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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"Raw Gold A Novel"

Did the black hurt you when he fell?"
"Bruised my leg some," he returned indifferently. Then, scowling at the
remembrance: "If he hadn't caught me right under him I'd have got
action on those two. But the jar threw my six-shooter where I couldn't
reach it, and the carbine was jammed in the stirrup-leather on the wrong
side. I reckon Gregory thought he got me first shot. He would have, too,
only Crow threw up his head and stopped the bullet instead of me. They
had ducked into that coulee by the time I got clear. Hicks grabbed your
horse and took him along. I'm somewhat puzzled to know why they didn't
stand pat and make a clean job of us both. Blast them, anyway!"
"Same here, and more of it," I fervently exclaimed.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Mac abruptly proposed. "We'll have to
make Pend d' Oreille and send word to Walsh. It'll take the whole force
to catch them now."
My gun lay where it had fallen when Hicks whacked me over the head. I
picked it up, replaced the empty cartridge, and shoved it back into the
scabbard. MacRae hoisted the carbine to his shoulder, and we started.
We poked along slowly at first, for I was still a bit dizzy from that
blow. Before long we came to a spring seeping from the hillside, and
when I had bathed my head in the cool water I began to feel more like
myself.


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