Not so Ladd, who
probed the bloody gash on Thorne's temple, and then felt his breast.
"He's alive an' not bad hurt. That bullet hit him glancin'. Shore them
steel bullets are some lucky for us. Dick, you needn't look so glum.
I tell you he ain't bad hurt. I felt his skull with my finger.
There's no hole in it. Wash him off an' tie-- Wow! did you get
the wind of that one? An' mebbe it didn't sing off the lava!...
Dick, look after Thorne now while I--"
The completion of his speech was the stirring ring of the .405, and
then he uttered a laugh that was unpleasant.
"Shore, Greaser, there's a man's size bullet for you. No slim,
sharp-pointed, steel-jacket nail! I'm takin' it on me to believe
you're appreciatin' of the .405, seein' as you don't make no fuss."
It was indeed a joy to Gale to find that Thorne had not received
a wound necessarily fatal, though it was serious enough. Gale
bathed and bound it, and laid the cavalryman against the slant
of the bank, his head high to lessen the probability of bleeding.
As Gale straightened up Ladd muttered low and deep, and swung
the heavy rifle around to the left. Far along the slope a figure
moved. Ladd began to work the lever of the Winchester and to
shoot. At every shot the heavy firearm sprang up, and the recoil
made Ladd's shoulder give back. Gale saw the bullets strike the
lava behind, beside, before the fleeing Mexican, sending up dull
puffs of dust. On the sixth shot he plunged down out of sight,
either hit or frightened into seeking cover.
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