Jimmy stood there in the street, dangling the gun in his hand, while Porter sprawled on his back, his knees jerking. The dog came running toward Jimmy, barking joyfully, and almost knocked Jimmy down.
“Good ——, go away!” panted Jimmy. “Gug-go away!”
The three boys from the AK ran past Jimmy, going straight to Porter. The sheriff and Marion were coming from the office, while it seemed to Jimmy that the rest of the world spewed out of every doorway. Then he lost his nerve. Whirling on his heel, he ran to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and went flailing off down the street, followed by Geronimo, barking wildly.
Porter got slowly to his feet, holding one hand against his head, his face a mixture of anger and wonderment.
“Where’d he hit yuh?”
“What was the matter?”
“Who shot yuh?”
Questions were fired at Porter, who groaned dismally and shoved the anxious sheriff away.
“That —— fool!” quavered Porter. “Who’d ever think he’d shoot? I was plumb off balance—kinda on one heel—and his bullet—take a look at it.”
Porter held up his foot and they beheld the reason for the deputy’s sudden drop. The heavy bullet had smashed into the high heel, almost into the counter, and the impact had knocked Porter’s sole prop from under him. And Porter had hit his head a resounding whack against the ground, which accounted for the fact that Porter stayed down a while.