“Stop or I’ll fire!” shouted Buxton.
After the young man’s experience with his first pursuer and his Springfield, he could not be blamed for refusing to heed the command. He ran the faster and the next minute would have whisked beyond reach, had not Buxton come to an abrupt halt, and taking a quick aim, fired.
He got his man too. With a cry of pain he leaped several feet in the air and fell. Terrified by what he had done, Buxton ran forward, gun in hand, and called out while several paces distant:
“Are you hurt bad?”
“I’m done for,” was the reply as the wounded fellow laboriously climbed to his feet.
With anger turned into sympathy, the captor asked:
“Where did I hit you?”
“You shattered my right leg,” was the reply, accompanied by groans as the fellow with excruciating effort tried to support himself on the other limb.
Buxton laid down his weapon and knelt to examine the wound. He saw now that the lower part of the trousers leg was shredded by the charge of shot and that, doubtless, the hurt was a very grievous one.
“I’m sorry I gave it to you so bad, but you can’t deny you desarved it. If you’re able to walk back to my house, with my help, I’ll get a doctor and we’ll soon——”