The position of Dinsmore was an awkward one to fire from. Without lifting his gaze from the victim, he edged slowly round the bronco.
There was a shout of terror, a sudden rush of hurried feet. The stableboy had flung himself down on Wadley in such a way as to protect the prostrate body with his own.
"Git away from there!" ordered the outlaw, his face distorted with the lust for blood that comes to the man-killer.
"No. You've done enough harm. Let him alone!" cried the boy wildly.
The young fellow was gaunt and ragged. A thin beard straggled over the boyish face. The lips were bloodless, and the eyes filled with fear. But he made no move to scramble for safety. It was plain that in spite of his paralyzing horror he meant to stick where he was.
Dinsmore's lip curled cruelly. He hesitated. This boy was the only witness against him. Why not make a clean job of it and wipe him out too? He fired--and missed; Pete was not an expert left-hand shot.
"Look out, Pete. Men comin' down the road," called the other Dinsmore from the gate of the corral.
Pete looked and saw two riders approaching. It was too late now to make sure of Wadley or to silence the wrangler. He shoved his revolver back into its place and swung to the saddle.
"Was it you shot Wadley?" he asked his brother.
"Yep, an none too soon. He was reachin' for his six-shooter."
"The fool would have it. Come, let's burn the wind out of here before a crowd gathers."
Gurley and a fourth man joined them. The four galloped down the road and disappeared in a cloud of white dust.
A moment later Jumbo Wilkins descended heavily from his horse. Quint Sullivan, another rider for the A T O, was with him.
The big line-rider knelt beside his employer and examined the wound. "Hit once--in the side," he pronounced.
"Will--will he live?" asked the white-faced stableboy.
"Don't know. But he's a tough nut, Clint is. He's liable to be cussin' out the boys again in a month or two."
Wadley opened his eyes. "You're damn' whistlin', Jumbo. Get me to my sister's."
Quint, a black-haired youth of twenty, gave a repressed whoop. "One li'l' bit of a lead pill can't faze the boss. They took four or five cracks at him an' didn't hit but once. That's plumb lucky."
"It would 'a' been luckier if they hadn't hit him at all, Quint," answered Jumbo dryly. "You fork yore hawss, son, an' go git Doc Bridgman. An' you--whatever they call you, Mr. Hawss--rustler--harness a team to that buckboard."