Uncle Sam's Boys on Field Duty; or, Winning Corporal's Chevrons

CHAPTER XIV
MEETING BLICK IN EARNEST

"But, you see, ma'am," drawled Noll, exasperatingly, "I ain't looking for any mail."

"Then you'd better!" warned the woman angrily. "And look for Sarah J. Campbell. Be lively about it, too."

Noll ran through the letters and postcards in Box C with provoking deliberation. Then he announced, while the woman drummed impatiently on the window ledge:

"Here's a postal from the Mason City Laundry, stating that your wash, this week, will be delivered only on payment of your account."

"Gimme that card," screamed Miss Campbell. "I didn't ask you to read it, booby!"

"And here's another, from Medella, dealer in false hair at Denver, stating that your order will be shipped on the second of next month, and——"

People waiting in the line behind began to titter, while Miss Campbell's face turned scarlet.

"Gimme my mail, stupid!" commanded Miss Campbell irately. "And I'll complain to the postmaster about your impudence."

Noll Terry gazed at the woman with an expression of sadly wounded innocence.

"'Scuse me, marm, and please don't blab to the P. M. This is my first day here. I'm new and green, yes, marm, but I'm trying to be as obliging as I can."

"Humph!" muttered the woman. Gathering her post cards, she fled.

Lieutenant Prescott, holding one hand over his mouth, used the other to beckon as soon as he could catch Noll's eye.

Noll went over to him, saluting, out of sight of any one at the post office window.

"Cut out some of this comedy, Terry," begged the lieutenant in a whisper, "or I shall laugh outright and betray myself."

Noll once more saluted gravely, then returned to his post at the general delivery window.

All traces of the military had left Noll Terry's appearance. His khaki uniform was hidden under the jumper and overalls that Postmaster Dent had loaned him. Even his erect carriage had vanished. Noll now looked as though he had been round-shouldered from the cradle. His crisp speaking tone had given way to a drawl, and his look was stupid.

The three soldiers were alone in the general delivery room, Noll the only one of them at any time visible.

Toward the front of the room was a door opening out on the lobby of the post office. Behind this stood Lieutenant Prescott in uniform, but without his sword. Over the right hip dangled a holster in which lay a service revolver, ready for instant work.

Further down the general delivery room, on the other side of the window, was a door opening also into the lobby. Behind this Private Hal Overton, also in uniform, was stationed. He, too, wore a revolver in holster over his right hip, for the bunkies, when sent into town as orderlies, had been armed with revolvers, as is the custom in the case of officers' orderlies in the field.

Noll's revolver lay on a little shelf out of sight under the window ledge.

Over two hours had dragged by. There could be no telling, of course, at what time Blick would appear, even if he came at all.

It was not long ere Noll Terry forgot Lieutenant Prescott's warning, and again started in to have more fun with the people before the window.

This time, however, he took great pains not to let the young lieutenant catch his eye.

Then, of a sudden came a jolt that would have made a less self-possessed young man topple over.

A mild-eyed man of forty took his place before the window. Noll barely glanced at the fellow until the latter inquired in a soft voice that was almost effeminate:

"Any mail for Arthur Dade?"

But Private Terry never turned a hair.

This man was bearded and surely must be Jack Blick, he of the deadly habits.

"What name did you say?" queried Noll slowly.

Lieutenant Prescott and Hal Overton got out their revolvers in a jiffy, each standing with hand on the knob of a door.

"Arthur Dade," repeated the mild-voiced one.

"Bade?" blundered Noll purposely. "Will you please spell it?"

"D-a-d-e, Dade, Arthur Dade," said the man before the window.

"I'll see," nodded Noll coolly. He stepped back, running through the letters in the D box. There was a letter there, as Noll Terry knew well enough. It had come in the mail that morning, and was postmarked at San Francisco.

Presently Noll came back into sight with the letter, holding it out with his left hand, while, with his right, he leaned over to replace the other letters in D box.

"Can you reach it?" invited Noll.

The man who had given the name of Dade made the effort to reach the letter, which was just what Noll was trying to make him do. That move would keep one of the desperate fellow's hands away from his weapons for a second or two.

Two doors opened like a flash. Lieutenant Prescott and Private Overton were darting on tip-toe into the expected fray.

"Blick, get your hands up—high! Get 'em up quick, or take lead!" ordered Lieutenant Prescott imperiously. "Don't try any tricks!"

Reaching his man at a bound, the young Army officer thrust his revolver squarely up against the fellow's breast.

"Great Scott, mister, don't shoot!" yelled the stranger in a quavering voice.

"Then up with your hands, Blick!"

As though in terror the stranger had sprung back two or three feet. This was done with the quickness of a wildcat.

As a part of the same movement the desperate man threw up one foot in a clever kick.

His heavy boot struck Lieutenant Prescott's right wrist with fearful force, sending the pistol flying and nearly breaking the young officer's wrist.

Private Hal Overton had started at the same instant, but he had further to go.

Blick's right hand dropped in a twinkling to the right side pocket of his top-coat.

Both hands now flashed into sight, each holding a revolver.

Coolly enough now, but with incredible swiftness, the stranger aimed his left-hand weapon at Lieutenant Prescott.

At the same instant Soldier Hal leaped from behind, wrapping both his arms around Blick's neck and dragging him swiftly backward.

Bang!

The revolver was discharged, but the bullet, owing to Blick's going over backward, struck a wall.

Surely Blick must have possessed all the strength and ferocity of the mountain lion.

Though Hal Overton thought he had his man headed for a crashing fall to the floor, the fellow managed to squirm out of that clutch as though by magic.

Then Soldier Hal found himself staring into both muzzles of the desperate fellow's pistols.

Hal knew it was time for him to shoot, but found he was not as swift at the game as was the justly dreaded Blick.

Bang-bang! sounded two loud reports. Two streams of fire flashed before Private Overton's eyes.

Two bullets all but grazed the soldier boy's head on either side.

He would have been killed instantly but for Lieutenant Prescott.

That young officer, afraid to fire for fear of hitting his own man, had jumped into the fray despite the fact that his right wrist was all but useless.

With one flashing movement Prescott had recovered his revolver with his left hand.

It was his sudden football tackle, learned on the gridiron at West Point, that had seized Blick and spoiled the latter's aim.

Now, all three went down in an ugly clinch. Officer and soldier were fighting to pin Blick's arms to his side and thus render him helpless.

Bang! bang!

Bang! bang! bang!

To Blick it was little concern whether he lived or died. If he must go under in the fight he intended at least to do all the mischief he could.

So he fired, even while Prescott and Hal were fighting desperately to pin his arms and spoil his aim.

Fortunately, none of these five bullets did any harm.

But the three locked together were fighting like panthers.

If Blick could but wriggle out of the clutch long enough to get either hand free, he would stand a very good chance to kill one or both of his assailants.

Neither the lieutenant or the soldier boy dared fire in this scrambling clinch.

Each feared to kill the other.

Then Blick briefly got an arm free.

Bang! bang!