The room was choked with smoke, through which darted flicks of flame, and the old adobe walls fairly shook from the concussion of the guns.
Then the reports ceased. It was like the touching off of a pack of firecrackers, a blending of many explosions for several seconds, which died away to individual reports, unevenly spaced—then silence.
Smoke clouds drifted past the oil lamp. A man coughed rackingly; someone breathed heavily, like a runner after a long race. Hashknife and Sleepy came into the yellow fog around the table, peering through the haze.
“I think,” said Musical hoarsely, breaking the silence, “I think I got the son of a gun that busted my ‘Holy City.’”
He was on the floor beside the table, but now he got to his feet, peering at Hashknife and Sleepy. Big Medicine joined them. He had a bullet scrape across his cheek and there was blood on his right arm, where the sleeve had been torn away.
“Is everybody through?” queried Ike.
He and Cleve came into the lamplight.
“All through, I reckon,” said Hashknife wearily. “I wish this smoke would clear.”
Ike stumbled over and opened the door, and the air cleared rapidly. The priest had fallen back against the wall, but now he came to them, his face ashen.