Watson yelped in shock, turning, as his attacker grabbed for the revolver. Watson managed to force it high, but to his surprise his attacker kicked out, catching him hard in the stomach. Winded and gasping, Watson fell to his knees, as the revolver was torn from his grasp.
Dragging in a lungful of air, Watson did not hesitate – he lunged forwards, rugby-tackling his opponent's knees. Bringing him down, Watson scrabbled for purchase on the weapon. The young man was extremely quick and strong, and landed at least two good blows, loosening the doctor's grip.
Watson fought valiantly, but could not prevent a gasp as the gun discharged loudly. There was a deep, burning sensation in his upper right arm. He gritted his teeth, lashed out, and grabbed the gun. Locked in an intense struggle, Watson felt the cold sapping his strength. Suddenly, through the snow fall, he caught a glimpse of his attacker's face, and froze in sudden shock.
"No-!" he exclaimed, "It can't be-!"
His assailant lashed out, catching Watson a hefty blow to his temple. Reeling, he fell backwards into the snow, as the man leapt up, and took to his heels, rapidly disappearing into the blizzard.
Watson scrabbled backwards in the snow, shocked to his core, mindful of a deep ache in his arm and the throbbing in his temple. The wound in his arm was not deep - a cursory glance told him that the bullet had barely winged him, and he counted that to be his first piece of good luck since arrival in Dartmoor. He still had his revolver, but he was now snow-soaked and wind-chilled. It was also a bad sign that he was beginning to struggle to think straight.
Backing up slowly, assessing his options, he knocked against one of the bodies of the horses, and turned in horror. A flashback rose in his mind, unbidden – in the war, snipers had always targeted the horses – and he shook himself suddenly. He was not in the baking Afghan desert, he was on a freezing, snow-covered moor, with no ride back to the Hall, and, worse still; no protective clothing… and little idea of the way back.
The snow, whipped into a frenzy by the wind, stung his face like needles as he staggered around vaguely, trying to get his bearings, his left hand clamped to the wound in his right arm, the blood feeling oddly warm to his ice-cold fingers.
The blizzard was rapidly disguising the tracks in the snow left by their galloping horses, and Watson struck out in desperation. He had to make it back to Baskerville Hall; if he did not, he would freeze to death in a very short space of time.
~*~