He spurred his horse forward and sidewise, and just then I fired. I felt that I had wasted the shot, for I pointed where he had been. A terrific force seemed to crash into me, my lungs filled with smoke, and somewhere in my consciousness I seemed to hear a deafening explosion. Then I seemed to feel myself bouncing and sliding over the ground, only to stop with a grinding shock.
A still, small voice within me seemed to say:
“Pettingill, your sands of time are running low. A human being can stand only so much, and you’ve had your share.”
And then I came back to life. I heard voices, far, far away, and some one laughed. The laugh grated upon my nerves; it was as if some one had laughed aloud at a funeral.
“The barrel was dented two-thirds through and bent bad,” stated a voice. “Wonder it didn’t blow his fool head off instead of kicking —— out of him.”
Then I sat up and looked around. I was propped against a rock. Around my chest and over my arms is a tightly pulled rope, and the other end of the rope is fastened to the front end of a saddle on a horse. Two men are standing near me, examining the remains of my shotgun.
Middleton is sitting near me, his hands and feet roped, and as I looked at him he vulgarly spat out through where a tooth had been, and winked at me. The two turned, and I saw upon the bosom of the taller one the badge of a police officer.
“I didn’t think that Olaf had brains enough to go crazy,” said the other.
“Got to have some brains to start on, I reckon.”
“Never can tell,” nodded the tall one. “They caught him trying to put dynamite in the stove. He said he was going to blow up the law. Funny thing about it; somebody had filled his pants with bird-shot.”