“A rustler who didn’t pack guns!” muttered Venters. “He wears no belt. He couldn’t pack guns in that rig.... Strange!”
A low, gasping intake of breath and a sudden twitching of body told Venters the rider still lived.
“He’s alive!... I’ve got to stand here and watch him die. And I shot an unarmed man.”
Shrinkingly Venters removed the rider’s wide sombrero and the black cloth mask. This action disclosed bright chestnut hair, inclined to curl, and a white, youthful face. Along the lower line of cheek and jaw was a clear demarcation, where the brown of tanned skin met the white that had been hidden from the sun.
“Oh, he’s only a boy!... What! Can he be Oldring’s Masked Rider?”
“Oh, he’s only a boy!... What! Can he be Oldring’s Masked Rider?”
The boy showed signs of returning consciousness. He stirred; his lips moved; a small brown hand clenched in his blouse.
Venters knelt with a gathering horror of his deed. His bullet had entered the rider’s right breast, high up to the shoulder. With hands that shook, Venters untied a black scarf and ripped open the blood-wet blouse.