At any rate, as the gun shot out of Gregg's holster, the other swung himself sidewise in his own saddle and, snapping out his revolver, fired from the hip.
That swerve to the side saved him, doubtless, from the shot of Gregg; his own bullet plowed cleanly through the thigh of the other rider.
The whole leg of Gregg went numb, and he found himself slumping helplessly to one side.

He dropped his gun, and he had to cling with both hands to lower himself out of the saddle.

Now he sat in the dust of the trail and stared stupidly, not at his conqueror, but at the train that was flashing into the little town of Stillwater, just below them.
He hardly heeded Ronicky Doone, as the latter started forward with an oath, knelt beside him and examined the wound.

"It's clean," Doone said, as he started ripping up his undershirt to make bandages.

"I'll have you fixed so you can be gotten into Stillwater." He began to work rapidly, twisting the clothes around Gregg's thigh, which he had first laid bare by some dexterous use of a hunting knife.
Then Gregg turned his eyes to those of Doone.