Sim Sellers sure is up against it. I reckon he seen what he was up against—seen that he had to take a chance; so he threw Buddy into the saddle, intending, I reckon, to throw himself sideways on that bronc and make a getaway like an Injun, but Hashknife was looking for that move.
As Buddy went into the saddle it left Sim’s legs exposed under the bronc’s belly. Hashknife shot twice with his six-shooter and Sim went down, like something had cut his legs out from under him. The horse plunged against the rack, throwing Buddy between us and the hitch-rack, but he lit on his hands and knees.
“Come a-runnin’, Buddy!” yells Hashknife, and if you ever seen a rabbit, that kid sure imitated one.
He dived around the corner of that lumber pile and landed between us, where he sets and puffs the wind back into his lungs.
“Hurt yuh any?” asks Hashknife.
“Na-a-a-w! Sim Sellers like to busted my ribs, though. Did yuh kill him?”
“Cut him loose from the ground,” says Hashknife, watching the windows.
“Set still, Sim. Don’t forget that both ends of yuh are exposed now.”
Sim Sellers is setting there in the dust, with a pair of legs that don’t seem to work.
“They stole me,” says Buddy. “After you left me with the horses, Mitch Ames and ‘Poky’ Vane swiped me. I kicked Mitch in the knee and he swore he’d kill me. He brought me here. Say, they’re goin’ to kill you—honest. They ain’t goin’ to let you tell the sheriff on Cale Ames. They sent men to get the old man.”