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It was a singularly careless man that he followed, who looked neither
to right nor to left nor behind. He is either a fool, Buckshee thought,
or very sure of his strengths Something in the straight and easy bearing
of the man and in the unhurried though surprisingly rapid flow of his walk
made the second guess seem the more probable; and that being the case,
it would be better to strike quickly and surely. And yet Buckshee did not
pounce, for in the man's carriage and in his fearless stride there was
not only the warning of strength, but there was something that stirred
his admiration. Only two things in life did Buckshee admire: one was strength
and the other was fearlessness of heart. Ordinarily the lone and timid
wayfarer, glancing into the shadows and scurrying along the road like a
hunted rabbit, aroused in him only contempt. But here, Buckshee knew, was
a man.
Yet remembering his empty larder and all but empty
coin pot, and taking
his hesitation for weakness unbefitting a master bandit, he narrowed the
distance between himself and the man, and, setting his jaw, raised his
right arm to strike the death blow. He had learned to make his movements
rhythmical, for therein lay greater accuracy and power. One, two, three,
he always counted. Up, plunge, withdraw. And now as he lifted his arm he
counted one. But the two never came, for poised above his head, tense with
unleashed power, his arm remained in mid air, as though someone had seized
his wrist and was holding it in an iron grip. Panic swept over him. He
dropped his knife and stood still, pulling with his left hand upon his
right, and caring for nothing now but that his arm come to its natural
state. The strong, confident back of the wayfarer was about to disappear
around a sharp bend in the road. And, as a child hurt in the midst of a
war game will draw the attention of his play enemy to the real matter of
his pain, Buckshee called: Help!
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