holster, the other swung himself sidewise in his own saddle and,
snapping out his revolver, fired from the hip.

That swerve to the side saved him, doubtless, from the shot of Gregg;
his own bullet plowed cleanly through the thigh of the other rider.
The whole leg of Gregg went numb, and he found himself slumping
helplessly to one side. He dropped his gun, and he had to cling with
both hands to lower himself out of the saddle. Now he sat in the dust
of the trail and stared stupidly, not at his conqueror, but at the
train that was flashing into the little town of Stillwater, just below
them.

He hardly heeded Ronicky Doone, as the latter started forward with an
oath, knelt beside him and examined the wound. "It's clean," Doone
said, as he started ripping up his undershirt to make bandages. "I'll
have you fixed so you can be gotten into Stillwater."

He began to work rapidly, twisting the clothes around Gregg's thigh,
which he had first laid bare by some dexterous use of a hunting knife.

Then Gregg turned his eyes to those of Doone. The train had pulled out
of Stillwater. The sound of the coughing of the engine, as it started
up, came faintly to them after a moment.

"Of all the darned fools!" said the two men in one voice.

And then they grinned at each other. Certainly it was not the first
fight or the first wound for either of them.

"I'm sorry," they began again, speaking together in chorus.