If Slone had been inattentive to his surroundings before, the sight of Cordts electrified him.
"Lucy! drop down! quick!"
"Oh, what's happened? You—you—"
"I've been shot. Drop down, I tell you. Get behind the horse an' pull my rifle."
"Shot!" exclaimed Lucy, blankly.
"Yes—Yes.... My God! Lucy, he's goin' to shoot again!"
It was then Lucy Bostil saw Cordts across the gulch. He was not fifty yards distant, plainly recognizable, tall, gaunt, sardonic. He held the half-leveled gun ready as if waiting. He had waited there in ambush. The clouds of smoke rolled up above him, hiding the crags.
"CORDTS!" Bostil's blood spoke in the girl's thrilling cry.
"Hunch down, Lucy!" cried Slone. "Pull my rifle.... I'm only winged—not hurt. Hurry! He's goin'—"
Another heavy report interrupted Slone. The bullet missed, but Slone made a pretense, a convulsive flop, as if struck.