He was, nevertheless,
in excellent humour, his keen grey eyes laughing, as he peered out over
the rock rampart.
"If they keep up shootin' like that, Jim, I reckon our insurance won't
be high," he said, "I'm plumb ashamed of the camp, the way them boys
waste lead. Must 'a' took twenty shots at us so far an' only skinned
me with a rock. Hell! 'tain't even interestin'. Hand over them
cartridges; let's see what sorter stock we got."
CHAPTER XXII: THE ROCK IN THE STREAM
Westcott was sensible now of a feeling of intense exhaustion. The
fierce fighting in the room behind the saloon; the excitement of the
attempt to escape; the chase, ending with the plunge through the stream
had left him pitifully weak. He could perceive his hand tremble as he
handed over the cartridge belt. The marshal noticed it also, and cast
a swift glance into the other's face.
"About all in, Jim?" he inquired understandingly. "Little out of your
usual line, I reckon. Take a bit o' rest thar, an' ye'll be all right.
It's safe 'nough fer the present whar we are, fer as thet bunch o'
chicken thieves is concerned.
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