"You've
got no call on this or on me."
He added the last with tremendous effort. It seemed unspeakable that he
should be there, the Hatburns before him, and merely depart.
"What do you think of putting the stage under a soft little strawberry
like that?" the other inquired.
For answer there was a stunning report, a stinging odor of saltpeter;
and David felt a sharp burning on his shoulder, followed by a slow
warmish wet, spreading.
"I didn't go to do just that there!" the Hatburn who had fired
explained. "I wanted to clip his ear, but he twitched like."
David picked up the mail bag and took a step backward in the direction
he had come. The other moved between him and the door.
"If you get out," he said, "it'll be through the hog-wash."
David placed the bag on the floor, stirred by a sudden realization--he
had charge of the stage, official responsibility for the mail. He was
no longer a private individual; what his mother had commanded,
entreated, had no force here and now. The Hatburns were unlawfully
detaining him.
As this swept over him, a smile lighted his fresh young cheeks, his
frank mouth, his eyes like innocent flowers. Hatburn shot again; this
time the bullet flicked at David's old felt hat. With his smile
lingering he smoothly leveled the revolver from his pocket and shot the
mocking figure in the exact center of the pocket patched on his left
breast.
David wheeled instantly, before the other Hatburn running for him, and
stopped him with a bullet as remorselessly placed as the first.
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