Then Hartwell leaped into it, a cry in his throat like the voice of despairing pain.
Winch did not change the position of his body, which was three-quarters full toward Hartwell. With a little slinging jerk of his gun he fired, then staggered back, his arms outflung, his weapon dropped from his hand. Three bullets from Hartwell's pistol struck him in the breast before he touched the ground.
Fannie was breathing when Hartwell lifted her and ran with her to Uncle Boley's shop, the people pressing behind him with the senseless curiosity of cattle. Uncle Boley shut the door on them. Texas carried her into the old man's room and laid her on his bed.
Uncle Boley went out the back door, after one quick look at Fannie's face, to bring the doctor. Texas bent over her, his heart melting with unutterable emotions, and bathed her face, and spoke to her in endearing whispers broken by his grief. He opened her shirt and disclosed her wound, down in her white bosom toward her heart, below the dark stain that disguised the fairness of her face and neck.
Fannie opened her eyes, quite unexpectedly, and smiled. There was blood on her lips; he wiped it away.
"Did I get him, Texas?" she asked.
