A BAD HOMBRE
The Indians ceased firing when the woman fell, and when Susie reached her mother Smith was helping her to her feet, and it was Smith who led her into the house and ripped her sleeve.
It was only a painful flesh-wound, but if the bullet had gone a few inches higher it would have shattered her shoulder. It was a shot which told Smith that he had lost none of his accuracy of aim.
He always carried a small roll of bandages in his hip-pocket, and with these he dressed the woman’s arm with surprising skill.
“When you needs a bandage, you generally needs it bad,” he explained.
He wondered if she knew that it was his shot which had struck her. If she did know, she said nothing, though her eyes, bright with pain, followed his every movement.
“Looks like somebody’s squeaked,” Smit
