“I—I hope so.”
Harp and Silent exchanged looks of relief.
“It ain’t so bad to die, when yuh hope yuh will,” sighed Harp.
Silent nodded solemnly and edged in closer to Brick.
“Didja get hit in the stummick, Brick?”
Brick’s eyes opened and he squinted at Silent. Then he raised slowly and
painfully to a sitting position and looked around.
“What in —— happened, anyway?” he gasped.
“Yo’re shot,” declared Silent nervously. “Somebody shot yuh plumb off
yore bronc, Brick.”
Brick frowned and looked down at his waist-line. His fingers fumbled at
his belt and he straightened out to get a better look. His
cartridge-belt was fastened with a heavy, ornate buckle, heavy steel,
which had been stamped with an intricate design.
The top of the buckle had been torn away by the bullet.
“Plumb through the stummick,” whispered Silent.
Brick painfully pulled his shirt loose, disclosing a black-and-blue spot
about the size of a silver dollar. The skin was bruised but not broken.
Brick grinned painfully and took a deep breath.
“The old belt-buckle stopped it from goin’ plumb through me. Ow! Danged
if that ain’t sore as a boil.”
“You was turned kinda antegodlin’ in yore saddle, too,” said Harp
happily. “That helped yuh a lot, Brick. Lookin’ backward sure saved yore
life, red-headed cowboy.”
“Feller can’t ride thataway all the time though,” complained Silent.
“That bushwhackin’ whipoorwill likely thinks he’s handed one of us a
harp. Yuh got to hand it to him for a dead-center shot. Let’s round up
them broncs.”
“Not me,” declared Brick. “I’m goin’ to set here and suck in good air
for a while. Never will catch up, I reckon. I feel kinda upset, don’tcha
know it?”
“Yuh do look kinda peaked,” admitted Silent thoughtfully. “They picked
on my head and they selected yore stummick, and now I wonder where
they’ll——”
Silent glanced around Harp, who was sitting against a mesquite, with his
hands cupped over his mouth, playing softly on his jew’s-harp.