He turned and called, “One of you fellers fetch a rope.”
And as he turned to speak Henry slid off the rock, hit that slope, and went sliding. The man yelled for him to stop. Perhaps he thought it was an accident. At any rate it only required a second or two, before Henry slid onto his gun, grabbed it with both hands, crashed feet-first into the brush and turned over. He had dust in his eyes and misery in his body, but he lifted the gun and shot point-blank at the man at the top of the slope. At that moment Judge fell backwards on the rock, both feet in the air. The man jerked back and yelled:
“Damn him, he hit me! Look out—he’s got a gun!”
Henry scrambled to his feet and went into the brush, away from that slope, coming up among some huge boulders. He reloaded his gun, ears alert for sounds. A man was cursing viciously.
“I’ll get him—don’tcha worry about that!” he said.
“He outsmarted yuh once,” said another voice. “Where’d he get that gun? Where’s the other one?”
“Get away from that openin’, you fool! He’s down at the foot of that slope.”
“Where’d he hit yuh?”
“My right arm. Damn him, I’ve got to shoot left-handed.”
For a while there was no noise, no conversation. Then somebody began throwing rocks into the brush—rocks about the size of a baseball. One of them crashed off a rock and filled Henry’s eyes with rock-dust. Then a man’s voice said harshly: