Bluffer's luck

by W. C. Tuttle

A few minutes later the three riders left the ranch, carrying the unlighted lantern.

Hashknife’s trip through space was rudely interrupted by a souse of cold water, which brought back consciousness in a flash. He flung out his arms weakly and encountered water on all sides. He was dazed, choked, fighting for breath, hardly knowing what it was all about. His head bumped something, which he instinctively grasped. It was an old stump.

He clung to this, trying to pump air into his tortured lungs, while a heavy weight seemed to press down on his head. As yet he did not remember anything. His past, present and future were all a blank, but still he fought for life. After a few moments he began to get back a glimmering of intelligence.

It seemed unnatural for him to be in the water. As he seemed to remember, he was not an amphibian creature. If he could only get that weight off his mind. He lowered his feet and touched bottom. After due reflection he shoved past the stump and his groping hands came in contact with some gnarled roots on the bank, where he managed to drag himself out of the water.

Again the world whirled around and he lost consciousness, but in a few moments he recovered again, his mind more clear, but his head one bunch of thumping nerves. Nausea overcame him and he sprawled on the bank, too sick to care about anything. He was still there when Sleepy and Breezy rattled across the bridge, and it roused him up a little.

He felt a little better, and he was beginning to remember. The events of the evening came back to him, although they seemed to have happened years before.

His clothes were soaked and his boots were full of water. He managed to remove his boots and empty them. It was rather difficult for him to get on his feet because everything seemed to whirl around, but he gritted his teeth and staggered ahead to the road.

Things were clearer to him now. He realised that he had been shot, but was unable to discover the exact spot where he had been hit. He was so wet that he could not distinguish blood from water, but he had a suspicion that he had been hit in the head.

“Bushwhacked,” he told himself. “That’s it.”

He dimly remembered the voices he had heard, and that one had suggested shooting him again. In spite of his condition he chuckled. Luck had been with him once more. It seemed an interminably long time before he saw the lights of Lobo Wells. They danced before his eyes like lanterns on poles, but he kept bravely on.