To inspect the damage he raised the lamp higher.

Swifter than thought he hurled it at his warder's head.

The blazing lamp struck Applegate between the eyes.
Pringle's fist flashed up and smote him grievously under the jaw; he fell crashing; the half-drawn gun clattered from his slackened fingers.

Pringle caught it up and plunged into the dark through the practical door.
He ran down the adobe wall of the water pen; a bullet whizzed by; he turned the corner; he whisked over the wall, back into the water pen.
Shouts, curses, the sound of rushing feet without the wall.

Pringle crouched in the deep shadow of the wall, groped his way to the long row of watering troughs, and wormed himself under the upper trough, where the creaking windmill and the splashing of water from the supply pipe would drown out the sound of his labored breath.
Horsemen boiled from the yard gate with uproar and hullabaloo; Pringle heard their shouts; he saw the glare of soap weeds, fired to help their search.
The lights died away; the shouts grew fainter: they swelled again as the searchers straggled back, vociferous.