Bang! A tongue of flame spat past Loudon's chin. Burning powder-grains singed his neck. A hard object smote him violently in the pit of the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. Loudon fell flat on his back. He was dimly conscious that somebody, in leaping over him, stepped on his face, and that a horse had broken into the Judge's office and was kicking the furniture to pieces.
"Whatsa matter? Whatsa matter?" demanded Johnny Ramsay, stooping over the prostrate Loudon. "Who plugged yuh?"
"Ah—ugh—ugh—I—ca—ugh—can't—ugh—can't b-b-breathe!" gasped Loudon.
Johnny began to tear open his friend's shirt.
"Where's he hit?" queried Chuck Morgan, anxiously.
Laguerre squatted down and struck a match. None of the three paid the slightest attention to the terrific uproar in the office of the Judge.
Smash! A table skittered across the room and brought up against the wall.
Thud! Bump! Crash! A chair was resolved into its component parts. The horse lay down on his back and rolled to the accompaniment of falling books, pictures, and finally the bookcase.
Loudon suddenly regained his breath and, to the astonishment of his comrades who believed him to be seriously wounded, scrambled to his feet and plunged through the doorway into the office. Apparently the horse had gathered a friend unto himself and both animals were striving to kick their way through the wall.
Loudon felt his way across the wreckage and laid hold of a waving leg. He worked his way up that leg, and was kicked three times in the process, but at last his clawing fingers found a throat—a too fat throat. Loudon, realizing his mistake, groped purposefully for thirty seconds, and then closed his hands round another neck and exerted pressure. The tumult stilled.