“Ah!”
The gun lay against a stone, its muzzle upward, at a distance of about forty feet, beyond and somewhat to the left of Trixy. It would take some crawling; and that would hurt. But when he had fixed the gun’s position in his mind, so that he might not miss it, he set his teeth together, and started.
No great distance, after all, is forty feet. That is to say, no great distance after you’ve covered it. And the pain did not matter now. He lay on the ground again, flattened out, panting and gazing up at the blue sky. The sweat stood in big cold drops on his face; and he trembled as if stricken with ague. He could not shoot in that condition; he must rest, and wait. But the thirst was torture now.
After a time, he turned himself half around in order to face Trixy, and rested his right elbow on the ground, with the gun up in the air.
“Good-by, Trixy!” he said softly.
But wait! How many shots left? He examined the revolver. Two! For an instant he was stricken again with dread. Then his left hand felt for the belt at his waist; and he laughed nervously. What a state he was in! There were cartridges to burn!
The gun came slowly down to an aim, then waved in his hand as he pulled the trigger.
“Hell!” he muttered.
He tried again, pulling himself together, and gritting his teeth. The second report rang out, and echoed high among the rocks. The mare’s head fell, her body quivered, one hind foot kicked out; and she was gone.