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Connie Morgan with the Mounted

Indian's body was outside the barrier, but one arm was inside. And the hand held a short carbine—held it like a pistol. The carbine went off. There was a deafening roar and the boy heard his own carbine clatter upon the rocks. His face burned and he choked as the pungent powder smoke bit into his lungs. Again he looked up. The face was still there. He tried to recover his carbine, but his arm seemed tied to his body. Then, from close behind him sounded another loud report, the painted face with its ferocious grin disappeared, and beyond the barricade a heavy body thumped upon the ground. Ick Far stood at his side with Toad Jones's rifle in his hand. He dropped the rifle and, jerking the knife from his belt, slashed the sleeve from Connie's jacket and shirt. There was blood on the white skin of his arm—the arm that wouldn't move. The boy felt no pain, only a restful numbness, and he watched with interest while the scout applied a rude tourniquet. He glanced toward the barricade. A face leered at the splintered loophole, and the muzzle of an old smooth-bore appeared. Automatically, Connie reached for his revolver and fired point-blank into the face at a distance