“Buddy’s on that bay!” I yelps. “Look out, Hashknife!”
The rifle cracked and the gray horse swung sideways as the bullet fanned past its ear and the rider throws himself kinda sideways. It’s only a jump more to get out of sight and the range is about two hundred yards. I glances at Hashknife just as he shoots again.
I seen the rider of the gray horse slump sideways and go down on the left side of the gray. I reckon he must ’a’ tangled in the reins, ’cause it swung the gray plumb around on the hogback and it stops with its head down.
We went up there as fast as we could, but the bay horse and its two riders were out in the breaks. That bay horse could outrun anything in the cow-country, even packing weight; so we know it ain’t going to do us any good to try and run him down with that hammer-headed gray.
This feller has got one foot twisted in the stirrup and has the reins twisted around his hand and elbow. That big bullet had lifted part of his scalp and the top of his right ear, but he wasn’t dead.
“Worst shootin’ I’ve done in a age,” complains Hashknife. “Kinda had buck-fever, I reckon. Shame to waste two shots thataway.”
We hung the feller over the saddle and went back down to the cabin, where we cut the old man loose. It took him quite a while to recognize us and also to get his vocal cords to working again.
“How did yuh happen to be in this shape, old-timer?” asks Hashknife.
He shakes his head.