Whoever was up there, he would have more than enough time
to get completely away from the spot before it would be possible
to gain so much as a glimpse of him.
And who could he be? And why was he shooting at Good Indian, so
far a non-combatant, guiltless of even firing a single shot since
the trouble began?
Wally came in, his hat far back on his head, a cigarette in the
corner of his mouth, and his manner an odd mixture of
conciliation and defiance, ready to assume either whole-heartedly
at the first word from the man he had cursed so unstintingly
before he slept. He looked at Good Indian, caught sight of the
leaden pellet he was thoughtfully turning round and round in his
fingers, and chose to ignore for the moment any unpleasantness in
their immediate past.
"Where you ketchum?" he asked, coming a bit closer.
"In the side of the chicken-house." Good Indian's tone was
laconic.
Wally reached out, and took the bullet from him that he might
juggle it curiously in his own fingers.
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