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The Lure of the Dim Trails by B. M. Bower
page 53 of 114 (46%)

"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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