Chapter XXVIII
WALLIE LEADS AN ACE
"—another gun full-loaded with six soft-nosed slugs that'll blast yer brains clean outen the back of yer blasted head if yuh so much as make a move."
These were the first words the Lone Ranger heard as he recovered consciousness. His body was a mass of pain, and each breath brought a stabbing sensation in his chest. He realized, but dimly, that Bryant Cavendish was speaking. He didn't know to whom.
"Yer stayin' right here till Yuma's had aplenty o' time tuh git here with the law an' if he ain't come by sundown I'm blastin' the livin' hell out of yuh anyhow!"
Obviously Bryant had the situation well in hand. The masked man edged painfully to one side and tried to focus his eyes on the scene about him. The bedroom air was heavy with the smoke of gunfire, and the light was dim.
The floor resembled a battlefield. Wallie lay where he had fallen, still unconscious. A pool of red surrounded Sawtell's lifeless body. Lonergan rolled upon the floor, clutching his stomach and moaning hideously. The lawyer was dying, that was obvious, but dying in the most horrible and painful way a man can die by bullets. Lombard sat in a chair, his right arm hanging limp and dripping red. His face was drawn with pain, but he was silent. Vince alone seemed to have escaped lightly. He had a handkerchief, a dirty blue one, wrapped about one hand, but this didn't prevent his holding both hands above his shoulders.
The masked man struggled to his feet and almost staggered his way to the washstand. He somehow managed to splash water from a pitcher to the basin, then scooped handfuls of it to his face.
"Yuh all right?" Bryant Cavendish demanded.