The scout in the distance was clearly a veteran. He skillfully used feints to mislead the enemy's arrows, and by the time Galahad had calmly set up the machine gun, the scout had already run far away.
Only then did he have the leisure to look back.
The scout saw Galahad fiddling with something in his hands. He was a little too far away to make it out clearly, but it was presumably some kind of ranged weapon.
If it was a bow, then at this distance it posed no threat at all. The arrow would take several seconds to reach him—more than enough time for him to see it and dodge.
If it was a musket, it could theoretically reach this far, but in practice, that was basically impossible.
Strictly speaking, muskets were close-range weapons. Beyond fifty meters, bullets started flying wildly off course; beyond a hundred meters, hitting anything was nearly impossible. The scout was at least two hundred meters away now.
The odds of hitting him were about the same as the odds of him tripping and falling to his death.
Still, the scout cautiously hid behind several chunks of brick and stone.
This might once have been a fine house, but years of war had reduced it to ruins. Now, it made a perfect shelter.
The scout carefully peeked out and found Galahad already aiming this way. The black muzzle had begun to rotate.
The scout grinned. At this distance, he was really going to fire?
He pulled his head back, leaned against the brick wall, and took a cigarette from his pocket, placing it between his lips.
There was no way he could hit him anyway. This was a good chance to rest and catch his breath.
He felt around in his pocket again. No