To me it did not
appear much more serious than before. But evidently they thought Buell
seemed on the verge of losing control of himself. He glared at Herky, and
rammed his fists in his pockets and paced the long room. Presently he
stepped out of the door.
A rifle cracked clear and sharp, another bellowed out heavy and hollow. A
bullet struck the door-post, a second hummed through the door and budded
into the log wall. Buell jumped back into the room. His face worked, his
breath hissed between his teeth, as with trembling hand he examined the
front of his coat. A big bullet had torn through both lapels.
Bill stuck his pudgy finger in the hole. "The second bullet made thet. It
was from old Hiram's gun--a 45-90!"
"Bent an' Leslie! My God! They're shootin' to kill!" cried Buell.
"I should smile," replied Herky-Jerky.
Bud was peeping out through a chink between the logs. "I got their smoke,"
he said; "look, Bill, up the slope. They're too fur off, but we may as well
send up respects." With that he aimed his revolver through the narrow crack
and deliberately shot six times. The reports clapped like thunder, the
smoke from burnt powder and the smell of brimstone filled the room. By way
of reply old Hiram's rifle boomed out twice, and two heavy slugs crashed
through the roof, sending down a shower of dust and bits of decayed wood.
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