Jimmie looked at his hand. A little red brook ran down the palm. He turned white and sick.
"Scratched, Jimmie. Tie it up for him."
"I never seen it," in an awed voice.
The officer went on.
"Get your breath. See your guns are all right. What's that?"
The man sat staring at his wrecked and twisted rifle. Another man laughed hoarsely.
"Scrap-iron he picked up."
"'Tain't, either"—angrily. "It's my rifle. Been holding it all day. What's gone with it? Something hit it."
It had been shattered in his hands by a flying missile.