The Lure of the Dim Trails by B. M. Bower
page 53 of 114 (46%)
page 53 of 114 (46%)
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"My God!" cried Thurston, and didn't know that he spoke. He snatched up Bob's revolver and fired shot after shot at the galloping figures. Not one seemed to do any good; the first shot hit a two-year-old square in the ribs. After that there were no cattle within rifle range One of the outlaws stopped, took deliberate aim with the stolen Winchester and fired, meaning to kill; but he miscalculated the range a bit and Thurston crumpled down with a bullet in his thigh. The revolver was empty now and fell smoking at his feet. So he lay and cursed impotently while he watched the marauders ride out of sight up the valley. When the rank timber-growth hid their flying figures he crawled over to where Bob lay and tried to lift him. "Art you hurt?" was the idiotic question he asked. Bob opened his eyes and waited a breath, as if to steady his thought. "Did I get one, Bud?" "I'm afraid not," Thurston confessed, and immediately after wished that he had lied and said yes. "Are you hurt?" he repeated senselessly. "Who, me?" Bob's eyes wavered in their directness. "Don't yuh bother none about me," evasively. "But you've got to tell me. You--they--" He choked over the |
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