"Come down!" repeated Buell.
There was no hint of doubt in his deep voice, but a cold certainty and a
brutal note. I had feared the man before, but that gave me new terror.
"Bud, climb the ladder," commanded Buell.
"I ain't stuck on thet job," rejoined Bud.
As his heavy boots thumped on the ladder they jarred the whole cabin. My
very desperation filled me with the fierceness of a cornered animal. I
caught sight of a short branch of the thickness of a man's arm, and,
grasping it, I slowly raised myself. When Bud's black, round head appeared
above the loft I hit it with all my might.
Bud bawled like a wounded animal, and fell to the ground with the noise of
a load of bricks. Through my peep-hole I saw him writhing, with both hands
pressed to his head. Then, lying flat on his back, he whipped out his
revolver. I saw the red spurt, the puff of smoke. Bang!
A bullet zipped through the brush, and tore a hole through the roof.
Bang! Bang!
I felt a hot, tearing pain in my arm.
"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.
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