“Stop, you black idiot!” yelled Buell. He kicked the revolver out of Bud's hand. “What d'you mean by thet?”
In the momentary silence that followed I listened intently, even while I held tightly to my arm. From its feeling my arm seemed to be shot off, but it was only a flesh-wound. After the first instant of shock I was not scared. But blood flowed fast. Warm, oily, slippery, it ran down inside my shirt sleeve and dripped off my fingers.
“Bud,” hoarsely spoke up Bill, breaking the stillness, “mebbe you killed him!”
Buell coughed, as if choking.
“What's thet?” For once his deep voice was pitched low. “Listen.”
Drip! drip! drip! It was like the sound of water dripping from a leak in a roof. It was directly under me, and, quick as thought, I knew the sound was made by my own dripping blood.
“Find thet, somebody,” ordered Buell.
Drip! drip! drip!
One of the men stepped noisily.
“Hyar it is—thar,” said Bill. “Look on my hand.... Blood! I knowed it. Bud got him, all right.”