Free Lay Her Among The Lilies by James Hadley Chase

direction to cut me off. One the other hand he might think I was still in the garage, scared to come out, and was prepared to wait until I did come out.

    I rose slowly to my feet and, keeping my head down, began a quiet creep towards the cabin, sheltering behind the bushes and treading carefully. That was all right so long as the bushes lasted, but ten yards ahead they petered out and started again after a gap of twenty feet or so. That gap looked distressingly bare, and the light of the moon seemed to be pointing directly at it. By now I had left the protecting screen of the garage. The lurker in the clump of bushes couldn't fail to see me if I crossed that open space. I kept on until I was within a few feet of the gap, and then paused and peered through the scrub. The only consoling thing about this new set-up was I had greatly increased the distance between the clump of bushes and myself. Instead of being fifty yards away, I was now something like a hundred and twenty, and to hit a moving target even as big as me at that distance called for some pretty fancy shooting. I decided to take a chance.

    I took off my hat and, holding it by its brim, sent it sailing into the air towards the clump of bushes in the hope it would distract attention. Then, before the hat settled on the sand, I jumped forward and ran.

    It is one thing to get up speed on firm ground, but quite something else when your feet sink up to your ankles in loose sand. My body went hurtling forward, but my feet remained more or less where they were. If it hadn't been for the diversion of the hat as it sailed into the moonlight I should have been a dead duck.

    I sprawled on hands and knees, scrambled up somehow, and dived for cover. The still, quiet night was shattered by the bang of a gun. The slug fanned the top of my head as it zipped past like a vicious hornet. That shooting was much too good. I threw myself flat, rolled my legs under me, turned a somersault and was under cover again. The gun banged once more and the slug flung up sand into my face.

    I was now as calm as an old lady with burglars in the house. Sweating and swearing. I plunged on, diving towards thicker cover, shaking the bushes, stamping the sand like a runaway rhinoceros. Again the gun banged, and this time the slug slid along the back of my hand, breaking the skin and burning me as if I had been touched with a red-hot poker. I dropped flat and lay panting, holding my hand, unable to see anything beyond roots and branches and prickly sand-grass.

    If Buffalo Bill out there took it into his head to close in for the kill I would be in a pretty lousy position. I had to keep moving. The cabin still seemed to be a long way away, but there was cover, and, providing I could move without making any noise, I still felt confident I'd get there. I wasn't going to take any more chances. Whoever it was out there could shoot. At that distance he had nearly bagged me, and that is shooting of a very high order. I wasn't in a panic, but I was sweating ice, and my heart was banging like a steam-hammer. I began to crawl on hands and knees through the sand, moving as quickly as I could, making no noise. I had gone about fifty feet when I heard a rustle of grass and a sudden snapping of a dry twig. I froze, listening, holding my breath, my nerves creeping like spider's legs up and down my spine. More grass rustled, followed by a soft, whoosing sound of disturbed sand: close, too damned close. I lowered myself flat, lay hugging the sand, the hair on the back of my neck bristling.

    A few yards away a bush moved, another twig snapped, then silence. He was right on top of me, and, listening, I imagined I heard him breathing.

    There was nothing for me to do but wait, so I waited. Minutes ticked by. He probably guessed I was right by him and he waited, too, hoping I would make a sound so he could locate me. I was willing to wait like that all night, and, after what seemed to me hours, he again shifted his