Page:Short Grass (1926).pdf/245

 Without turning on his heel, Dunham flipped his gun and caught the fair-skinned man through the hand while his pistol-barrel was scraping the mouth of his scabbard. The shot that the flinching jerk of the fellow's stung fingers fired tore down his leg in a bloody furrow. He dropped his gun, his right hand cut across back of the knuckles as if he had been chopped with an ax. He never would sling a gun with that hand again. His partner lay on his face in the road, his long arms flung wide, like a pilgrim at Mecca embracing the ground the prophet's feet have pressed.