He was stunned, but hardly more seriously hurt than if he had been knocked down by a club.
"I've an idea," said the Easterner calmly, "that I owe my life to you, Mr.Nash." "Let that drop," answered the other.
"A quarter of an inch lower," said the girl, who was examining the wound, "and Butch would have kissed the world good-bye." Not till then did the full horror of the thing dawn on Bard.

The girl was no more excited than one of her Eastern cousins would have been over a game of bridge, and the man in the most matter-of-fact manner, was slipping another cartridge into the cylinder of the revolver, which he then restored to the holster.
It still seemed incredible that the man could have drawn his gun and fired it in that flash of time.

He recalled his adventure with Butch earlier that evening and with Sandy Ferguson before; for the first time he realized what he had done and a cold horror possessed him like the man who has nerves to walk the tight rope across the chasm and faints when he looks back on the gorge from the safety of the other side.

The girl took command.
"Steve, run down to the marshal's office; Deputy Glendin is there." She took the wet cloth and made a deft bandage for the head of Conklin.
With his shaggy hair covered, and all his face sagging with lines of weariness, the gun-fighter seemed no more than a middle-aged man asleep, worn out by trouble.
"Is there a doctor ?" asked Bard anxiously.
"That ain't a case for a doctor--look here; you're in a blue faint.

What is the matter ?" "I don't know; I'm thinking of that quarter of an inch which would have meant the difference to poor Conklin." "'Poor' Conklin?
Why, you fish, he was sneakin' in here to try his hand on you.