Read Online Once Upon a Time in the North by Philip Pullman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philip Pullman
Tags: Fantasy:Juvenile
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between the front wall and the row of overlapping columns, right down to the side wall at the far end.
But that meant in turn that McConville would have the same view. If Lee moved along between the row of columns and the front wall, he'd be invisible to the other man for some of the way, at least.
It was the best chance he had. He looked down at Hester, and she flicked her ears: ready. Lee quickly filled the magazine of the Winchester (and what a sweet weapon this was) and set off, making as little noise as leather-shod feet could on a wooden floor.
For the first three or four columns he was safely invisible, and he was ready to snap a shot as soon as anything moved into sight at the other end. The further he got, though, the more dangerous, because as the angle increased so did the gaps between the columns.
Couldn't be helped. Take the rest at a run. He stopped at the last point where he was still fully concealed, opposite the big doors right in the center that opened for goods to come up by the hoist, and then gripped the rifle and ran.
And in the same moment he thought, My shadow—damn, he can see my shadow—
The sun was pouring in through the windows. McConville had been able to follow his progress every step of the way; and no sooner had Lee realized that than two shots rang out, and he dropped. He was hit, but he had no idea where. He'd sprawled in the space between the second and third columns. With all his might he dragged himself up and flung himself forward towards the rack of barrels. If he was close against it on this side, McConville wouldn't be able to see him.
Maybe.
He made it, and slipped down to the floor. Hester was close by, trembling. Lee brought his finger to his lips, and he could do that because his hand was free, and his hand was free because he'd dropped the rifle.
It lay out in the open, several feet away and unreachable.
He sat there with his back to the lower rack of barrels, smelling the stinking fish oil, feeling his blood race, listening to every drip and creak and scrape and click, and holding back the pain that was prowling around just waiting to pounce.
It was his left shoulder, as he discovered a few moments later. Where exactly he didn't know, because the pain inconsiderately took up residence like a bully and demanded all the feeling there was; but Lee tried to move his left hand and arm and found them still working, though badly weakened, so he guessed McConville's bullet hadn't found a bone.
Damn, there was blood all over the place. Where the hell was that coming from? Was he hit somewhere else as well?
He shook his head to clear it, and drops of blood flew off and splashed across his face. Simultaneously his left ear felt as if a tiger had taken a bite out of it, and Lee had to hold his breath to avoid gasping. Well, ears did bleed, no doubt about it, and if it was no worse than that, then it was better than it might have been.
Silence in the warehouse, apart from the drip of blood onto the floor.
Outside, the distant sounds of work, and the cry of seagulls.
Lee sat, stiffening with pain, with one gun that didn't work and yards from another that did, in the deepening stench of fish oil. Somebody's bullet—probably his— had punctured one of the barrels, and not far away from where he'd fallen a steady trickle of the stuff was leaking down from the top rack and spreading slowly across the floor. In another five minutes he'd be sitting right in it.
Hester sat crouched tightly against his side. She was hurt by his wounds, but she wouldn't complain.
"Scoresby," came a voice from the other side of the rack of barrels.
Lee said nothing.
"I know you're there, you cheap son of a bitch, and I know I got you," the slow grinding voice went on. "Course I don't know if you're dead yet, but you will be soon, you bastard. You think I didn't know who you were soon's I saw you? Ain't nobody I forgit once I seen 'em. You was next on my list back there in the Dakota country, you
But that meant in turn that McConville would have the same view. If Lee moved along between the row of columns and the front wall, he'd be invisible to the other man for some of the way, at least.
It was the best chance he had. He looked down at Hester, and she flicked her ears: ready. Lee quickly filled the magazine of the Winchester (and what a sweet weapon this was) and set off, making as little noise as leather-shod feet could on a wooden floor.
For the first three or four columns he was safely invisible, and he was ready to snap a shot as soon as anything moved into sight at the other end. The further he got, though, the more dangerous, because as the angle increased so did the gaps between the columns.
Couldn't be helped. Take the rest at a run. He stopped at the last point where he was still fully concealed, opposite the big doors right in the center that opened for goods to come up by the hoist, and then gripped the rifle and ran.
And in the same moment he thought, My shadow—damn, he can see my shadow—
The sun was pouring in through the windows. McConville had been able to follow his progress every step of the way; and no sooner had Lee realized that than two shots rang out, and he dropped. He was hit, but he had no idea where. He'd sprawled in the space between the second and third columns. With all his might he dragged himself up and flung himself forward towards the rack of barrels. If he was close against it on this side, McConville wouldn't be able to see him.
Maybe.
He made it, and slipped down to the floor. Hester was close by, trembling. Lee brought his finger to his lips, and he could do that because his hand was free, and his hand was free because he'd dropped the rifle.
It lay out in the open, several feet away and unreachable.
He sat there with his back to the lower rack of barrels, smelling the stinking fish oil, feeling his blood race, listening to every drip and creak and scrape and click, and holding back the pain that was prowling around just waiting to pounce.
It was his left shoulder, as he discovered a few moments later. Where exactly he didn't know, because the pain inconsiderately took up residence like a bully and demanded all the feeling there was; but Lee tried to move his left hand and arm and found them still working, though badly weakened, so he guessed McConville's bullet hadn't found a bone.
Damn, there was blood all over the place. Where the hell was that coming from? Was he hit somewhere else as well?
He shook his head to clear it, and drops of blood flew off and splashed across his face. Simultaneously his left ear felt as if a tiger had taken a bite out of it, and Lee had to hold his breath to avoid gasping. Well, ears did bleed, no doubt about it, and if it was no worse than that, then it was better than it might have been.
Silence in the warehouse, apart from the drip of blood onto the floor.
Outside, the distant sounds of work, and the cry of seagulls.
Lee sat, stiffening with pain, with one gun that didn't work and yards from another that did, in the deepening stench of fish oil. Somebody's bullet—probably his— had punctured one of the barrels, and not far away from where he'd fallen a steady trickle of the stuff was leaking down from the top rack and spreading slowly across the floor. In another five minutes he'd be sitting right in it.
Hester sat crouched tightly against his side. She was hurt by his wounds, but she wouldn't complain.
"Scoresby," came a voice from the other side of the rack of barrels.
Lee said nothing.
"I know you're there, you cheap son of a bitch, and I know I got you," the slow grinding voice went on. "Course I don't know if you're dead yet, but you will be soon, you bastard. You think I didn't know who you were soon's I saw you? Ain't nobody I forgit once I seen 'em. You was next on my list back there in the Dakota country, you
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