signal was made plain. Tom wheeled, his right arm suddenly numb as if he had been hit a hard blow on the crazy-bone. No other sensation, but the arm would not respond when he tried to lift the gun. He dropped it, slung his revolver with his left hand, and made a charge at the man who had flanked him and was still shooting, but wildly. And all the time that coward in the hotel window was pegging meanly away, maybe a woman, for all he knew.
There was nobody between the houses, where the smoke of the shooting was packed close. The sneak had heeled it, sticking close to the corner of the building—it was a little dry goods and millinery store—with that intention if pushed. It must have been the marshal, Tom believed; that was a trick worthy the wall-eyed little beast.
Tom turned back to the street, feeling a little queer, a light-headed sickness coming over him like the beginning of mal de mer. Strange such a little thing as a crack in the arm would do that; it never had upset him that way before, getting a shot in an out-of-the-way place such as an arm or leg. A smothering, sick, oppressive feeling of obscuration it was growing to be. Strange; very-very strange.
There was a lot of wet inside his shirt, and rings of varicolored light before his eyes. They must have got him somewhere—he must get under cover and find out how seriously. The sidewalk rose in front of him as he went ahead to try the door of the little shop. Locked, the curtains pulled down, no movement within answering
