man, whose shoulder—was it?—Lee could see, imperfectly concealed.
He raised the rifle. In the same moment he pressed the trigger and McConville yelled, "Duck!"
His bullet reached the man before the warning did, and there was a grunt, a thud as he dropped his weapon, then a long withdrawn breath, and then silence.
Lee looked at the tarpaulin, and calculated: five running steps away, from right to left across McConville's line of sight, in about a second and a half. It should be possible.
And it was. McConville fired twice and missed, but Lee made it, and found the other gunman sprawled on his back with his pistol too far away to reach, and the eyes in his pale face burning. A pool of blood was spreading out around him like a great red wing unfurling. His cat-daemon crouched by his side, trembling.
'You've done for me," the gunman said in the voice of a ghost.
Lee said, 'Yep, you're bleeding a lot. Reckon I have. Is that McConville over there?"
"Morton. Ain't no McConville."
"Wouldn't that be dandy. What's he carrying?"
"Go stick your head up your ass."
"Oh, you're a nice man. Now hold your tongue."
Keeping low, he patted the man's chest and sides to make sure he wasn't carrying another weapon, and then, ignoring him, turned his attention to the other end of the warehouse. In one way, it didn't matter if he and McConville stood and hid from each other all day long. Captain van Breda could load his cargo without being shot at, and get away with it. But sooner or later, either Lee or McConville was going to have to move, and the first one to do so would probably die.
Suddenly a fusillade of shots rang out, and bullets thudded into the walls behind Lee and the tarpaulin- covered machinery in front. Two or three struck the columns, and whined off into the corners.
And in the middle of the barrage, Lee—who was crouching low behind the machinery—suddenly found himself knocked to the floor and dizzy with shock. Had he taken a bullet? Was he hurt? It was the strangest sensation—and then with a horrible lurch of nausea, he saw his Hester in the grasp of the fallen gunman's good hand. He had her around the throat. Lee was choking with her, but the outrage—a stranger's hand on his daemon!—was worse.
He dragged his rifle round till the barrel was hard against the man's side, and shot him dead.
Hester leapt away and into Lee's arms, and he'd never felt her tremble so violently.
"All right, gal, it's over," he whispered.
"It ain't," she whispered. "There's still McConville."
"Think I'd forgot that, you dumb rabbit? Git a hold a yourself."
He rubbed her ears with his thumb and put her down gently. Then he looked out again, very cautiously, along the line of columns to the stack of barrels at the other end of the empty floor. There was no movement.
But Lee realized with a little flicker of hope that McConville wasn't only brutal: he was stupid too. A clever man would have done nothing, held his fire, kept as still as a stone until Lee had either killed or been killed by the other man. If Lee came out on top he might have thought all the danger was gone, and McConville could pick him off when his back was turned. Instead of that, what did the fool do but give himself away. So there might be a chance.
Those columns ... two rows of eight, equally spaced along the length of the building, back and front. When Lee looked past the left side of the row at the front, by the windows, he could see the whole room, almost, clear across the center of the big floor to the stack of barrels; but when he looked past the right side of the columns, he could see nothing but the narrow passage
The first volley of shots came to an end.
Lee ran again, past the second column, on to the first—a little further from McConville, making it safer as the angle tightened; and closer to the other man, whose shoulder—was it?—Lee could see, imperfectly concealed.
He raised the rifle. In the same moment he pressed the trigger and McConville yelled, "Duck!"
His bullet reached the man before the warning did, and there was a grunt, a thud as he dropped his weapon, then a long withdrawn breath, and then silence.
Lee looked at the tarpaulin, and calculated: five running steps away, from right to left across McConville's line of sight, in about a second and a half. It should be possible.
And it was. McConville fired twice and missed, but Lee made it, and found the other gunman sprawled on his back with his pistol too far away to reach, and the eyes in his pale face burning. A pool of blood was spreading out around him like a great red wing unfurling. His cat-daemon crouched by his side, trembling.
'You've done for me," the gunman said in the voice of a ghost.
Lee said, 'Yep, you're bleeding a lot. Reckon I have. Is that McConville over there?"
"Morton. Ain't no McConville."
"Wouldn't that be dandy. What's he carrying?"
"Go stick your head up your ass."
"Oh, you're a nice man. Now hold your tongue."
Keeping low, he patted the man's chest and sides to make sure he wasn't carrying another weapon, and then, ignoring him, turned his attention to the other end of the warehouse. In one way, it didn't matter if he and McConville stood and hid from each other all day long. Captain van Breda could load his cargo without being shot at, and get away with it. But sooner or later, either Lee or McConville was going to have to move, and the first one to do so would probably die.
Suddenly a fusillade of shots rang out, and bullets thudded into the walls behind Lee and the tarpaulin- covered machinery in front. Two or three struck the columns, and whined off into the corners.
And in the middle of the barrage, Lee—who was crouching low behind the machinery—suddenly found himself knocked to the floor and dizzy with shock. Had he taken a bullet? Was he hurt? It was the strangest sensation—and then with a horrible lurch of nausea, he saw his Hester in the grasp of the fallen gunman's good hand. He had her around the throat. Lee was choking with her, but the outrage—a stranger's hand on his daemon!—was worse.
He dragged his rifle round till the barrel was hard against the man's side, and shot him dead.
Hester leapt away and into Lee's arms, and he'd never felt her tremble so violently.
"All right, gal, it's over," he whispered.
"It ain't," she whispered. "There's still McConville."
"Think I'd forgot that, you dumb rabbit? Git a hold a yourself."
He rubbed her ears with his thumb and put her down gently. Then he looked out again, very cautiously, along the line of columns to the stack of barrels at the other end of the empty floor. There was no movement.
But Lee realized with a little flicker of hope that McConville wasn't only brutal: he was stupid too. A clever man would have done nothing, held his fire, kept as still as a stone until Lee had either killed or been killed by the other man. If Lee came out on top he might have thought all the danger was gone, and McConville could pick him off when his back was turned. Instead of that, what did the fool do but give himself away. So there might be a chance.
Those columns ... two rows of eight, equally spaced along the length of the building, back and front. When Lee looked past the left side of the row at the front, by the windows, he could see the whole room, almost, clear across the center of the big floor to the stack of barrels; but when he looked past the right side of the columns, he could see nothing but the narrow passage
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