He tried to lift and level his rifle; his arm collapsed and dangled broken and powerless; his rifle clattered to the forest floor.
For a moment he stood there in plain view, dumb, deathly white; then he began screaming with fury while the big, soft-nosed bullets came streaming in all around him. His broken arm was hit again. His scream ceased; he dragged out his big clasp-knife with his left hand and started running toward the shooting.
As he ran, his mangled arm flopping like a broken wing, Byron Hastings stepped out from behind a tree and coolly shot him down at close quarters.
Then Quintana's rifle exploded twice very quickly, and the Hastings boy stumbled sideways and fell sprawling. He managed to rise to his knees again; he even was trying to stand up when Quintana, taking his time, deliberately began to empty his magazine into the boy, riddling him limb and body and head.
Down once more, he still moved his arms. Sid Hone reached out from behind a fallen log to grasp the dying lad's ankle and draw him into shelter, but Quintana reloaded swiftly and smashed Hone's left hand with the first shot.
Them Jim Hastings, kneeling behind a bunch of juniper, fired a high-velocity bullet into the tree behind which Quintana stood; but before he could fire again Quintana's shot in reply came ripping through the juniper and tore a ghastly hole in the calf of his left leg, striking a blow that knocked young Hastings flat and paralysed as a dead flounder.
A mile to the north, blocking the other exit from Drowned Valley, Mike Clinch, Harve Chase, Cornelius Blommers, and Dick Berry stood listening to the shooting.
"B'gosh," blurted out Chase, "it sounds like they was goin' through,
Mike. B'gosh, it does!"
Clinch's little pale eyes blazed, but he said in his soft, agreeable voice:
"Stay right here, boys. Like as not some of 'em will come this way."