covering that the bullet which threw hot lead parings into his hand had jammed the trigger of the rifle. It was out; he dropped it and slung his revolver.
The leader veered off, shooting wildly. It was the Indian, and Simpson knew few of his breed ever became very dangerous with a pistol, especially when shooting on the run. Tom vaulted the horse and dropped down on the other side, banging away with no more effect than his hard-riding enemies.
He knew he couldn't keep up that leap-frog business very long. Soon one of them would get him on the jump or, if not then, their courage would rise with their exasperation, they would rush him and settle their bill. So he was not going to have it that way. They'd have to take him off his feet if they got him, not lying on his belly behind a dead horse like a lizard. And there was no doubt, it appeared now, how that show was going to end.
Tom sprang up as the last man rode by, opening up with such unexpected vigor as to spur him with a spurt that carried him quickly out of range. The other two rode after him, the three of them bunching their horses in a brief conference, one of them suddenly slinging a rifle from under his leg and firing from his vantage of distance and safety.
Simpson was obliged to hunt cover again. Luck had gone off the stage, it seemed. Yet it was remarkable what a quantity of ammunition could be spent by three able-bodied men to so little damage. Beyond the small wounds in his right hand, where the hot spatterings of that bullet had struck, he was unhurt. But luck was out of it.
